The Duke's Tattoo: A Regency Romance of Love and Revenge, Though Not in That Order (13 page)

Of all the bloody, buggering, blasted luck.

“You smell of roses,” Ainsworth said to distract himself, “and something more astringent.”

“Clary sage. I blend essential oils of rose and Clary sage into a lotion,” the mummy beside him replied primly. “Both benefit the skin.”

“The scent of a rose and its thorns,” he mused.

“A lovely thought.”

“A lovely fragrance.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“You’re most welcome, Miss Haversham.”

She chuckled. “I, too, find formality relieves awkward social situations.”

“Courtesy is the universal social lubricant,” he replied in kind.

• • •

The absurdity of their conversation under such scandalous circumstances bubbled up through Prudence. She must not giggle. No giggling! Only giddy girls giggled uncontrollably around handsome boys. She reminded herself that the immediate danger may’ve passed but she wasn’t safe from him yet. Not as long as the sensation of his hands under her body lingered, overheating her wherever he had touched her through the thin bedding. A chuckle escaped as she recalled their ridiculous conversation. She began to burble with mirth but coughed to disguise it.

Making matters worse, the indecently handsome man who manhandled her lay sprawled next to her in her virginal bed. She struggled to remain calm but his much-too-masculine person was much, much too close. Bumping up against his chest almost undid her. Even now, his body’s heat penetrated the layers of bedding and heated her skin. The mass and weight of him, the soft look in his eyes, his mocking solemnity, his upturned lips, he threatened to overset her shaky equanimity completely. She fought hard for self-control, which naturally made uncontrollable giggles inevitable.

“Are you comfortable?”

She burst into paroxysms of giddy laughter. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she gasped out. “I couldn’t possibly be!”

“What’s wrong, Miss Haversham?”

“You’re giving me spasms, Your Grace,” she choked out.

“Why do ladies always say that to me?” He asked himself blandly while she sputtered and choked. “Are you all right, Miss Haversham?”

“Ne-ne-ne-ever better.”

“May I be of some assistance?”

“Heavens, no! Please!” She snorted and collapsed completely. “Don’t you dare!”

“Perhaps a glass of water?”

“You must stop! If you don’t leave off for a bit, I’ll never recover my breath,” she gasped. “Do you wish to kill me?”

“I’ve considered it.”

Miss Haversham sputtered, coughed and gasped more helplessly.

• • •

Ainsworth needed distraction. Her giddy shudders brought to mind having her naked, shuddering body in his arms. The thought left him painfully aroused.

“We’re having a mild June, do you agree?” He moved away to let her recover her breath. “Better? He asked politely.

“Much, thank you, Your Grace. I was close to suffocating,” she panted.

“I’m relieved we averted tragedy,” he added solemnly.

“Oh no, have mercy!” Her voice quavered with barely suppressed laughter.

“I’ll spare you,” Ainsworth whispered. At that very moment, the duke was lost and she was entirely to blame.

“You’ll want to leave now, won’t you?”

Why did the hopeful note in her voice annoy him? “Not just yet,” he said, “I must be certain you’re out of danger. I won’t have your asphyxia on my conscience.”

She began to huff and chuckle again but quashed it with great effort, “You’re too kind.”

“Don’t mention it.”

After a deep inhale and slow, steady exhale, she said, “Very well. If you won’t leave, I’ll say good night, Your Grace.” She could only turn her face away from the duke, wrapped up tightly as she was in the bedclothes.

“Sweet dreams, Miss Haversham,” he whispered.

He lay there and marveled how this situation, so chaste yet so intimate, had stiffened him like an excitable schoolboy. Clearly, Miss Prudence Haversham in person caused an effervescence of the blood that left him lightheaded. Yet, when the dizziness subsided, her nearness soothed him like one of her salves. Under her influence, he forgot his tattoo, his fury and his revenge. His mind turned instead to more pleasant considerations: her eyes, her scent, her throaty laughter and her winsome smile.

He drifted off to sleep without knowing it. While dozing, he tucked her well-muffled body close to his and slept so deeply that nothing disturbed his rest until he was elbowed sharply in the ribs.

“Your Grace!” Prudence hissed, struggling within her swaddlings. “You must wake up!”

He slowly came to his senses and realized where he was.

She leaned close to whisper, “It’s nearly dawn!”

In as hushed a voice, he teased, “Why are we whispering? It’s no secret, happens every day.”

“Be serious,” she snapped. “You must go.”

“Of course. My apologies, Miss Haversham,” he mumbled. “I’m not usually so a sound sleeper.”

“No matter,” she said as she rolled, kicked and struggled to free herself completely. He slowly sat up on the opposite edge of the bed to pull on his boots. While his back was turned, she drew on a well-worn dressing gown over her night rail. Once shod, he started toward the open window and she darted after him.

“You can’t climb back down!”

“I can try.”

“You’ll fall.” She grabbed his coat sleeve and added, “The roses bushes will kill you.”

“I doubt your roses will succeed where the French army failed.” He slung one leg over the sill. “I promise not to impale myself on your roses.”

“No, drat you! I’ll let you out downstairs. Walk inside the hedge to the orchard. There’s a gap that lets out on Great Pulteney Street. Hurry!”

With a firm hand at his back, she pushed him out the bedroom door, down the stairs, through a small hallway and down several steps to the side door. Before leaving, Ainsworth turned on the threshold and found her hand pressed firmly against his chest. Pleased, he murmured, “Touch me that way and I may never leave.”

P
rudence prayed no one would see His Grace, the Duke of Ainsworth slinking away from her cottage in disordered clothes, grinning like a jingle brain. Fortunately, it was not yet full light, nor was it a market day, so the road through Bathwick would remain empty for some time. She stood in the doorway, her hand still warm from his back.

Black sheep in truth!
If only her brother Oswald had witnessed this scandalous scene. All the cruel things he said long ago would at last be justified.

Ten years ago, Prudence had only wanted stay to out of the way during the inaugural house party at Treadwater, hosted by Sir Oswald Dabney and his ambitious wife Margot. Prudence retreated to the manor’s dusty, cobweb filled attic where she found fascinating detritus from generations of distantly related strangers. It had been irresistible to a bored, bright, curious girl of 16. For her explorations, she wore an old mobcap over her hair and an old dress to spare her few good ones.

The ninth Duke of Ainsworth wobbled as he walked along an upstairs hall toward his guest room well in his cups when Prudence happened upon him. He smiled and she smiled shyly in reply. Then he fell upon her. At first, she feared he’d passed out but his hands were thorough in their groping of her bottom as he leant upon her. As she tried to fend him off, Lady Dabney came along. Her sudden appearance stayed the duke’s frisky hands but Prudence’s disarray and blushes condemned her in her sister-in-law’s bead-hard eyes. Prudence fled to her room in humiliation.

Later, Sir Oswald told Prudence the duke insisted she flung herself at him like a randy maid. Prudence tried but failed to convince her brother of her innocence. Sir Oswald repeated ‘Shame on you!’ and punctuated this by slamming her door and locking it from the outside. The life she’d known ended that day.

Recalled to the present, Prudence turned back inside. Time to dress and get on with the day. Mrs. Mason and Murphy would soon come to the cottage from the carriage house. After breakfast, she and Murphy would go to the apothecary shop and life would continue as if nothing had happened.

Prudence settled uneasily into the day’s routine. The shop remained quiet until the Duke of Ainsworth appeared in the afternoon.

Ignoring the shiver his arrival sent up her spine, Prudence looked up briefly and forced herself to return to writing at the counter. He approached the counter’s other side and leaned over to look at the foolscap on which she wrote. She signed her name with an elegant ladies’ hand. The initial P curved and circled gracefully, the H of her last name combined curvaceous and bold strokes, like a fine monogram.

“You write beautifully when you choose to,” the duke remarked.

She stopped writing, quill poised above the page. Without looking up at him, she sighed, “My mother taught me my letters. She thought I ought to write like a lady.”

“But here your script is much plainer.” He pointed out another slip of paper, with clear block letters and symbols.

“It serves my purpose. Instructions must be understood. Many of my customers cannot read so I must make it clear for whoever might read it to them.”

“And the little suns and moons?”

“Indicate morning or evening doses. I tell them what they need to know but some also need reminders. They know their numbers, so I can indicate one or two times a day, and how much, that sort of thing.”

“Clever.” He watched her fold the paper with her fine, little hands. “I was hoping you might have a moment for me. I may’ve strained my shoulder.”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” she muttered under her breath. “Murphy, escort His Grace to the treatment room, please.”

Before Miss Haversham could follow the two men down the hall, Mrs. Mason bustled into the apothecary, pale as a ghost, and said, “Miss Haversham, there’s a letter you ought to read.” The housekeeper pressed the envelop into her hand.

“Addressed to occupant, how odd,” Prudence said, turning it over.

“That’s the least of it, Miss H. I assumed t’was misdirected or I wouldn’t have opened it.”

“Not to worry,” she replied, opening the envelope to read:

To whom it may concern

In regard to the property, No. 11 Henrietta Street, formerly owned by Sir Oswald Dabney, the new owner of this property wishes to inform you that your occupancy must end on or before the date, 1 September 1816. According to terms of the sale, the contents will convey. Thank you for your cooperation in this matter.

Signed, J.M. Sterling.

“What are we to do, Miss H.?”

“There’s no mention of an option to lease the property. It must be an oversight. I shall write immediately to see what can be arranged. Don’t worry, Mrs. Mason. I shall put this to rights,” Prudence said with more conviction than she felt.

• • •

In the treatment room, Murphy helped the duke undress to shirtsleeves. Ainsworth settled himself on the upholstered table and the two men waited awkwardly through the long silence.

Miss Haversham bustled in, pale but purposeful. “Can you move your shoulder, Your Grace?”

“Yes, but it bothers me,” he complained. Murphy stayed in the treatment room, making it impossible for him to pursue the most bothersome topic of last night’s conversation: her impugning his brother’s honor.

“Lie down, please.” He did so. Miss Haversham probed his shoulder.

“Describe your pain. Is it sharp, dull or throbbing?”

“Dull and throbbing,” he answered, welcoming her warm, soft hands on his body even through a shirt.

“Good. Nothing’s torn. The soreness is muscle strain. You must refrain from exerting yourself in that way again.”

“In what way?” He coaxed.

“In whatever way caused your strain,” she bit out. “Don’t do it again.”

“Ever?” Ainsworth asked. Murphy glared at the duke but he was enjoying himself too much to mind Mustachio.

“Ever,” she repeated with added emphasis. “You’re lucky you didn’t do yourself serious injury.”

“But Miss Haversham, I’m sorely tempted to exert myself again in precisely that way.”

“I’ve given you my best advice, Your Grace. Ignore it at your peril.” Her expression was grim, her tone grimmer, implying he could expect a face full of boiling oil if ever he scaled her wall again for another midnight chat. Or, perhaps the letter she received soured her mood. He preferred to believe the latter.

She promised the duke a poultice for home use and another jar of the arnica salve before leaving the room to allow Murphy to help him dress.

Ainsworth had no opportunity to broach the subject weighing on his mind. Something was amiss in the tale of her disgrace, for Banbury tale it had to be. His upright, stick-in-the-mud brother might’ve stolen a kiss from a maid when tipsy but he’d never assault a young, gently bred woman nor would he disgrace her rather than admit his own mistake.

When the duke returned to the front room, he saw Miss Haversham standing with another letter in hand, swaying where she stood, pale as a sheet. “Has something upset you?” Ainsworth asked, “You’re unwell.”

Folding the letter, she mustered a tight smile and answered, “Not at all, Your Grace. If you’ll excuse me.”

Ainsworth searched her face but she would not meet his eyes.

“I’ve overstayed my time, Miss Haversham. Good day.” The duke left with a curt nod.

• • •

Prudence was stunned by what she received in the afternoon post. She held a second letter from J. M. Sterling in her nerveless hand.

“What is it, Miss H.?” Murphy asked after the duke departed.

“Oh Murphy! We’re on notice to vacate this building as well as the cottage unless I can negotiate otherwise before September.” Miss Haversham paced back and forth waving the letter. “My brother promised me first right of refusal from the new owner. Apparently, I must arrange everything myself. This J. M. Sterling represents him. With time so short, I best contact the owner directly. But how?”