The Duke's Tattoo: A Regency Romance of Love and Revenge, Though Not in That Order (32 page)

The two boys crept soundlessly to the duke’s side of the enormous bedstead. Their father lay sprawled naked atop the covers. He was a large, muscular man, excellent for climbing on and hanging from when awake and dressed. Their mother slept beneath the light bedclothes, tucked at his side, her head pillowed on his shoulder. But what caught and held the elder twin and heir’s attention was a glorious rendering of the Maubrey coat of arms on the pale skin of his Papa’s lower belly. A rampant lion faced right, a rampant stag faced left, bracketing the duke’s large, quiescent
arbor vitae
. His younger twin joined him and they studied the tattoo as best they could through their patriarch’s curly short hairs. It was, they agreed in hushed voices, very grand.

Later that morning, the twins insisted on seeing their parents before taking their walk in Hyde Park with Nanny and their younger sister and brother. The duke and duchess sat together at a corner of the morning room table as the boys tumbled in and mobbed first their mother and next their father with piping chirps of “G’morning!”

“Papa,” Phillip Maubrey, Marquis of Bevelstoke, began solemnly as the duke took a sip of tea, “when may I have the coat of arms drawn ‘round my willie?”

The duke choked. His duchess patted him on the back. Still, he turned a vivid shade of red causing the equally flushed duchess to slap his back in earnest.

“How’s that?” The duke demanded when his breathing returned to normal.

“The Maubrey coat of arms, the lion, the stag. You know.” The older boy huffed impatiently, parents being so very obtuse. “I want one like yours.”

“Me too, Papa!” Lord Augustus Maubrey declared as adamant as his twin. “But there wasn’t an oak tree in the middle of the shield, just your…”

“We’ll discuss it after your nap,” the duchess interrupted before dissolving into gurgles.

“Just so.” The duke looked grave and unruffled. It would never do to let the little heathens know anything was amiss, much less deliciously naughty.

“You think I’ll forget about it by then,” reproached the marquis.

“Not bloody likely,” the duke muttered as his wife giggled. Ainsworth glanced at his boys and again wondered at the heady sensation of three pairs of changeable lovat colored eyes peering at him. One pair of eyes danced with mirth; two pairs eyed him skeptically in an equally familiar way.

“I won’t forget it. Ever!” Lord Augustus insisted.

“When you’re older, I shall consider allowing you to have the tattoo,” the duke offered. “But it hurt a great deal, I warn you.”

“Did you cry?” His second son asked with sympathy.

The duke turned to his duchess, “Did I cry, madam?”

“Not at all,” she said, addressing her sons, “but your father is the bravest, most forbearing man I’ve ever met. Any other man would’ve carried on like a baby for weeks.”

“I’m not a baby,” the marquis declared. “I won’t cry.”

“If he won’t, neither will I,” his lordship said as stoutly.

“Blood will tell,” the duke approved. “In the meantime, you must take Attila on his walk, if you please.”

When the boys were well out of earshot, the duke turned to his duchess and growled, “Well and now what?”

She patted his hand and smiled up at him. “They’ll forget all about it by nuncheon.”

“If they don’t, I’ll only allow them to have the bloody tattoo when they’ve met the women they wish to marry. The pain and weeks of bruising will prepare them for the experience of falling in love.”

Before she could retort, Jem hauled Prudence unceremoniously from her chair onto his lap where he wrapped his arms tightly around her and, though she squirmed mightily, kissed her breathless just to show her there were no hard feelings.

Well. Almost no hard feelings, for Prudence always had an untoward effect on his damned tattoo.

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Next…

The first of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse has found love.

Poor William Tyler de Sayre, Lord Clun, finds true love while hoping to avoid the catastrophe altogether by arranging a marriage to someone he’s never met. At the same time, Lady Elizabeth Chapin Damogan, whose father betrothed her to the baron without so much as a ‘by your leave,’ will be damned if she marries a man she’s never met, much less a man who refuses to consider the possibility of love.

An excerpt follows from:

The Baron’s Betrothal

An On-Again, Off-Again, On-again Regency Romance

by Miranda Davis

No, tattoos were not unknown in Regency England:

In 1771, Lt. James Cook and the Royal Navy’s first Voyage of Discovery returned from the South Pacific with crewmembers, including the expedition’s botanist Sir Joseph Banks, sporting permanent native designs pronounced ‘tattow’ in Tahitian.

The word and art form caught on and spread rapidly first in ports among sailors, then more widely. By the end of the 19
^th
century, tattoos were so popular among the gentry and nobility, the future King George V had himself tattooed with a ‘Cross of Jerusalem’ to commemorate his travels in the Holy Land. His sons followed suit while serving in the British Admiralty.

Yes, Chinese lived in Regency England:

The first ethnic Chinese recorded in Great Britain visited in 1685. In the 18
^th
century, the East India Company not only imported goods from China but employed Chinese merchant sailors.

In 1805, a Chinese seaman known as John Anthony became the first Chinese native to become a naturalized British citizen by act of Parliament. In 1806, records show Chinese merchant sailors had settled in significant numbers in the port cities of Liverpool and London. A thriving Chinatown existed in London’s Limehouse district by the period in this story.

Finally, it all comes down to underpants. Is it corsets or stays? Or both?

In 1811, a Lady of Distinction published
The Mirror of Graces,
in which she writes, “we shall next speak of the
stays
, or
corsets
. They must be light and flexible, yielding to the shape, while they support it.” (pg. 78) She refers repeatedly to “stays or corsets,” as an abbreviated garment made to support the bust as well as a longer shaping garment. Therefore, since a Lady of Distinction made none between the terms ‘stays’ and ‘corsets’ in the period, this author chooses to use them synonymously as well.

Elsewhere she writes: “The Bosom, which nature has formed with exquisite symmetry in itself…has been transformed into a shape, and transplanted to a place, which deprives it of its original beauty…This hideous metamorphose has been effected by means of newly invented stays or corsets…in eight of ten [women we see] …the bosom is shoved up to the chin, making a sort of fleshy shelf, disgusting to the beholders, and certainly incommodious to the bearer.” (pg.96)

Hilarious, no? Definitely worth a read. Another favorite phrase: “the vestal veil,” in referring to the chemise.

Miranda Davis has loved Regency romances since Mr. Darcy won Elizabeth Bennett’s heart. (Not that Miranda is 200 years old.) Miranda’s mother must take responsibility for her daughter’s love of Georgette Heyer.

At various points, she earned degrees from Smith College and Harvard University and worked at everything from scooping ice cream to big-time advertising. When she’s not busy with family along the Old Santa Fe Trail, she’s happily dreaming of Regency England or reading about it. Or knitting. Or working on the next story.

Another important individual contributed to this effort. Though he doesn’t read (that the author knows of), her hulking, brown, part-gargoyle dog graciously agreed to appear in
The Duke’s Tattoo
using a stage name, naturally. Pending negotiations, he may return for cameos in subsequent novels of this series. Or not. The author will
not
be extorted by said animal to fork over a large number of chewies to achieve his cooperation.

Special thanks to Robert Reid of
52Novels.com
for his expertise, conscientiousness and hard work. Twice.

And to early Amazon buyers who left reviews, thank you for taking a chance on an ebook from an unknown, first-time author. I write in solitude in an old adobe house so realizing someone enjoyed what I’ve done (or didn’t) helps me. My thanks to: In the U.S.: ElizabethE, Old Latin teacher, suzzleb, MaryB, C. Eldridge “Wren lover,” Beth S., Linda Shellenberger, T.Galbraith, Bookwoman, Rene B., tarscoron, Nice Guy, Willread and most particularly Lady Wesley and New Yorker, whose re-reading of the revision was absolutely invaluable. And in the United Kingdom, thank you for your reviews’ forbearance, enthusiasm and gentle guidance: sara, celia, L. Storey, L. Shackleton, Mrs. Kathryn Miller, Old Romantic, Alison, Leb15, Job, Ollie, Kate Holloway, annie, Sofia “Salty,” Marielle Altimeter “Mermaid,” Sharon, Ilaview and B. Malone. Several thousand readers have bought it but you saintly souls took the time to share your encouragement and thoughtful criticism with other readers and helped me in the process. I hope to become a better writer with each book. So I greatly appreciate the feedback.

Several thousand readers have bought it in its first few months but you saintly souls took the time to give me your encouragement and well-considered criticism. I cannot thank you enough.

Miranda would love to hear from readers. Contact her at
[email protected]
.

From
The Baron’s Betrothal
:

S
he strode from the shadowy depths of the stable and gave William Tyler De Sayre, Baron Clun, a bold, calculating look. Actually, each sized the other up quite thoroughly. Lord Clun glared at the young woman before him. She was fetching in a wild-eyed, windblown, lunatic sort of way. The sort of way he apparently found appealing, given his lower body’s unambiguous approbation. Her green eyes crackled over him. She was tall for a woman, though her head reached no higher than his nose. Her figure, stuffed in what appeared to be a tight, long sack with sleeves, was trim and lush, not wispy or liable to break in his embrace. She stood before him arms akimbo, Diana the Huntress or perhaps Aphrodite. Clun purred.

• • •

Lady Elizabeth Chapin Damogan, only child of George Damogan, second Earl of Morefield, examined her potential savior closely. She noted with satisfaction that his enormous size alone would suffice to serve her purposes. He wore decent boots, well-made clothes and an expensive great coat. From neck up, however, he had a wild, berserker-like look about him and an even wilder mane of black hair that badly needed a trim. But he would do. She looked at him again. Better than do. He had a ferocious scowl, which he was employing on her to no effect. She was determined to regain her reticule, her money, her pearl earrings and her late mother’s gold locket.

Perhaps she ought to warn the gentleman what she intended. Then again, Lady Elizabeth concluded, he was just a temporary henchman. He need only stand beside her while she retrieved what the robbers took from her earlier that evening. Given his intimidating presence, physical harm seemed unlikely.

She heard a low rumble come from the craggy, hair-strewn summit of the mountain standing before her. She fixed him with a stern look and asked, “Are you a gentleman, sir?”

His black brows shot up and his fathomless black eyes blinked. “At times.”

“Would you help a lady in distress?”

“That would depend.” His eyes glinted in a way that should’ve given the distressed lady pause, if only she’d taken the time to consider.

“Not very chivalrous of you to quibble, sir,” she reproached. “It will be nothing for you to help me. All I require is that you accompany me — for moral support — while I sort out a misunderstanding with a few men in the tavern.” She took a step back and to the side to regard him from that angle. “You’re an immense man, aren’t you? You needn’t say a thing to help me. In fact, I must insist you don’t.”

“I’m not…” he began.

“Off we go, then,” she interrupted. She hooked her hand through the crook of his thick arm and when she tried to give it a reassuring squeeze, could not help but whisper, “Oh!” She chose to overlook his smirk and chuckle as she spun him on his feet, adding, “Magnificent mount.”

• • •

During her inquisition, Clun held the reins of his favorite horse, a large gray with sculpted head and well-muscled chest.
⁴
As she tugged at him, Clun draped the reins over a stall board knowing Algernon would remain there until he returned. He had ridden at a leisurely pace this last leg of his journey, still he wanted his horse fed and watered.

“Where are the stablemen, Miss…?”

“No time for that now, good sir, come along. Just inside the tavern, if you please.” She pulled him, to the degree she could exert any influence on his great mass without his whole-hearted cooperation. “Must you dawdle? Come along!”

They entered The Sundew, a coach house where Clun had hoped to have a pint of ale and a hot meal on his way to The Graces, his residence of choice among the de Sayre estates. He ducked through the tavern door behind the harridan and allowed himself to be tugged to a table where four unkempt ruffians sat laughing and drinking.

“Gentleman,” she began, “I demand you return my valuables.”

“Don’t know what you’re jawin’ ‘bout woman.” The weasel-faced spokesman for the group dismissed her until he saw the black-haired, black-eyed giant loom up behind her. Clun enjoyed the man’s nervous laughter. They all cast anxious sidelong looks at him.

Well they should.

“I refer to my coins, my gold locket, and a pair of pearl earrings,” she said succinctly. One of those earrings apparently dangled from the closest man’s ear lobe. She snatched it from his ear with a swift yank.