inevitable.” She tried to laugh it off, but he didn’t join her.
“I am unconventional, and that is remarkable. That makes me threatening. I understand this. I’m not too bothered by it. However, were it to start affecting my work, or my chances to secure funding for the Timbuktu expedition . . .”
Was that a warning? Her heart beat hard. He couldn’t possibly suspect her, his illiterate housemaid with her hands in the dirt.
“I understand. Idle gossip is one thing, until it begins to wreak havoc upon one’s life,” she said. Could she walk that line?
“What is it about you that makes me talk so much?” Wycliff questioned. She didn’t know, but she was tremendously grateful for it. His confidence in her made her bold. As if she weren’t just a housemaid, or the lowly, unknown Writing Girl with the articles in the back of the paper, next to the cure-alls for revolting maladies.
She was now a star writer, falling for her subject.
“Are you trying to impress me, Your Grace?” She dared to flirt with him. But how could she not? It was a warm, lovely day in the conservatory, and this intrepid, worldly explorer was spending the hours with her.
“Impress you?” he repeated, laughing a bit. But he placed his hands on either side of her, blocking her in. She couldn’t move if she wanted to.
It went without saying that she did not want to.
“Or perhaps win my favor?” she asked pertly, tempting him to take it further.
“Or just a kiss?” he asked as he gently brushed his lips across hers.
Eliza thought of the reasons they should not kiss as his hot, tempting mouth pressed upon hers, urging her to open to him.
The story. This was not part of the story. To hell with the story.
She entwined her arms around his neck, running her fingers through the soft locks of his hair and shamelessly pressing the length of her body against his. She felt his taut chest against her breasts. The duke groaned and his broad hands caressed her all over, leaving heated skin in their wake.
Eliza tilted her head back as he pressed hot, open kisses upon the sensitive skin of her neck. She clasped the fabric of his shirt in her hands. She felt the leather cord he wore, with the key that surely opened those taunting, locked doors.
Get the story. Get the story.
She ought to slip it off. But more than that, she wanted, needed, ached to feel his hot bare flesh against hers.
But she shouldn’t. She had her reasons, and they had nothing to do with the story and everything to do with that mistake she made years ago in Brighton.
Chapter 17
The Tattooed Duke Strikes Again
“I t appears that I’ve joined you in infamy,” Harlan said, tossing a newspaper onto the great oak desk, where they joined an assortment of Arabic texts, journals from Wycliff’s travels, and maps.
It was another issue of The London Weekly.
Wycliff stared at it for a moment, as if Harlan had tossed a dead fish onto his desk. He asked, “Am I going to need a drink?”
“Likely. But then again, doesn’t one always?” Harlan mused.
Sometimes Wycliff wondered if whiskey ran through the man’s veins. He picked up the paper, saw the familiar title, “The Tattooed Duke,” and began to read as Harlan sauntered over to the windows and looked out into the garden, a makeshift home for some of the creatures they’d brought back.
The Duke of Wycliff, of number four, Berkeley Square, is proud to say he is not perfectly normal, thank you very much. While the ton is aghast at his oddities, and readers of this paper avidly devour the details, the duke cares not for their gossip or their opinions.
There is a room in Wycliff House that remains locked at all times. The duke is the only one with the key and he wears it on a leather cord ’round his neck. His desk is covered with unusual texts: the Muslim holy book, maps, handwritten journals in foreign languages. Hardly the stuff of a typical English gentleman.
Also in the duke’s possession are journals
“I am unconventional, and that is remarkable. That makes me threatening. I understand this. I’m not too bothered by it. However, were it to start affecting my work, or my chances to secure funding for the Timbuktu expedition . . .”
Was that a warning? Her heart beat hard. He couldn’t possibly suspect her, his illiterate housemaid with her hands in the dirt.
“I understand. Idle gossip is one thing, until it begins to wreak havoc upon one’s life,” she said. Could she walk that line?
“What is it about you that makes me talk so much?” Wycliff questioned. She didn’t know, but she was tremendously grateful for it. His confidence in her made her bold. As if she weren’t just a housemaid, or the lowly, unknown Writing Girl with the articles in the back of the paper, next to the cure-alls for revolting maladies.
She was now a star writer, falling for her subject.
“Are you trying to impress me, Your Grace?” She dared to flirt with him. But how could she not? It was a warm, lovely day in the conservatory, and this intrepid, worldly explorer was spending the hours with her.
“Impress you?” he repeated, laughing a bit. But he placed his hands on either side of her, blocking her in. She couldn’t move if she wanted to.
It went without saying that she did not want to.
“Or perhaps win my favor?” she asked pertly, tempting him to take it further.
“Or just a kiss?” he asked as he gently brushed his lips across hers.
Eliza thought of the reasons they should not kiss as his hot, tempting mouth pressed upon hers, urging her to open to him.
The story. This was not part of the story. To hell with the story.
She entwined her arms around his neck, running her fingers through the soft locks of his hair and shamelessly pressing the length of her body against his. She felt his taut chest against her breasts. The duke groaned and his broad hands caressed her all over, leaving heated skin in their wake.
Eliza tilted her head back as he pressed hot, open kisses upon the sensitive skin of her neck. She clasped the fabric of his shirt in her hands. She felt the leather cord he wore, with the key that surely opened those taunting, locked doors.
Get the story. Get the story.
She ought to slip it off. But more than that, she wanted, needed, ached to feel his hot bare flesh against hers.
But she shouldn’t. She had her reasons, and they had nothing to do with the story and everything to do with that mistake she made years ago in Brighton.
Chapter 17
The Tattooed Duke Strikes Again
“I t appears that I’ve joined you in infamy,” Harlan said, tossing a newspaper onto the great oak desk, where they joined an assortment of Arabic texts, journals from Wycliff’s travels, and maps.
It was another issue of The London Weekly.
Wycliff stared at it for a moment, as if Harlan had tossed a dead fish onto his desk. He asked, “Am I going to need a drink?”
“Likely. But then again, doesn’t one always?” Harlan mused.
Sometimes Wycliff wondered if whiskey ran through the man’s veins. He picked up the paper, saw the familiar title, “The Tattooed Duke,” and began to read as Harlan sauntered over to the windows and looked out into the garden, a makeshift home for some of the creatures they’d brought back.
The Duke of Wycliff, of number four, Berkeley Square, is proud to say he is not perfectly normal, thank you very much. While the ton is aghast at his oddities, and readers of this paper avidly devour the details, the duke cares not for their gossip or their opinions.
There is a room in Wycliff House that remains locked at all times. The duke is the only one with the key and he wears it on a leather cord ’round his neck. His desk is covered with unusual texts: the Muslim holy book, maps, handwritten journals in foreign languages. Hardly the stuff of a typical English gentleman.
Also in the duke’s possession are journals
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