The Tattooed Duke by Maya Rodale Page B

proposal to the Royal Society. The funds had to go to him , not Burke, who was a ship captain with no scientific background or exploration experience to recommend him.
    This was something he deserved, Wycliff thought. Not because he was a duke, but because he’d spent the past ten years roaming, collecting, detailing, accumulating experience. Timbuktu belonged to him.

Chapter 18
     
    In Which His Grace Suffers Rejection
     
    S omething bad had happened; it was clear to the entire household. Saddler kept to his pantry, Mrs. Buxby nervously sipped her whiskey-tea, and the others made themselves scarce. The duke bellowed and raged, he stomped and stormed. When something shattered, Eliza was the only one brave enough to venture forth with a broom and dustpan.
    She had an ulterior motive: details for her column. That was the only reason, of course. It had nothing to do with concern or care or a simple desire to be near him, especially after their heated moments and scorching kisses.
    It certainly had nothing to do with wanting to clean up whatever unholy mess His Grace had made. She had never cared for housework before, but she loathed it now.
    She found him in the second floor gallery, stomping across acres of once-polished parquet floors. Furniture sat covered under white sheets, like odd, misshapen ghosts.
    Along the east wall, windows overlooked Berkeley Square. On the opposite wall hung dozens of portraits of previous dukes, their homes, dogs, wives, and mistresses. Eliza thought portraits were always supposed to be dour, but these dukes looked jolly. And naughty. Their wives, on the other had, looked so very sober.
    The live duke in her midst, however, was glowering and prowling like a caged beast in a rage. He fixed his eyes upon her, and she felt herself shrinking back and stepping behind what seemed to be a chair under a sheet.
    The duke stalked toward her, collected the chair and heaved it across the room, where it crashed against the wall, cracked, splintered and collapsed.
    His dark hair had escaped its tie and tumbled wildly around his shoulders. He looked like a towering, enraged warrior capable of anything he put his mind to, whether it be violence or passion.
    Eliza’s heart began to pound and she thought perhaps the cleaning of broken glass could wait.
    He growled at her: “What are you doing here?”
    She took a deep breath. She had survived two days in Newgate for a story, spent time in a brothel—as an observer—and investigated factories. One angry duke was nothing to her. She straightened her spine.
    “I heard something break. I came to tend to it,” she explained.
    The duke folded his arms across his chest and glowered at her. Tattoos peeked from the vee in his shirt, which any proper gentleman would have covered with an elegantly tied cravat.
    “The whiskey bottle could not withstand the excitement of meeting the wall suddenly, and with great force,” he explained.
    “I see,” she murmured. Much like the chair.
    “I am in a terrible temper,” Wycliff stated, and she bit her lip. He continued: “And I can see that you are holding back some impertinent quip. I really don’t give a damn.”
    “I’ll just see to the broken bottle before you injure yourself upon it, Your Grace.” Eliza proceeded to locate the broken bottle on the far side of the room while Wycliff followed behind her, sputtering in rage. With her back to him, she dared to smile.
    “Injure my— I’m not going to— Don’t be ridiculous. You just wanted to see what all my hollering was about.”
    “I’ll confess to a curiosity.” She peeked over her shoulder at him; he was still glaring.
    “Well, I will tell you , Eliza.”
    “If you wish,” she said, and then began to sweep shards of glass into a pile. The fumes of the spilled whiskey were intoxicating on their own. Mrs. Buxby would be livid to see it wasted thus.
    “Apparently, I am thoroughly disreputable,” the duke stated dryly, and she only murmured “Mmm” as