The Duke's Tattoo: A Regency Romance of Love and Revenge, Though Not in That Order (21 page)

Though his body begged for sleep, his mind raced. Even if they’d rather rashly — and gloriously — anticipated their wedding night, Ainsworth pledged himself to observe the strictest propriety henceforth. He didn’t resent doing things properly; he did it for the woman he loved and would marry.

Rolling on his side, he spooned her to his body. She snuggled against him and drowsed.

Marrying her was all he could think of. It wasn’t their sweaty, ecstatic coupling alone that resolved his ambivalence about wedlock. His susceptibility had developed subtly. Her unexpected irreverence, charm and gallant self-sufficiency got under his skin little by little until he could no longer envision a happy life without her. And then there was their sweaty, ecstatic coupling. Who knew a virgin could reduce a man of the world to quivering custard?

Put simply, Prudence Haversham left an impression on his heart as permanent as her tattoo. For the first time since his elevation to the title, Ainsworth looked forward to a life filled with love, laughter, passion and children. Many children. As many as she cared to give him. Prudence made his optimism possible, for which he loved her even more.

However.

Before he could propose to Prudence properly, he had to organize his affairs. To do that, he must hare off to London immediately as planned. Ainsworth ticked off errands in his head. First, though just a formality, he must meet the baronet and offer for her. Next, he would finalize the marriage settlement, find his mother’s sapphire ring and arrange to have banns read at the parish. Even he knew one must engage St. George’s well in advance. Then of course, there must be a wedding announcement for the
Times
. Thatcher and Smeeth could see to sorting the duchess’ chambers at Ainsworth House. But who ought to hire her personal servants? Would she wish to? And someone must take the hounds in hand. He would task the stableman’s boy with training the wretched dogs he managed to foist on the duke’s household. The beasts ought to know more than “sit,” “stay” and “find Cook.” Such a daunting project might even discourage the urchin from bringing ‘round strays number five and six. Sterling could help with the arrangements, but there was much the duke preferred to do himself. He relished having a trousseau sewn for her (he knew her lissome figure intimately enough now to have a few garments ready to surprise her for their wedding night). Ainsworth feared it would take an eternity to accomplish it all, not counting whatever matters he overlooked.

His Grace planned to lose no time; he vowed, by God, to have it done in a few weeks. A month at the outside.

Already, he envisioned her flustered, blushing face when he reappeared unannounced in Bath and proposed to her on bended knee. His grand surprise would be a memory they would cherish all their married days. It brought a lump to his throat.

Such sentimentality startled the duke; he had never demonstrated any treacle-y tendencies before. But then, a great many things had changed since he met Prudence Haversham.

He looked again at the woman in his arms. His cock stirred where it nestled against her bottom. She wriggled around to face him nose to nose with a wicked, encouraging little smile. He took greater pains to be gentle the second time they made love but it was every bit as earthshaking as the first time. Afterward, he was utterly exhausted, but rapturously so.

Still, he did not sleep. He pondered a new possibility. What if he proposed to her now? It would hardly be the surprise he hoped for but he would make up for it with a series of unexpected, romantic gestures (to be determined) that would delight her when he returned. Besides, who knew what foolishness newly debauched virgins were prone to? Truth be told, even after their lovemaking, the specter of encroaching naval captains troubled him. Prudence Haversham was his to have and to hold. This, he wanted to make absolutely clear to her.

However, his lust had already run riot twice. If she accepted him, he might never let her out of bed. He would take her repeatedly until one or both of them died of excessive sexual congress. A tragic but inevitable outcome, given how she made his sap rise. Not that it would be such a bad way to go.

No!

He. Would. Do. Things. Properly. Perfectly. For her sake. He could leave Smeeth in Bath to keep an eye out for that encroaching Captain Dorset.

Ainsworth’s resolve strengthened when she peeped at him over her shoulder.

Just to be absolutely certain she knew what was what, he told her flat out, “There’s no undoing what we’ve done, Prudence. I am well and truly caught.”

“Caught,” she repeated.

From her tone, he wondered if perhaps he should’ve chosen a different word, say, ‘captivated’ or ‘bewitched.’ Hell and damnation, he was a soldier not a poet and this was no time for semantics. So on he stumbled to underscore his point.

“Yes, well and truly.” He nuzzled her neck, “I’ll have no regrets about it either. None at all.” There, he said it. Couldn’t be plainer than that. He would not tolerate any missish virginal second thoughts. From this day forth, she was his, he was hers and that was that. They would marry and all the matrons in London would gnash their teeth when they heard he’d slipped through their cordon to find his perfect bride.

She still said nothing.
Hmmm.
“Promise me you won’t do anything rash.”

“You needn’t worry, Your Grace, I understand…”

Thank God, she understood.

Ainsworth stopped listening after her initial reassurance. He failed to notice her use of his title or to correct her with a teasing kiss; he was too tired and too distracted by all he had to do before he returned to claim his beloved apothecary.

Still, he eyed her warily. Hang it all, he wanted a little more certainty before nodding off in a sated stupor. Perhaps she did, too.

“Prudence,” he murmured and waited for her to turn her head to look him. (No sense reassuring the back of a woman’s head after all.) She peeked over her shoulder, strangely solemn.

“Prudence,” he repeated then declared, “I’m going to marry you.” After years at war, Ainsworth was in the habit of giving orders and making statements of fact. This tendency did not serve him well at present in civilian life.

In response, she said the last thing he expected to hear after making mad, passionate, thorough love to her. She said wistfully, “No, you are not.”

“Don’t tease, nymph.” He said and gathered her to him to kiss her shoulder again.

He refrained from arguing further with her because it seemed indelicate to do so under the circumstances. To wit, they were naked, he was a gentleman, she a maiden he’d recently debauched, twice, et cetera. No doubt an upright female like Prudence found it difficult to adapt to deliriously satisfying, temporarily illicit sex. No bloody need to belabor the obvious. Loved her. They’d marry, he thought sleepily. Foregone conclusion. Must be nerves, a virgin’s overset sensibilities.

“Much to do. Early start,” he muttered mostly to himself as he drifted off. “Need sleep. You, too.”

His lusty exertions having finally caught up with him, Ainsworth fell fast asleep.

U
ntil Jem made love to her, Prudence assumed a man’s sexual impulses expressed themselves in an overpowering drive to rut. (Her only point of reference for this hypothesis involved livestock on Sir Oswald’s estate. The act she witnessed there was a strenuous, barely controlled pounding on the bull’s part. While the heifer’s stoic tolerance throughout did not raise one’s hopes.) Suffice it to say, nothing prepared her for the tumult of sensations that began with Jem coaxing her out of her gown and gained heart-stopping momentum as the night wore on.

Now, she understood how Jem earned his notorious reputation – and that it wasn’t exaggerated in the least. He knew his way around a woman’s body, even an untried virgin’s. He had such wicked hands. She luxuriated under his caresses. Any sodden, maidenly qualms she had at the outset went up in steam as he stroked up and down her body, exploring her with those large, gentle, intoxicating hands.

It quickly became apparent his lips were every bit as provocative as his fingers. With them, he drugged her into euphoria. While he paid lavish attention to her mouth, his kisses were just as often distributed elsewhere on her body to thrilling effect. He eagerly tasted her everywhere. Everywhere, even through her chemise. That is, until he lifted it from her. When he parted her damp curls and kept suckling the place hidden in her nether folds, her lower body simply seized up and dissolved.

Something truly magical happened afterwards. At his deft instigation, a shivery tension coiled within her like a cresting wave gathering higher, higher above the shore, thrown heavenward for an instant before tumbling down with a crash onto the sands and scattering away. Up, up he drove her. Desire, pleasure and need rose higher until…down she tumbled from the heights, speechless, senseless and limp. Replete.

As he tormented her — for it was a kind of divine torment — her hunger for him sharpened almost to pain. She ached to fill the need he conjured deep at her molten core. She arched and undulated as the sensations he stirred roiled through her. With each searching kiss, each electrifying touch, each intimate exploration, he made her shudder with unspeakable pleasure.

When he moved between her legs, she welcomed him. Clutching his broad back, she felt thick straps of muscle tense as he held himself above her. That so large and powerful a man held himself in check for her sake aroused her even more. When he slowly pressed himself to her, her body clenched at the discomfort of his outsized intrusion.

“Jem,” she gasped and tensed.

He looked down at her and asked gently, “Do you want this, nymph? Are you sure?”

“Yes, Jem.” She kissed him and whispered, “I want you.” Regardless of the consequences, heedless of the fallout, she wanted this man. Needed him.

She pulled him close, twining her arms around his neck, wrapping her legs around his hips. With a whispered apology and one plunging thrust, he did away with her virginity. With kisses and teasing, he eased himself in and out of her. This time, her body slowly adapted to him though he filled her impossibly full. They made love till she climaxed spectacularly with him. Afterward, they lay in sweaty, blissful contentment together.

She didn’t notice his silence, so engrossed was she in her own jumbled, jubilant thoughts.

She, Prudence Haversham, had abandoned all propriety and lived passionately, if only for one glorious night! Never again would she feel vaguely cheated, a fallen woman who never fell. Tonight she had fallen. No, she’d jumped! Best of all, she jumped into the arms of the man she loved.

And how she loved him! She lay in his arms, her back tucked against his chest with his strength surrounding her. She felt him stir where her bottom pressed to him. She turned in bed to look at him face to face. His mischievous grin sent her giggling back into his embrace. The second time they coupled he nearly broke her heart with his careful tenderness.

Diminishing her elation was one unavoidable thought: If only Jem were not a duke. Yet she refused to regret their lovemaking even if he couldn’t be hers. She peeked at him lying behind her. His somber, abstracted expression further dampened her exhilaration.

“There’s no undoing what we’ve done, Prudence,” he whispered. “I am well and truly caught.”

“Caught,” she said as the bottom fell out of her stomach.

“Yes. Well and truly,” he repeated.

Her mind snagged on the word ‘caught.’ She barely felt his breath at her nape or heard him mutter something about regrets. ‘Caught’ echoed in her head. With one word, Prudence’s pleasure turned bittersweet. Dewy joy evaporated. She thought giving in to temptation with Jem would eliminate regret for her, not cause more for both.

“Promise me you won’t do anything rash,” he warned unnecessarily.

“You needn’t worry, Your Grace,” she reassured him. “No one will ever know of this, you have my word. I have no expectations whatsoever.”

She understood perfectly: nothing had changed. He was a duke who would return to London; she was a newly debauched apothecary who would stay in Bath until she traveled to Italy with Lady Abingdon. The social whirl of London’s Season – and a multitude of women like Lady Jane — would occupy the duke’s time and attention; tending to the apothecary shop and her customers would preoccupy her. Ainsworth would forget her; she would do her best to forget him. In short, she would live her life and he his.

“Prudence,” he whispered.

She waited for him to speak but he said nothing more. She peeked over her shoulder at him.

“Prudence,” he repeated, “I’m going to marry you.”

Spoken like a true gentleman.

He couldn’t be serious. One night did not alter their disparate circumstances one jot.

“No, you are not,” she said fatalistically. It was nothing more than a statement of fact. It was inconceivable she would become his wife. Impossible. She waited for his rebuttal but he drew her close and murmured sweet nonsense. Her sprawling, sweaty bedmate’s breathing slowed and deepened as he fell asleep holding her in his arms. She dreaded facing him in the morning.

The duke spared her that, rising without waking her and leaving well before dawn. When she awoke later, she found herself stiff, sore and alone in bed. Nothing lingered but the musky smell of their passion in the linens.

A
fter more than a week in London buried up to his neck in the duchy’s pressing business, Ainsworth rewarded his industriousness by inviting Lords Percy, Clun and Seelye to join him for legally imported French brandy at Ainsworth House in the evening. He looked forward to sharing his happy news with friends.

First, he must call on the baronet.

That morning, he sent a note to Sir Oswald expressing his desire to discuss ‘a personal matter’ and would step out shortly to conduct the errand. He congratulated himself for having made steady progress on almost every front.