tempting him with racy thoughts. And then her breasts . . .
He wanted to bend her over the dining table and ravish her. Or the desk, or one of the twenty beds, or any piece of furniture, really. The sooner the better, too, since every last stitch of furniture would likely need to be sold.
That was the news he had received today, from a pipsqueak solicitor and a banker who resembled a whale: There could be no expedition. At least not one he funded himself, because His Grace, the eighth Duke of Wycliff, was broke.
Chapter 7
In Which There Is a Midnight Interlude
T he hour was late. The sheet of paper before her, blank. Eliza bit her lip, lost in thought. Her first column would be published tomorrow and she awaited it eagerly, like Christmas or her birthday. In the fast-paced world of newspaper publishing, however, she had little time to savor her success before the next column was due.
Thus far she had written The Tattooed Duke on the page. That was all.
What else to detail? His household was unconventional and haphazard. His possessions were unusual and almost contradictory: skulls and seashells and weaponry and exotic plants. And those were only the items she’d glimpsed. There remained the matter of what lay behind that locked door in the library. Or of his journals, which lay scattered upon his desk.
She ought to read them.
The page was still blank before her. It was this paralyzing panic, leaving her unable to string words together, that had caused her downward spiral at The London Weekly . Every column now was her last chance, and she felt it like a lump in her throat. She could not afford unwritten pages.
She ought to go see about those journals. Or that locked room.
Perhaps tomorrow, Eliza thought, daring a longing glance at her bed. But the risk of discovery in daytime was too great.
She ought to go now, even though it was nearly midnight.
No, she might encounter the duke. Her pulse quickened.
Or, she thought, a smile playing at her lips, she might encounter the duke in a dark and quiet house. Either way, she would find something to write about.
Impulsively she grabbed her wrapper and blew out the candle in her bedchamber. Under the cover of darkness she made her way down the stairs and into the library. Fortunately, the fire had not died down completely.
Eliza crept over to his desk, heart pounding and breath held.
Get the story. Get the story. The words were never far from her mind.
But . . . was that a pang of guilt? She had not missed the duke’s irritation when his idiot cousin freely explored his personal papers, as she was about to do now.
Or was that excitement upon discovering the Wicked Duke of Wycliff’s personal journal detailing his travels and the devil only knew what else? She lifted the cover and saw rows of the duke’s scrawl.
Get the story. Get the story.
Eliza took a moment to light a candle. The words now appeared before her.
Tahiti, 1823.
Miri enlightened me to some exquisite positions, the likes of which no English maiden would ever dare . . .
Eliza’s cheeks burned hot as she continued to read. Had that been a pang of guilt? It was no match for her curiosity, especially about relations between a man and a woman that she would never have imagined. She flipped the page.
Lord above, there were illustrations, too!
What she experienced now was certainly not guilt and far surpassed curiosity. She felt an awareness that was new to her. A new heat, a new intensity, in places she’d never really felt before. The dusky centers of her breasts were suddenly exquisitely sensitive. Suddenly every part of her was begging for attention.
All of this warred with jealousy for this girl, Miri, who had experienced some sort of rapture with the duke under an unfathomably starry sky with a warm and sultry island breeze stealing over our naked, heated skin.
Eliza fanned herself. She continued to read of their passionate encounters and the outrageous pain from the
He wanted to bend her over the dining table and ravish her. Or the desk, or one of the twenty beds, or any piece of furniture, really. The sooner the better, too, since every last stitch of furniture would likely need to be sold.
That was the news he had received today, from a pipsqueak solicitor and a banker who resembled a whale: There could be no expedition. At least not one he funded himself, because His Grace, the eighth Duke of Wycliff, was broke.
Chapter 7
In Which There Is a Midnight Interlude
T he hour was late. The sheet of paper before her, blank. Eliza bit her lip, lost in thought. Her first column would be published tomorrow and she awaited it eagerly, like Christmas or her birthday. In the fast-paced world of newspaper publishing, however, she had little time to savor her success before the next column was due.
Thus far she had written The Tattooed Duke on the page. That was all.
What else to detail? His household was unconventional and haphazard. His possessions were unusual and almost contradictory: skulls and seashells and weaponry and exotic plants. And those were only the items she’d glimpsed. There remained the matter of what lay behind that locked door in the library. Or of his journals, which lay scattered upon his desk.
She ought to read them.
The page was still blank before her. It was this paralyzing panic, leaving her unable to string words together, that had caused her downward spiral at The London Weekly . Every column now was her last chance, and she felt it like a lump in her throat. She could not afford unwritten pages.
She ought to go see about those journals. Or that locked room.
Perhaps tomorrow, Eliza thought, daring a longing glance at her bed. But the risk of discovery in daytime was too great.
She ought to go now, even though it was nearly midnight.
No, she might encounter the duke. Her pulse quickened.
Or, she thought, a smile playing at her lips, she might encounter the duke in a dark and quiet house. Either way, she would find something to write about.
Impulsively she grabbed her wrapper and blew out the candle in her bedchamber. Under the cover of darkness she made her way down the stairs and into the library. Fortunately, the fire had not died down completely.
Eliza crept over to his desk, heart pounding and breath held.
Get the story. Get the story. The words were never far from her mind.
But . . . was that a pang of guilt? She had not missed the duke’s irritation when his idiot cousin freely explored his personal papers, as she was about to do now.
Or was that excitement upon discovering the Wicked Duke of Wycliff’s personal journal detailing his travels and the devil only knew what else? She lifted the cover and saw rows of the duke’s scrawl.
Get the story. Get the story.
Eliza took a moment to light a candle. The words now appeared before her.
Tahiti, 1823.
Miri enlightened me to some exquisite positions, the likes of which no English maiden would ever dare . . .
Eliza’s cheeks burned hot as she continued to read. Had that been a pang of guilt? It was no match for her curiosity, especially about relations between a man and a woman that she would never have imagined. She flipped the page.
Lord above, there were illustrations, too!
What she experienced now was certainly not guilt and far surpassed curiosity. She felt an awareness that was new to her. A new heat, a new intensity, in places she’d never really felt before. The dusky centers of her breasts were suddenly exquisitely sensitive. Suddenly every part of her was begging for attention.
All of this warred with jealousy for this girl, Miri, who had experienced some sort of rapture with the duke under an unfathomably starry sky with a warm and sultry island breeze stealing over our naked, heated skin.
Eliza fanned herself. She continued to read of their passionate encounters and the outrageous pain from the
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