The Duke's Tattoo: A Regency Romance of Love and Revenge, Though Not in That Order by Miranda Davis

perplexed.
    “Hilarious,” the duke said grimly. “You’re certain it’s hers?”
    “No doubt about it. Never smelled anything like it before or since.”
    “Unforgettable, I agree. And what does this Miss Haversham look like? Is she a heavyset, older woman?”
    “Lord, no! Fact, she looks too young to be tending folks. Brown hair. Light eyes. Slim. But not to worry, she knows what she’s about. Been at it for years.”
    “Pretty?”
    “Not in a loud way,” Thatcher said with fondness. “But she grows on you. She’s a right one, Your Grace. Not high in the instep. Gives as good as she gets from the likes of me but a lady through and through. Daresay you’d like her.”
    Not bloody likely.
    The duke recalled the slight female examining him, brushing his hair from his forehead gently. Her hands were small, soft and cool. Her voice had a velvet nap. She handled his shoulder carefully and massaged the fresh-smelling salve into his tattered skin. But first, she had her henchmen tattoo him.
    “I think we shall go Bath in the spring.”
    “To cure what ails you, Your Grace?”
    Ainsworth nodded slowly.
    “I’ll look up Miss Haversham for you, Your Grace, she’ll change your life.”
    “I believe she already has,” Ainsworth muttered to himself.
    “Shall I call for your carriage?”
    “No, Thatcher. I’ll walk.” At the word ‘walk,’ Attila stood at attention. Fred and George, both fright-haired terrier mixes with half-cocked ears, started toward the open door. And Puck danced in place whining for an explicit invitation.
    “Sit,” the duke commanded. They sat and fretted.
    “Stay!” He added. The foursome drooped and let him step to the open door. Ainsworth softened the blow with a curt “Find Cook!” And off they ambled to seek solace in meat scraps.
    The duke walked briskly nowhere in particular, just to alleviate the pulsing energy now coursing through his body.
    Miss H. was it? Who in blazes was this Miss Haversham? What had he ever done to her? He’d never laid eyes on the chit before That Night. Never been to Bath. Her motive for the attack remained a mystery. No matter. By God, he would track this Miss H. down. Even if her touch felt more like a lover’s caress, he’d make her rue the day she raised a hand against him. He would have his revenge.
    He considered how best to put her at his mercy, not that he intended to show her any.
    Ainsworth strode down Grosvenor Street to Bond, turned right and continued his long-legged lope through Mayfair’s main shopping district. Insensible to the stir he caused being afoot, hatless and easily recognized, the duke continued on his walk. He passed countless Bond Street shops and flirtatious ladies bundled up against the chill, arriving at Piccadilly where he found himself without conscious volition standing before the windows of Hatchard’s Bookshop. He loved Hatchard’s. Reading was one of the few passive verbs he heartily enjoyed. Perhaps, he would browse for a while to calm down.
    As he lost himself among the shelves of classic texts in Greek and Latin, his temper cooled considerably. He opened an old friend, Virgil’s
Aeneid
:
Arma virumque cano
…, ‘I sing of arms and of a man…’
    Some flicker of movement and a tap on the bookshop window made him flinch involuntarily. He looked up. His instinct for danger rang the alarm. He closed the book with a snap and peered through the window. Seeing nothing more ominous than window shoppers and passers by, his wariness eased and he returned to the
Aeneid
. Thus, he wiled away the afternoon, lost in an ancient tale of capricious gods, endless war, and the thwarted ambitions of man.
    Later, in the middle of the night, Ainsworth’s routine nightmares of blood-soaked battlefields featured French cuirassiers, English infantry and now the odd Roman legionnaire. Next, this scene shifted seamlessly, as dreams are wont to, into the dim, fiery room of That Night. He clearly heard Mustachio and the buxom