leave. Because . . .
One required funds to launch an expedition. He was utterly without funds. He had even stepped over a creditor sleeping on the front stairs. In the morning he’d have a word with Saddler about at least pretending to lend some dignity to this unconventional household.
If he were a typical duke, Wycliff thought idly, he would marry a wealthy bride and be done with it. Upon consideration, a rich wife was the answer to his problems in one neat little female package with a bow on top. She would provide money for him to leave and mind the estate while he was gone.
Yet between The London Weekly ’s outrageous column and Lady Althea’s public and violent attack, a rich wife attaching herself to the likes of him was a remote possibility.
Or, he could purchase a one-way ticket and gallivant from port to port, trading one adventure for another with no grand plan and nothing to rely on but wit and charm, as he had done all these years.
He could be at sea this time tomorrow night. His heartbeat quickened.
What stopped him? His desire was for something greater than merely being on a boat, much as he loved the salty sea air and crashing sound of waves. It was time for a real challenge to put him to the test. It was time for a success; to make his mark on the world as his own self, not just “one of those Wicked Wycliffs.”
Timbuktu. Undiscovered, dangerous, and with a promised prize of money and glory. An uncharted land to claim. It was the perfect adventure.
There was, possibly, the option of begging passage along with Burke’s crew. But that wasn’t what he wanted either: Wycliff wanted to lead, not to follow. He wanted to forge his own damned path in the world.
He could be the first man to make it there and back.
Wycliff turned at the sound of someone else joining him on the roof. The door’s hinges were not well oiled. Another problem for the list: debt, decay, squeaky roof door.
“Your Grace?” A female voice cut through the darkness. He knew it belonged to Eliza, the maid he’d been ogling at every opportunity. The other day, he’d seen her bent over on all fours, scrubbing the foyer floor. He had to review the account books for an hour to get himself back to rights.
Riveting stuff, the account books.
And the other night . . . He’d been drinking that evening, but hadn’t been truly intoxicated until his lips touched hers. It was a reckless, impulsive, idiotic thing to do, kissing the housemaid in the foyer at midnight. He’d do it again in a heartbeat.
She should not be there, on the roof, in the dark, with him.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice rough to his own ears.
“I heard something. It was you, I presume. But I thought I ought to investigate,” she explained, coming to stand beside him against the railing.
There was always one little moment—blink and quite possibly miss it—when everything just shifted and the whole course altered. This was that moment. Wycliff dukes and their maids were notorious through the ages.
Part of him argued that it was all the permission required for him to bend her over and take his pleasure.
But he craved more than that—to make love rather than spend himself with any warm and willing female body. He also was desperately trying not to be a typical Wycliff, actions of the other evening notwithstanding.
And yet, this pretty, sassy girl ventured up to the roof to investigate a strange noise in the night. Even alone up here with a notorious scoundrel like him, she was perfectly poised. She was either a complete ninny or the kind of woman he could fall in love with.
The moment. When everything changed. Because he was a Wycliff, and a reckless adventurer, he handed her the bottle of brandy.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she replied so primly. Then she took a proper sip from the bottle and handed it back to him. No coughing, or sputtering, or tears. Remarkable.
“I take tea with Mrs. Buxby every afternoon,” she
One required funds to launch an expedition. He was utterly without funds. He had even stepped over a creditor sleeping on the front stairs. In the morning he’d have a word with Saddler about at least pretending to lend some dignity to this unconventional household.
If he were a typical duke, Wycliff thought idly, he would marry a wealthy bride and be done with it. Upon consideration, a rich wife was the answer to his problems in one neat little female package with a bow on top. She would provide money for him to leave and mind the estate while he was gone.
Yet between The London Weekly ’s outrageous column and Lady Althea’s public and violent attack, a rich wife attaching herself to the likes of him was a remote possibility.
Or, he could purchase a one-way ticket and gallivant from port to port, trading one adventure for another with no grand plan and nothing to rely on but wit and charm, as he had done all these years.
He could be at sea this time tomorrow night. His heartbeat quickened.
What stopped him? His desire was for something greater than merely being on a boat, much as he loved the salty sea air and crashing sound of waves. It was time for a real challenge to put him to the test. It was time for a success; to make his mark on the world as his own self, not just “one of those Wicked Wycliffs.”
Timbuktu. Undiscovered, dangerous, and with a promised prize of money and glory. An uncharted land to claim. It was the perfect adventure.
There was, possibly, the option of begging passage along with Burke’s crew. But that wasn’t what he wanted either: Wycliff wanted to lead, not to follow. He wanted to forge his own damned path in the world.
He could be the first man to make it there and back.
Wycliff turned at the sound of someone else joining him on the roof. The door’s hinges were not well oiled. Another problem for the list: debt, decay, squeaky roof door.
“Your Grace?” A female voice cut through the darkness. He knew it belonged to Eliza, the maid he’d been ogling at every opportunity. The other day, he’d seen her bent over on all fours, scrubbing the foyer floor. He had to review the account books for an hour to get himself back to rights.
Riveting stuff, the account books.
And the other night . . . He’d been drinking that evening, but hadn’t been truly intoxicated until his lips touched hers. It was a reckless, impulsive, idiotic thing to do, kissing the housemaid in the foyer at midnight. He’d do it again in a heartbeat.
She should not be there, on the roof, in the dark, with him.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice rough to his own ears.
“I heard something. It was you, I presume. But I thought I ought to investigate,” she explained, coming to stand beside him against the railing.
There was always one little moment—blink and quite possibly miss it—when everything just shifted and the whole course altered. This was that moment. Wycliff dukes and their maids were notorious through the ages.
Part of him argued that it was all the permission required for him to bend her over and take his pleasure.
But he craved more than that—to make love rather than spend himself with any warm and willing female body. He also was desperately trying not to be a typical Wycliff, actions of the other evening notwithstanding.
And yet, this pretty, sassy girl ventured up to the roof to investigate a strange noise in the night. Even alone up here with a notorious scoundrel like him, she was perfectly poised. She was either a complete ninny or the kind of woman he could fall in love with.
The moment. When everything changed. Because he was a Wycliff, and a reckless adventurer, he handed her the bottle of brandy.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she replied so primly. Then she took a proper sip from the bottle and handed it back to him. No coughing, or sputtering, or tears. Remarkable.
“I take tea with Mrs. Buxby every afternoon,” she
Similar Books
