The Tattooed Duke by Maya Rodale Page A

explained.
    “Glad to hear some things never change,” he remarked.
    “What brings you up to the roof, may I ask?” she said to him, rather boldly. Then again, he had just invited her to drink with him. The boundaries were already blurred.
    “You’re very inquisitive for a maid,” he replied. “Impertinent is more like it. It’s really none of your business what I am or am not doing on the roof. I could fire you for such insubordination.”
    “I know, Your Grace. I am horribly forward.” She appeared to be contrite, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was an act. Yet he found he enjoyed her company and did not care to spoil this moment. Fine night air, good brandy, a pretty girl. A man could do worse.
    “I am going to tell you anyway,” Wycliff said, “because I’ve been drinking and because you will probably never find employ elsewhere after working here, so I’ll probably have to keep you.”
    “Yes, Your Grace.” A smile played on her lips. Adorable.
    “I came up here so that I might see the stars and be reminded of my time at sea. But this damned smog is in the way.”
    She looked away from him and up at the night sky.
    “There are a few,” she pointed out. He followed her gaze up, over the rooftops, in the direction of the moon.
    “Yes but out on the ocean you can see a million. Ten million. Have you ever been outside of London, Eliza?”
    “Once, to Brighton,” she said flatly.
    “Was it a pleasant trip?”
    “I was swept away by the splendor of the pavilion, the sea air, the romance of holiday . . . The whole thing was a mistake.”
    “I confess I am intrigued,” he murmured, leaning toward her. Women often commented on how he towered over them. Some found it intimidating, others irresistible. Eliza did not pull away.
    “You shall remain intrigued,” she replied pertly before hastily adding, “Your Grace.”
    He grinned and held out the brandy bottle to her. “More?”
    “Please.”
    After she drank, he took the bottle back and had another swig himself. They fell into a comfortable silence, both looking over the city or up at the few visible stars. Wycliff was acutely aware of her lithe female form just there, beside him, on this secluded rooftop.
    She broke the silence to ask what he was thinking.
    “I do not make it a habit to confide in my housemaids,” he said, mainly to remind himself that this was not done.
    “Of course not,” she agreed. “But you’ve been drinking.”
    Seeing as he did not put much stock in ducal this or ducal that, it seemed ridiculous to stand on ceremony and refuse to have a pleasant conversation with a pretty girl who could drink brandy like a man.
    “The crux of the matter is that . . . I know that I belong here, as Wycliff. But I want to be out there.” He gestured grandly to the rooftops and the sky and the whole wide world on the outskirts of London.
    Eliza followed his gesture and knew that he meant the farthest corners of the world. She knew, too, how he paced the floors of Wycliff House and rattled the bars on his cage—lovely as it was—in search of a way out.
    “You are remarkably self-aware,” she said. He was trouble and a bit spoiled, but he wasn’t stupid. And he was handsome, ridiculously so. She did her best to act collected and calm, as if she sipped brandy on rooftops with dukes all the time.
    But she was acutely aware of the intensity of her heartbeat. Her gaze kept returning to his mouth. Her thoughts kept imagining her lips against his.
    “As we’ve said, I’ve been drinking. But I can’t go out there, because I haven’t the funds.”
    “That is a problem,” she agreed. One he would hopefully tell her more about. She heard Knightly’s voice in the back of her thoughts: Get the story. Get the story.
    “The dukedom is wasted on Wycliff men,” he carried on. “Look at me: drinking, wishing and plotting to leave the country, and confiding in a housemaid.”
    Eliza took the bottle from his grasp and took