Read The Tattooed Duke for Free Online

breeze to pass the foyer, to cool her outrageously hot skin. But that thought lead to the book, to the pictures, to the wrong she had committed by reading his private papers.
    Still, she kissed him. How one said no to this Wicked Wycliff was beyond her. One probably did not, hence the name. It was impossible for her to utter that little word, no , when he kissed her like it was the first time and last time all at once, not when he held her so possessively. And she liked it. Like was perhaps not the word. She would think about that later . . . for now, she tentatively placed her hands upon his chest and felt his heart pounding hard beneath her palms. The clock inconveniently ruined the moment. One loud chime broke the silence and signaled the hour was very late indeed. The kiss was over.
    He said one word, “Go,” in a rough voice, and she hurried up the stairs, all the way to her tiny chamber on the third floor.
    The sheet of paper was still there, blank. The good news: she had discovered delicious information for her column. The wretched part: after that kiss, he was no longer mere fodder, but a hot-blooded, passionate man, and it tore at her heart to think of committing his secrets to print.

Chapter 8
     
    Introducing “The Tattooed Duke”
     
    Saturday morning
     
    T o his surprise, Wycliff had company for breakfast—other than good old Harlan, who never missed a meal. Harlan was attempting to eat with one arm, thanks to that ridiculous sling he insisted upon wearing, all for an injury that had occurred ages ago.
    Wycliff had picked up with Harlan somewhere around Zanzibar, and never quite lost him. They’d battled sharks, pirates, and other disasters. They’d taken turns saving each other’s lives.
    Harlan had moved into the ducal residence without asking and had taken to scheming about future adventures “in places with better weather” and flirting with the housemaids and taking whiskey-laced tea with Mrs. Penelope Buxby.
    Wycliff thus far had resisted the urge to pump Harlan for information about the delectable Eliza of the heart-stopping midnight kiss. What had he been thinking? He hadn’t, of course, drunk and morose as he’d been over the bad news about the dukedom’s finances. But damn, had that kiss been worth it.
    Harlan glanced at Eliza and back at the duke, who carefully adopted a blank expression. Wycliff knew that if Harlan had the merest inkling that he harbored even the most fleeting, passing fancy for a girl, he would be mercilessly and relentlessly taunted for it. Harlan was probably just past his thirtieth year, but his maturity had not advanced much beyond thirteen.
    Eliza presently attempted to serve them breakfast; it involved a clattering of glasses and plates and curses under her breath. She was a terrible servant (but did that chit know how to kiss!), though Mrs. Buxby swore that she came with glowing recommendations from a duchess and a countess. That, and he was given to understand that applicants were not exactly lining up to serve such a notorious family.
    In a better household, a footman might have done her job. But funds were limited, and staff as well. Jobs that must be done by men were done by the few footmen, leaving housemaids to serve meals in their place. But Wycliff was not a man to stand on ceremony.
    He caught a glance from Eliza’s ocean blue eyes. She took it as a request to refill his coffee—a habit he had acquired in Turkey.
    He didn’t really want any. But as she stood to pour, he noticed that her breasts were exactly at his eye level, thanks to his seated position and her standing position. He would be drinking an exorbitant amount of the stuff this morning.
    “Your Grace,” Saddler intoned from somewhere just behind his shoulder. Wycliff swore under his breath and fought the urge to jump in shock. The butler had the damnedest habit of moving silently and just appearing . It was unnerving.
    “You have callers,” he intoned, holding out a silver tray