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

“Where’ve you been all this time?”
    “Neck deep in God-awful drudgework here or in the country. Otherwise, nothing particularly noteworthy,” Ainsworth concluded evasively.
    “Didn’t see you at the holiday to-dos,” Percy said.
    “Hang on…It couldn’t have been your brother in the papers last year,” Seelye chortled. “You scoundrel! It was you! You’re the Mayfair Stallion!”
    Lord Clun aspirated his port. Seelye and Percy both pounded him on his back as he gasped and laughed, eyes streaming. Recovering himself, he chortled, “The Mayfair Stallion in our very midst! Be still my heart!”
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” Ainsworth growled.
    The three leaned toward him and poked him in the ribs like schoolboys tormenting a classmate.
    “From horse guard to stallion in a few magical nights!” Seelye sighed and made cow’s eyes at him.
    Ainsworth had the good grace to blush as he scowled.
    “Oh my, our duke has been a busy boy,” Percy teased.
    With no little disgust, and to the great amusement of the others, Ainsworth summarized his misadventures. He omitted mention of the dreadful tattoo because his shameless arses-for-friends would require a thorough review of it, regardless of club rules on proper attire. There was even a possibility they would shuck him bare arse naked if he dared refuse them.
    After the foursome drained an additional bottle, Ainsworth returned home to the silence of his study in a mellower mood. A few days hence, he would sortie out to Bath to reconnoiter the enemy.
    Paperwork completing the purchase of No. 3 Trim Street lay on his desk signed, sealed and ready for Sterling, who successfully negotiated for it with Sir Oswald Dabney, a baronet in Oxfordshire. It proved doubly costly because the seller insisted on off-loading a second property in the same transaction, No. 11 Henrietta Street, described as a small stone cottage with land in nearby Bathwick. Apparently, the baronet had little use for either property so far from his principal seat near Chipping Norton.
    In for a penny, in for a pound, Ainsworth concluded. It was only money. If it purchased satisfaction, it was worth every ha’pence.
    In the meantime, a drift of snowy invitations accumulated on the demi-lune table where Thatcher added more each day. The Season was under way in London. Ainsworth knew he ought not miss much of the Marriage Mart if he wanted his pick of the year’s debutantes. It was time he did his duty and bred some brats to carry on the family name. But there would be pleasure before pain. First, he would see to destroying the plague-y Miss H. He allotted himself a few weeks in Bath to accomplish the task.
    Sterling had hired a suitable house on Morford Street in Bath and arranged to staff it from one of his nearby estates. Only Thatcher and Smeeth would accompany the duke from Town. For so short a stay, he was inclined to leave the dogs behind. Then again, he wondered if Miss Haversham feared large dogs. If so, he should bring Attila. On second thought, all the ladies in his acquaintance found Attila terrifying. So, he concluded with an evil chortle, Attila must come.
    Ainsworth always found himself exhilarated on the eve of battle. His blood was up. His senses sharpened. His hands twitched and flexed with excitement. He was even more restless than usual. The duke anticipated his vengeance with grim satisfaction.
    His Grace surprised himself with the depths of his rancor. He wasn’t normally a resentful sort. Nor was he prone to holding grudges, especially toward the fairer sex. He had a healthy sense of humor and a genial if taciturn disposition. His friends certainly considered him untemperamental, tolerant and willing if not eager to find the good in others. In general, he treated others as he would have them treat him.
    His enemies, however, found him implacable. And the spiteful female who went about randomly, whimsically and permanently defiling a man’s privates was his enemy.
    Miss