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

looked as if he were reading her thoughts, heaven help her.
    But how could he know?
    Reason piped up that his scrutiny was nothing but an unfortunate coincidence. Most likely, he was looking daggers at a spinster simply for the crime of being on the shelf. If she so lacerated his finer, male feelings, he needn’t look at her at all! Or perhaps he was offended that she did not simper, moon, titter or coo over him as everyone else did. Whatever the cause, she would not be undone by a self-important, excessively entitled, offensively glaring peer’s disgust of her.
    Even if he had every right to
hate
her, he couldn’t possibly know that, could he? She prepared herself to brazen it out, if only her combustible cheeks would cooperate.
    • • •
    Meeting his nemesis face to face made Ainsworth’s blood boil. He was coldly, fiercely furious with her; yet, he found himself increasingly unsettled. Even aroused. His boiling blood was pooling most inconveniently in his loins and causing an embarrassing disturbance down there. This made him more annoyed with her, though in fairness she couldn’t help her troublesome effect on him.
    Here was the slight female who’d knelt before him and apologized for mocking him, no mistake about it. She’d apologized to him then, probably assuming he wouldn’t recall her admission — or her face — in the fullness of time. She badly miscalculated. He couldn’t forget her. For here in the flesh was the intrusive female he’d imagined having while
in flagrante delicto
with any number of others.
    Damn her eyes.
    Miss Haversham’s eyes were striking. He’d thought they were faded blue or gray. That had been his first impression as he stood over her. On closer inspection, he discovered her eyes were a stormy blue green, a shade of lovat. Neither faded nor bland. She kept peeping at him, while pretending to study her teaspoon and table linen. Ainsworth nearly laughed at the way his rude perusal distressed her.
    Her eyes reminded him of the ocean, one color when calm, quite another when disturbed. She had, he mused, such telling eyes, not at all suited for gambling. And she was most certainly gambling at the moment.
Little liar.
Guilt was written in bright red on her face, also in her wary eyes and with every movement of her fidgety hands. Still, she flatly denied meeting him.
    Today, her gown was prim to the point of dowdy, buttoned up to her neck. This prudishness piqued his curiosity. He’d seen only a hint of her bosom the previous night, from across the ballroom, but he knew at a glance she had a pleasing, if slight, figure. What little skin she revealed in the candlelight had been creamy smooth and mouthwatering. The intimation of nicely rounded curves set fire to his imagination in a way none of the daringly dressed ladies had. Women of the
ton
and their daughters routinely bared nearly all for all to see. Until last night, Ainsworth enjoyed such exhibitions. Now, he found reticence far more alluring. Why would this chit’s modesty make him so curious to see more? And make him itch to cradle every blessed inch of her in his palms?
    He pried his mind away from that over-stimulating line of thought. Last night was neither here nor there, the duke reminded himself sternly. The author of his defacement was here and he would toy with her like a cat with a shrew.
    Miss Haversham’s expression and her evasiveness confirmed her guilt though she wasn’t the complete harridan he expected. More surprising was the untoward effect she was still having on him, making him restless and his pantaloons uncomfortably snug. He watched with fascination as her thick, dark lashes swept down to shield her eyes from his scrutiny.
    “Just so,” Lady Abingdon purred, enjoying herself immensely, “Just so. I thought you two might get on.”
    The duke barked a harsh laugh. Miss Haversham nailed him with those extraordinary eyes, returning his rude inspection with a sharp, steely look of her own.
    After the