The Very Daring Duchess Part 13

"I don't believe you can, Francesca, not by half," he said, using her Christian name for the first time, surprising her by lingering over the syllables the way an Italian would and not making it harsh and sharp and English. "But I've seen for myself the French at their worst, la.s.s, seen it with my own eyes, and I'd not wish that fate on any woman."

His eyes narrowed just a fraction. "You told the admiral that you'd do anything for your pa.s.sage, didn't you?"

Now her anxieties took a new twist, spurred by the cold determination in his voice. "But to bind myself to you forever, a man I scarcely know, to abandon who and what I am for you-che impossibile!"

"Evidently so," he said, clipping the words sharp with bitterness. "It is your decision, Miss Robin, but I must conclude that marrying me is not preferable to torture, rape, and death. I regret having caused you such distress by my daring to think otherwise."

"That's not fair," she said swiftly. "That's not my reason, and you know it!"

"Ah, one more a.s.sumption that I am supposed to somehow intuitively know."

"But you do know this," she said, struggling to find the right words to convince him. "I told you before I'd never had a lover, ever, or even a sweetheart, and now the notion of suddenly taking you as my husband-ah, ah, it is so much for my poor head to consider!"

"Then perhaps, Miss Robin," he said, beginning to turn away, "your poor head should consider how much longer it wishes to remain attached to your poor shoulders. Good day, miss."

"Oh, please, don't go yet, I beg you!" she cried frantically, catching at his sleeve as she remembered how Carlo and his knife could be waiting for her in her studio even now. "Could we only pretend to be married, for the sake of the admiral?"

He frowned. "You heard him. You won't be permitted aboard any vessel in the English fleet unless you're wed to an Englishman. He won't countenance anything less, and neither will I."

Of course he wouldn't, not when rules and orders meant so much to him. "Then-then if I marry you today, could we agree to allow time to know each other better?" she pleaded. "To see if it can possibly suit?"

Now his frown seemed more from disbelief than displeasure. "You wish me to court my own wife?"

"No, no!" she said hurriedly. "I wish us to have a way, a means, to separate if we find we are not an agreeable match. I am not the woman you'd ordinarily choose, Edward. I wish you to see my faults, before you must have me to keep."

"No one is perfect, Francesca," he said with a hint of irritation. "I can accept that. I myself have no fortune to offer you beyond what I earn in the navy, no home on land for you to grace, no family to welcome you. I am often at sea for months at a time, and the odds would certainly favor your being my widow for much longer than you will be my wife. I could even be shipped home to you a broken-down cripple worse off than the admiral, for you to tend and pity for the rest of my days. I am, in short, no prize myself."

"Then might we agree not to, ah, consummate our union until we are sure, so that we can more easily obtain an annulment if we do not please?"

"You would refuse me?" he asked sharply. "You would not be my wife in every way?"

Francesca nodded, her palms sweating inside her gloves. This is what came of being raised in the same house as the Oculus, for she could barely look at Edward now without feeling the first flush of desire for him, the swift tease of pa.s.sion curling through her body, from the tips of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to the secret, wanton place between her legs. She wanted him, yes, she wanted him in a way that no proper English lady would ever want her husband. But once they were wed, the law would let this man she scarcely knew command her every thought and action, and oh, saints in heaven, she wasn't ready for that.

"I would refuse you, yes, so you in turn could refuse me," she said as evenly as she could. She needed to make it clear to him that there was a far greater likelihood that she'd leave than stay, that she wouldn't let herself be governed by desire. "If we agree to separate, then I will never ask for a single shilling of recompense from you. I will simply vanish away from your life as if I'd never entered it. So refusal, yes, but also no regrets, no blame."

He didn't answer at first, clearly unhappy with such a suggestion.

"If that is what you wish," he said finally, making it perfectly clear that it wasn't what he'd choose. "Very well. But I'll warn you, Francesca. I'm a man of my word, and I don't take it back."

"Ramsden," called the admiral. "You have one minute more."

Edward rubbed his finger along the side of his neck and sighed impatiently. "You've set your terms, Francesca, and I've agreed to them. So what's it to be, la.s.s? Yes, or no?"

"One more question, Edward," she said, finally daring to ask what had been plaguing her from the beginning. "Why?"

"Why." He glanced downward, away from her gaze, to the well-polished toes of his shoes. "d.a.m.nation, I do not know. I hadn't planned to venture such an offer, you know, not to you or any other woman. Good sailors do not make good husbands. You haven't far to look for proof of that. But when I saw you kneeling there, begging for your own life, why, I couldn't leave you behind when we sailed. This was the only way I could make sure I didn't. The words came out on their own, and here we are."

"And here we are, caro mio," she repeated, her voice turning wistful. "Here we are."

She couldn't explain exactly where "here" might be, and she still didn't want to be anyone's wife, let alone the wife of an English aristocrat. But Edward Ramsden had told her the truth, unadorned and unvarnished, something few men bothered to do, and she appreciated his bare honesty more than a thousand flowery promises that meant nothing. He'd been that way from the beginning, when he'd first challenged the authenticity of the carved Cupid, and he wouldn't change now, or likely ever. He was a man of his word, just as he'd claimed. He could have followed his admiral and dismissed her to her fate, yet instead he had chosen to save her the only sure way he could.

Francesca had never known anyone like that. Certainly not Papa, and not herself, either, not when she was already planning how soon she might escape him and follow her father's collection to London. She was trying to be honest about it, leastways as much as she could, but his was the genuine truth, and enough to make her feel genuine remorse as well. It wasn't simply that she and Edward Ramsden wouldn't suit one another. He didn't deserve to be burdened with a woman like her, so adept at slipping and sliding her way around the same truth and honor that he held so dear.

But as he'd said, here they were.

And where they went next was entirely her decision.

"Dear little Robin," said her ladyship gently, coming to rest her hand on Francesca's shoulder. "Both the admiral and Sir William are waiting, and we cannot tarry any longer. If there's anything I might do to help you make your-"

"Yes," said Francesca, the slightest breath of a word to carry so much weight. "Yes."

"Yes, meaning I might help you?" asked her ladyship, perplexed. "Pray tell me how, my dear."

But Edward understood, taking Francesca's hand in his own. "She has," he said gruffly, "done me the honor of accepting me."

He raised her hand and kissed the back of it, the heat of his fingers searing through the yellow kid of her gloves. He was strong, this convenient bridegroom of hers, and for all his honesty and breeding, he was accustomed to having his own way, his every order instantly obeyed by a crew of nearly seven hundred men. His golden head bowed low before her while his gaze held hers as fast as his fingers held her hand, marks of possession by a man whose life could well have been every bit as ruthless and violent as the enemy he'd sworn to save her from.

Until he smiled again, over her arched hand, a smile filled with almost boyish wonder and amazement and intended entirely for her. She doubted he realized how much that smile revealed, or could guess how it was making her poor, beleaguered heart flip and flop in her chest. Yet what a hopeless fool she was, to read so much into a man's smile!

"Oh, little Robin, I am so very happy for you!" cried her ladyship, bending to kiss Francesca on both cheeks. "This is the most perfect solution imaginable! My blessings and good wishes to you both, and all the joy in the world."

"Thank you, my lady," answered Francesca faintly. Though she'd never been shy around men, simply standing beside Edward now was making her feel as skittish and uncertain as any country girl. "If we are in such a hurry, then I should go home and gather my things."

"No time for that, miss," said the admiral sharply. By now the other officers had already left, and he and Lady Hamilton were the only ones left in the room, standing waiting in their cloaks for the carriage to the Turkish Emba.s.sy. "Ramsden, I shall excuse you from coming with us to the emba.s.sy tonight so that you might return directly to the Centaur, on the condition that you summon your chaplain to marry you directly."

"But I can't leave like this!" protested Francesca, thinking of everything she was leaving behind with her home. "I'll have no other clothes beyond what I'm wearing!"

"Nor shall I, little Robin," said her ladyship as she sadly glanced around her mirrored music room for what could be the final time. "We must simply all vanish from Naples. If we are seen making preparations of any sort, then the rumors will begin and the people will panic, and make it quite impossible for the king and queen to flee."

Francesca remembered Carlo's threats against the royal family, and shivered as she thought of all the bitter, desperate men like him scattered throughout the city, waiting for their chance. The English were wise not to take any risks.

"Farewell, little bride," said her ladyship, her eyes too bright with tears as she gave Francesca's forehead one last, hurried kiss before she joined the admiral at the door. "When we meet again you'll be a wife, and a lady, too. How I hope you find love with your gallant captain!"

Francesca nodded, all the response she could make. How could Lady Hamilton expect her to find love in a marriage like this one, born of war, haste, and necessity? Love would scarcely flourish after such a barren beginning, and as Francesca watched her ladyship and the admiral walk slowly down the stairs, she wasn't sure she wanted any part of it, anyway. In a world as torn apart as theirs, love seemed to Francesca to be at best a perilous emotion, and one that could only end in disaster and heartbreak.

"I'll make it up to you, la.s.s," said Edward, offering his arm to lead her down the stairs after the others. "The Centaur isn't exactly a grand house in Grosvenor Square, but I'll see that you have everything you want."

"Grazie, Edward," she said softly, and slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. She would be brave; she must. Far better to forget what she'd lost and instead look forward to what she'd gained, and resolutely she forced herself to smile up at the tall man at her side. He, at least, deserved that much from her. "You are most kind to me, Edward, most generous."

He concentrated on guiding her down the stairs, making a wordless, grumbling sound in his throat to hide his discomfiture. How odd, she thought, that he didn't enjoy the compliment, especially when she'd meant it.

"You're my responsibility now," he said finally, "and I mean to look after you."

"But you've already saved my life, caro mio," she said, curling her fingers into his sleeve and leaning against him ever so slightly. She was perfectly capable of walking down the stairs una.s.sisted, but she knew how gentlemen preferred to believe women couldn't. "And you've offered me your name as well. Isn't that enough for one day's work?"

"Not when it's for you, no," he said solemnly. "Here's the footman Lady Hamilton said would show us through the cellars."

The footman bowed, and lead them through a doorway to a servant's stairway, the steps narrow and twisting and made of rough stone instead of the polished white marble of the front staircase. The footman held a lantern high to light their way, and now Francesca welcomed the support of Edward's arm as they began down a long, shadowy tunnel of a hallway. She didn't like dark places, particularly dark places under the earth that harbored mice and rats and spiders, and this hall, she decided with dismal certainty, was sure to be full of all three.