The Very Daring Duchess Part 18

But Mr. Burdumy was not quite finished. "It is, my lord captain," he said primly, "at this time customary for the groom to kiss his bride."

Blast, Edward knew that, without having some whey-faced cleric tell him so, and he barely bit back the retort that would have told Burdumy so. Instead he reached out to slip his hand into the rich silk of Francesca's hair and turned her face and her mouth up toward his and before she could stop him, he was kissing her, and it wasn't the dutiful, done-for-show kiss Burdumy suggested, either.

But then her lips were more yielding than he'd expected, too, lush and velvety and warm with a different promise altogether from the ones they'd just made. He circled his arm around her waist to draw her closer, gently crushing the softness of b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his chest.

He kissed her long and hard, her startled hands pressed flat against his chest in wordless bewilderment. He liked that, for it meant he was the first man to draw this response from her, the first to kiss her with such urgency. He could taste her surprise in the way she fluttered beneath him, yet he could also tell the exact moment when that surprise gave way to eagerness and to pleasure all her own, when her lips began to respond to his, when the resistance in her body lessened and her hands curled round his back, and when, most of all, he realized he'd forgotten everything and everyone else except the woman in his arms.

Finally he broke away, his heart thundering and his blood racing as if he'd rowed the longboat from the sh.o.r.e himself. With this kiss he'd meant to demonstrate to her exactly who was the captain, but d.a.m.nation, now he wasn't nearly as sure himself.

Not that she'd any clearer sense of what had happened between them, either. Her expression was so confused she seemed almost dazed, her eyes heavy-lidded and her lips still parted and wet from his, her hair mussed and her cheeks flushed and all so thoroughly, infinitely desirable he nearly groaned aloud.

"Edward, mio inglese leone," she whispered, her voice ragged, daring, as she reached up to touch her fingertips lightly to her lips. "Who would have guessed my English lion would roar with such pa.s.sion?"

"Nor you, la.s.s," he said hoa.r.s.ely, covering her fingers with his own. "Perhaps we shall suit after all, eh?"

"My lord captain," sputtered the forgotten chaplain, his jowls trembling with righteousness as he tucked his prayer book beneath his arm. "When I asked you, my lord, to seal your sacred troth with a kiss, I did not realize I'd be witnessing such a-a-"

"Thank you, Mr. Burdumy," said Edward, unwilling for even a moment to look away from Francesca, from her mouth, red, ripe, waiting, temptation incarnate. "Harris, Connor, you, too. Now go. Go."

The cabin door opened, closed, to mark that they were alone, and Edward reached for her again.

"We shouldn't, Edward," said Francesca, still whispering in the hushed, heady voice of lovers as his arm slipped inside her green cloak and around her waist. "You-you promised."

"So did you," he countered. He could hear the change in her breathing, the little catches of urgency that mirrored his own. "But that's not what you want, is it?"

"You tempt me, Edward," she whispered again, confessing even as she rested her hands on his shoulders, "and you shouldn't. We shouldn't."

"Why, sweetheart?" Beneath her gown he could feel that she wore no stays, no whalebone or buckram to mask her shape, and he spread his fingers to caress as much of the lush, rounded curves of her hips and bottom.

"Because," she murmured, no answer at all. "I-I'm not ready, that is all."

"I'll promise not to come into your body, Francesca," he said, feeling her move restlessly against the hard proof of his arousal. Perhaps her skittishness was because she feared childbirth; many women did, and he'd only to recall his own mother's death to understand why. "I can see to it that you don't get with child."

She started visibly. "That's not the only reason."

"Then there are other ways we can pleasure one another, sweetheart, other-"

"I know," she breathed, her eyes already closed as she reached up to kiss him. "I know."

For an instant his mind wrestled with that-how the devil had she learned that knowledge, anyway, and with whom?-until he remembered the Oculus, and her being Neapolitan instead of English, and then he stopped thinking altogether as she kissed him, her mouth hot and open to him and her clever little tongue finding his just as his hand discovered her breast, her nipple already a hard little pebble of excitement through the silk of her gown.

"Captain Lord Ramsden, sir?" came the man's shout from the other side of the door. "My lord, sir, are you within, sir?"

She flew away from him, her eyes wide, frantically tucking in stray hairpins and smoothing her gown to make herself presentable. For the first time since he'd become an officer, Edward realized he had forgotten his orders, his duty, even that constant, hovering nightmare-memory of Aboukir Bay, and Francesca was the reason. If he'd needed any more proof that he hadn't married her from gallantry alone, then here it was, and he swore long and savagely at himself and the cruelty of ill timing.

"Who the devil is there?" he roared. "Enter, man, enter!"

"Turner, sir," said the hapless midshipman who now opened cabin's door. "Mr. Osborne sends his compliments, sir, and word that the first boat with the Neapolitan gentry's alongside."

"The d.a.m.ned wh.o.r.eson Neapolitan gentry," he muttered furiously. Of course they were here; that had been the whole blasted point of this evening's exercises, hadn't it? "My compliments to Mr. Osborne, Mr. Turner, and tell him I shall join him on the deck directly."

The young man nodded and fled, relieved at no longer having to see neither the obvious bulge in the front of his captain's trousers nor the disarray of his captain's new wife. At another time Edward might have laughed, but not now. Now his temper was so black, so frustrated, that he doubted he'd ever b.l.o.o.d.y well laugh again.

"I'm sorry, caro mio," she said softly, more regret than apology, and sorrowful enough that he nearly began swearing again.

"So am I, sweetheart," he said, not trusting himself to touch her the way he wanted to. He could swear every promise in the world, and to his remorse he knew she'd make him forget them all. "You asked me to wait, and I couldn't begin to-"

"Oh, Edward, hush," she said, her beautiful, tempting mouth twisting so he was afraid she'd begin to weep. "It's not that you kissed me, or that I kissed you. I'm sorry that I'm not the wife a fine English gentleman like you should have."

"That's not true, Francesca," he said sharply, "and I never want to hear you say it again, mind? I married you because I wanted to. Because I wanted you."

"Santo cialo." She tried to smile, hugging her arms to herself. "What is it that you English say? You are daft."

"Aye, perhaps I am." He tried to smile, too, and failed just as miserably. Tonight he'd sleep apart from her in the day cabin, the only way he'd have any chance of keeping his promise to her to wait until she was ready. The decision had to come from her, else he'd never forgive himself. "I'll return as soon as I can, but now I must go welcome these infernal people on board."

She swallowed hard, and gave her head a brisk little shake. "Then I shall come with you."

"No, la.s.s," he said firmly, though it pleased him that she'd want his company so badly. "You'll be much better off here in my cabin, out of the blow."

"La, do you really think me such a selfish coward as that?" Resolutely she began to fasten the clasp on her cloak. "You need my help, caro."

He frowned, his mind already halfway to all the problems he'd find waiting on the deck. "If you wish to be truly useful, you'll stay here where I'll know you'll be safe."

"Parla italiano?" she asked. "Do you?"

She was asking if he spoke Italian, and that simple question taxed the limit of his knowledge of the language-which, of course, Francesca knew perfectly well. His frown deepened, and he began to realize how troublesome that vow of obedience was going to be for a woman like Francesca, and, for that matter, for him as well.

"King Ferdinando's court does not pride itself on its learning," she continued, mistaking his silence for encouragement, "and the only accomplishments that are prized at the Palazzo Reale are those involving hunting, drinking, or whoring."

"Then it's no different from every other wretched court in the world," he said, thinking of how his two oldest brothers were such particular favorites of the Prince of Wales for their expertise in exactly these same areas.

"Doubtless so," she said evenly, coming closer. "I will be astounded, mio caro, if a single lady or gentleman among these n.o.ble pa.s.sengers knows more than a dozen words of English. How will you address them, eh? How will you tell them where to go or what to do, or warn them against tumbling over the side and into the sea?"

Edward drew in his breath in a long, sorrowful whistle. She was right, blast it. She was being as logical as she was lovely, and she was right.

Ever since the admiral had decided to help the king and his court to flee, Edward had been worrying over this very point. He'd suffered through other similar evacuations, and seen how quickly the discipline and morale of good ships disintegrated beneath a jabbering onslaught of refugees, servants, and baggage, foreign arrogance and endless misunderstandings. Everything and everyone that was rational and functional would be English, and everyone that was shrieking with terror and imploring the heavens and cursing the English devils would be Neapolitan. Having a trustworthy interpreter on board the Centaur could be invaluable for them all.

But to have the interpreter be his new wife-he wasn't nearly as certain about that.

"This will be a delicate diplomatic situation, Francesca," he began. "The Centaur represents King George, and any misspoken word could have grave political repercussions."

She wrinkled her nose and c.o.c.ked one brow, as if catching a whiff of some noisome odor. "La, la, not repercussions! Oh, Edward, please don't be so pompous, not alone with me."

"I am not being pompous," he said stubbornly. "I am considering the best interests of my ship, my crew, and my country."

"Why not take the burden of all the rest of Christendom upon your broad shoulders, too, just to be sure you will be made a saint?" The deck was pitching and rocking with the rising wind, and when she swayed into him, she stayed there, resting against his chest in a most distracting fashion. "Whoever your grand pa.s.sengers are, they most certainly will be cold and wet and frightened. You will need me, Edward, and they will, too. Recall how I have earned my living, and then tell me again how I know nothing of diplomacy."

He grumbled wordlessly, and wished she'd temper this habit of hers of being so d.a.m.nably astute about him. He could perhaps make more of an argument if she weren't leaning against him like this so her musky, womanly scent clouded his wits, but she was, and he couldn't.