The Very Daring Duchess Part 19

"Besides, caro," she said softly, "I do want to be with you."

h.e.l.l, how could he possibly leave her behind after a confession like that? Already he could hear a babble of voices and confusion on the deck overhead, and with a sigh of resignation, he held out his arm to lead her from the cabin and up the steps. "You must be sure to express every word as I say it, without adding any other meanings. You must be mindful that you represent only the best interests of England, and not Naples."

She nodded, her smile unexpectedly wistful. "You've given me so much, Edward, and all I've done is take. I'd be most selfish if I didn't help you in return while we are together."

While we are together: Francesca couldn't make it any more clear than that, could she? Yet from the confident way Edward smiled back at her, she realized miserably he didn't understand, and didn't want to, either.

Oh, dear G.o.d, what was she to do? She'd agreed to marry him because she'd had no other way to save herself, a decision inspired by desperation and cold, hard reason, and one she planned to unmake as soon as she reached London. In London, she would find her uncle, show her father's artworks and antiquities, and never paint another forgery again. She'd make an honest new start of her life, and finally honor her promise to Papa to keep clear of men and love for the sake of her art.

But her reason hadn't counted on her heart, that seat of all foolishness. Even as she'd stood at Edward's side before the chaplain, she'd believed that she could make her vows and promises without intending to keep them. For her, truth had always had a certain convenient flexibility to it, and she hadn't expected that to be otherwise now.

And yet, with Edward, it had. She couldn't tell whether the words themselves had humbled her, or whether it had been the honorable conviction of the tall, solemn man as he'd pledged himself to her that had spurred her wayward conscience. Edward deserved more than the habitual mask of casual, meaningless flirtation that had served her so well in her trade. She cared for him too much for that, and she couldn't deny it any longer, not even to herself. She still didn't believe in the folly of love, but friendship, respect, loyalty, affection-with Edward these all seemed possible for the first time in her life.

And desire. Oh, yes, Edward was teaching her that, too, and just the memory of that kiss made her cheeks flush and her blood smolder. How could she be so deliciously weak with him, and not care a fig for the consequences? Why had he been the one to remember that this sort of play could lead to a babe in her belly, and the end to every one of her dreams as an artist? But one kiss, and Edward had made her feel things she'd never dreamed, and made her long for more than she'd realized existed. One kiss from him, and her body began to comprehend the wanton scenes in the Oculus in a way that her head never had. One kiss, and she forgot London, forgot her painting and her treasured independence, forgot everything but the man holding her, stroking her, kissing her, loving her.

The man that, G.o.d forgive her, she'd wed only with the intention of abandoning.

0="7"7.

A night, a day, and another night.

That was how much time pa.s.sed before the storm finally blew itself out. A night, a day, and another night in which Edward had allowed himself to come below here to his cabin only for a gulped mug of cold coffee and a leg of chicken eaten without the bother of a plate, a change of wet clothes for dry ones that would, as soon as he returned to the deck, become soaked as well. He'd s.n.a.t.c.hed sleep when he could, tumbling exhausted into his cot for an hour at the most before another call to all hands would rouse him to join the others to fight the driving sheets of wind and spray and seas that ran high as church spires. Unlike most captains of his rank and experience, he believed in sharing his men's battles and sufferings as much as their victories, and this rare winter storm in the warm waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea was no exception.

No exception, that is, beyond that it meant he'd spent his wedding night on the quarterdeck with the rain streaming down his back, while his bride-well, he wasn't precisely sure where Francesca had spent their wedding night. He hadn't seen her since that first day, when she'd gone to help settle the Neapolitans in their quarters, and though he'd heard his men and officers call the new Lady Edward a saint-a veritable angel of sweetness and n.o.ble compa.s.sion-he would have infinitely preferred to have seen her himself, and have a bit of that sweetness lavished on him.

As soon as the wind had settled this morning, he'd sent word around the ship for her to join him in his cabin, and his weary feet quickened down the steps as he thought of her waiting there for him now. But when he entered, his day cabin was empty, except for his manservant.

"I thought I'd sent for my wife, Peart," grumbled Edward as he let the servant peel away his wet coat. "I expected her to be waiting."

"Her Ladyship is here, my lord captain," said Peart, a taciturn Irishman on the best of days. "She waits within your sleeping cabin."

His sleeping cabin: now that was an improvement, if an unexpected one, and a score of provocative possibilities instantly made him forget his weariness. How could it not? That kiss they'd shared had seared into his memory and burned there still, fresh and hot. Perhaps it had done that for her, too, enough that she was ready to be his wife in more than name alone after all.

Aye, aye, that would be best, and the one sure way he could have both his honor and Francesca, the only way he could still prove himself to be better than his wastrel brothers....

"Thank you, Peart," he said, pulling his damp shirt over his head and using it to wipe his face before he tossed it back. He combed his fingers haphazardly through his hair to smooth it back from his forehead, and in two long strides he'd crossed the deck to the other cabin's door. She might be waiting for him, but by G.o.d, he wouldn't make her wait a moment longer, and without bothering to knock, he eagerly pushed the door open.

And there she was, sound asleep, but not how or where or even when he'd expected to find her. She lay curled in one of the leather armchairs instead of his cot, her head pillowed on her arm and her feet propped on the carriage of the great gun with one of his dark blue undress-coats draped around her legs-doubtless arranged by the ever-vigilant Peart.

Her cheeks were pale, her eyes ringed with gray shadows of weariness, and she'd tied a grimy sailcloth ap.r.o.n over her gown and a red sailor's handkerchief around her hair. Only the gold hoops in her ears were as he remembered, those and his ring on her finger, the back wrapped with thread to keep it from sliding from her finger.

It was curiously intimate, having her here alone with him in a place he'd never shared with anyone else, and for several minutes he simply watched her sleep, her lips parted and the swell of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s gently rising and falling beneath her bodice. He never slept so soundly himself. He'd seen and survived too much for that. But finding her here brought him a rare sense of peace after the howling chaos of the storm, and, marveling, he realized that this, too, was part of being wed.

What filled her dreams, he wondered, what made her rest so complete? Was it the past or the future, the world she'd left behind, or the heady possibilities of the unknown?

And would she ever come to dream of him?

She sighed in her sleep and shifted in the chair, just enough that the coat slipped from her legs to the deck. Instantly he bent to retrieve it, tucking it around her legs to keep out the chill.

And with a start, she woke.

"Who is there?" she asked groggily, pushing herself more upright in the chair. "Ah, mio caro, it's you."

"It had better be," he said, "considering this is my cabin."

"Your own dear cabin," she mused in a sleepy singsong, clearly only half awake. "My lion's private little lair."

"After a fashion, aye." He'd missed hearing her little pet names for him, an endearing liberty he'd never granted to anyone else. "How are you, la.s.s?"

"Perfectly well, grazie." She patted the coat over her lap, and let her gaze slip lower. "But if I'd known you were so terribly short of clothing, Edward, I would never have gone borrowing."

Belatedly he realized that in his eagerness to see her, he hadn't bothered to put on a dry shirt or stockings, and now stood before her in nothing more than a pair of still-damp breeches hanging precariously low upon his hips. He wasn't shy about his body-he was a well-made man, strong and lean, and besides, life in the navy had a way of destroying whatever modesty a gentleman might have-and he didn't move to cover himself now.

"I didn't want to keep you waiting," he said evenly, though that only explained the most honorable of his expectations. "If I'd stopped to let Peart dress me properly, you'd be waiting still."

She smiled and yawned, her eyes heavy-lidded, amused, and not at all shocked, and he thought of how pleasurable it would be to find her sleepy face in the morning on the pillow beside his.

"Then I shall be flattered," she said. "Few husbands would be so a.s.siduous, especially on such a chilly morn. But is this how you hope to woo me, my lord, astounding me with your male beauty?"

He smiled wryly, chagrined that his interest had been so transparent. " 'Tis a pity I'm not a rare Indian peac.o.c.k, ma'am, for I fear my poor male beauty must always pale before yours."

"That's more poppyc.o.c.k than peac.o.c.k, I'd say," she scoffed. "Considering how bedraggled and sorry I must seem, with nary an unbroken plume to my name or my head."

"Bedraggled plumes that were most honorably won," he countered, turning serious. "I've heard all you've done for that sorrowful lot of pa.s.sengers we're carrying, and not just by translating what I say, either."

She shrugged. "I did what needed doing, Captain Ramsden, that was all, and it kept me too busy to be either frightened or seasick, like everyone else."

"Don't be so modest, la.s.s," he said firmly. He'd never expected this side of her, not from the giddy creature he'd first met in her studio, and he wanted to give her the credit she deserved. "You did far more than that. Fetching them drink from the galley, settling squabbles, nursing the ill, sorting out belongings-you've eased their fears with your kindness, even if they don't know enough to thank you for it."

"They can't," she said with resignation. "They're n.o.bles, helpless as babes."

"Helpless as fools from Bedlam," he growled with disgust. "Do you know why we were so late to sail? His Majesty King Ferdinando refused to leave until his precious pack of hunting dogs were brought aboard the Vanguard! Seventy blasted dogs were his greatest concern, with Napoleon hot upon his heels!"

Francesca shook her head and clucked her tongue to commiserate. "I warned you, Edward. They've been raised to believe the world will always oblige them, and it usually does."

"And thus I was raised as well, la.s.s," he said firmly, "yet I know enough to thank you for what you've done."

Her smile glowed with such unabashed pleasure at his compliment that he wished he could give her fifty more.

"But you are different, caro mio," she said softly. "You must know-oh, Edward, the children!"

"The children?" he repeated, mystified, as she threw aside her makeshift coverlet and hurried across the deck to his cot.

"Barbaruccia and Caterina," she explained in a low whisper, carefully peeking inside the embroidered curtains of the cot. "The daughters of the Marchese d'Arienzani. Surely you remember them?"

He nodded dutifully, though he'd no memory of any children being attached to the Marchese's party, let alone these particular little girls. At the time he'd been far more concerned with getting the Centaur clear of the bay in the storm and keeping in sight of the rest of the ships in their convoy.

But Francesca had remembered, and as she bent over the sleeping children, he certainly could understand why his men were calling her an angel.