This Earl of Mine

by Kate Bateman

  “Seb!” Benedict bellowed, shielding his eyes with his hands. He scanned the ground around the burning building, and his shoulders dropped in relief when his friend crawled out from beneath a fallen advertising placard and sent them a shaky wave.

  Seb stood, tried to brush the dust and debris from his coat, then gave up with an expression of acute irritation. “That’s another coat ruined!” he yelled across to them. “It was a Weston too. You can damn well buy me a new one, Wylde!”

  Benedict gave an amused chuckle. “Fair enough,” he shouted back.

  Georgie scanned the rest of the dock and saw Alex and Jem huddled together a safe distance away, on the street near the coffee tavern. With a breathy prayer of thanks, she turned away from the confusion and grabbed the tiller. They still had work to do.

  She steered them through the water gate—the wooden boards were slimy and green with algae as they slid past—and the river caught them in its flow.

  Chapter 41.

  Georgie bit her lip in concentration and maneuvered them into the center of the river, grateful there were so few other vessels around at this hour of the night. The muddy, earthy smell of the Thames surrounded them and she shuddered as rank, rotting things probably best left unidentified swirled past in the eddying current.

  It was choppier out here. The hull rocked with the slap of waves on the side, and strange clanking, slurping noises echoed from belowdecks. The wind raised goose bumps on her arms, and she found she was shivering both from the chill and delayed reaction.

  Benedict thrust his head down into the hull and came up frowning. “Looks like we’re taking on a lot of water. How far to Woolwich?”

  “About six miles.”

  “It’s going to be a close-run thing.”

  They gained speed with the current. The warehouse fire was soon just a distant glow as they followed the curve of the river past the huge hulking shapes of warehouses and wharves. The moon provided just enough light to see.

  As they slid around the sharpest bend, where the Thames doubled back on itself, the banks became more sparsely populated. Soon, they reached the near-uninhabited, marshy, windswept spit of land known as Blackwall Point, on the Isle of Dogs. Georgie shuddered as she caught sight of the gibbet—and the iron cage swinging eerily from its wooden gallows-like frame. The dark shape of a body slumped within the bars.

  She’d seen this sight before, one summer when Father had taken her down the Thames all the way to Dartford and the sea. Any sailor entering London would pass this point, which made it the ideal spot to display a deterrent to any would-be pirates. For over four centuries, convicts had been hanged at Execution Dock in Wapping, their bodies coated in tar and then displayed on these gallows for the length of three tides before being cut down. Her eight-year-old self had shivered in delight at the gruesome story. Father had said it was a warning to always be honest in her business dealings.

  Georgie gazed over the brackish pools, and her chest contracted painfully. The gibbet was a stark reminder of how close she’d come to losing the man she loved. He’d been shot, hadn’t he? He’d said it wasn’t serious, but what if the wound became infected? Men had died from less. Oh, God.

  She should tell him how she felt.

  She clapped her hand over her mouth to prevent a shaky sob, but it slipped out anyway.

  Benedict glanced over, then stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her, tugging her tight against his chest in an embrace that left her right arm free to steer. His soaking clothes wet her own immediately, but she didn’t care. The sensation was grounding. She melted back against him, took strength from the warmth of him seeping through the fabric, as if he were transferring some of his bravery, his vitality to her.

  He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “It’s all right. It’s over now. Breathe.”

  Georgie let out a slow whoosh of breath, then sucked air in, loving the feel of his strong arms around her. Her shivers calmed. She wished they could stay like this forever, just keep on sailing, down the river, across the sea. But the little ship was sinking lower and lower with every passing minute. They’d be lucky to make it to Woolwich, let alone anywhere farther afield.

  She glanced down at the water; she did not want to go in there. It looked dark and terrifying, the current too strong to withstand. Pieter had taught her how to swim, but the still, flat waters of the lake at home bore no resemblance to this choppy, angrily swirling tide.

  After a few more minutes the buildings returned, and they reached Blackwall dockyards. This part of the river was more familiar. Georgie made out the dark rectangle of the Caversteed warehouse among the bobbing forest of masts. A rogue wave splashed over the deck.

  “Is there a bucket to bail?” she asked.

  “No.” Benedict glanced mournfully down at his wet footwear. “I could use my boots, I suppose.” He sighed, as if in pain. “Hoby made these, you know. They cost two pounds and sixpence. They were just getting comfortable.”

  “I’ll buy you another pair.”

  They navigated one final twist of the river, and she angled them closer to the southern bank. “We should be nearly there.” She squinted into the darkness and pointed. “There! That must be it. The naval dockyards.”

  A lone sentry was guarding a series of wooden barriers, behind which a cluster of large ships bobbed at anchor. He was slumped half-asleep on a stool by the small hut, but he jolted awake and snapped to attention when Benedict hailed him.

  “Ahoy there! Open the gate. Admiral Cockburn’s expecting us!”

  The guard sent their vessel—of which only a few feet was now visible above the waves—a curious look but did as he was told. They slid into the calmer waters of the dock pool and pulled up to the side in the shadowy space between two huge navy frigates. Benedict leapt ashore and secured the mooring rope, then grabbed Georgie’s raised arms and hauled her up to stand beside him on the dock.

  “Dry land. Thank God!” He laughed, and to Georgie’s complete astonishment, he dropped his head back and let out a shout of pure elation, like a lunatic, a wild “Wahooo!” of victory. An answering smile curved her mouth as a ball of joy and relief filled her chest.

  He turned to her, breathing hard. “We did it, Georgie girl!”

  Water streamed down his face in rivulets, and his shirt clung to him, almost transparent in the moonlight. With a grin of triumph, he lifted her up on tiptoe against him, hard against his chest. His kiss was savage, joyous, and Georgie responded in kind. Her legs went weak, and she clung to him like a barnacle as their tongues tangled and danced. A wild, exultant fever warmed her blood, and her head started to spin.

  Benedict drew back, panting, his eyes glittering in the darkness, and Georgie opened her mouth to tell him exactly how she felt about him. “Benedict, I—”

  The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted her admission of love.

  “Wylde! You’ve brought me my submarine. Good man!”

  Admiral Sir George Cockburn strode along the shadowed wharf. Benedict saluted the older man, and when he lowered his arm, the admiral caught his hand and shook it enthusiastically. He turned to Georgie and did the same to her. “And with the help of this young fellow. Well done lad, you’ve done a fine job here tonight. You have the Admiralty’s deepest thanks.”

  Georgie had lost her cap somewhere along the way, but her hair was still tied back in a low sailor’s pigtail. She kept her head down, praying that the admiral wouldn’t recognize her.

  Benedict indicated the sinking vessel. “You may need to drain it out.”

  The admiral shrugged. “A bilge pump will sort that. What matters is that we’ve stopped that blackguard Johnstone from carrying out his dastardly plan. Exceptional work, fellows. Invaluable service. Rest assured, I shall be recommending both of you to His Royal Highness for a reward.” He turned to Georgie. “What’s your name, lad?”

  Georgie groaned inwardly and tried to pitch her voice an octave lower than normal. “Um, George?”

 
; Her wobbly baritone didn’t fool the admiral for a moment. He gasped at Benedict in shock. “Is that a girl?”

  Since further subterfuge was impossible, Benedict stepped forward and made the introductions. “It is indeed. Admiral Cockburn, may I present Miss Georgiana Caversteed, owner of Caversteed Shipping.”

  Curtseying would have been ridiculous, given her attire, so Georgie straightened, met the admiral’s eye, and inclined her head in greeting.

  “Good Lord. Well, I never,” the admiral blustered. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Benedict was unfazed. “I asked Miss Caversteed to accompany me. She has an exceptional grasp of all things maritime, as I believe tonight’s success has demonstrated. I had complete faith she could accomplish the mission.”

  Her heart swelled with pride at his praise.

  “Most irregular, sir,” the admiral muttered. He sent Georgie a paternal glare, his white whiskers twitching. “Does your mother know you’re gallivantin’ all over town dressed as a powder monkey, my girl?”

  She opened her mouth to answer, but Benedict spoke first. “If I might have a word?” He sent her a wicked, conspiratorial look, and she just knew he was about to do something scandalous.

  “I should tell you, sir, that Miss Caversteed has done me the very great honor of agreeing to become my wife. I trust I can rely on your discretion?”

  Georgie’s gasp was drowned out by the admiral’s jovial chuckle. “Married, eh? Well, congratulations, Wylde. Capital.” He pumped Benedict’s hand again.

  Georgie stifled a snort. Discretion? She didn’t believe for one moment that the admiral could keep such momentous news to himself. He wouldn’t be able to resist telling his wife, and Clara Cockburn was the worst gossip in London. The news would be all over the ton by breakfast. Benedict might as well have taken out a full-page announcement in The Times.

  The admiral nodded. “You look as if you could do with a change of clothes, Wylde. There are some spare uniforms in the mess if you’d care to use them.” He indicated a series of dark buildings behind them. “And no doubt you’re keen to get the lady home. I’ll arrange for a carriage for you.” He turned and strode down the dock.

  Georgie lost no time in rounding on Benedict. “Why did you go and tell him that? Now there’s bound to be a dreadful scandal.”

  He gave an infuriating shrug. “There’ll be a scandal whatever happens. It’s your fault. You were the one who insisted on an adventure.”

  She was about to berate him some more when he shifted into the light and she caught sight of his shirtsleeve. It was stained pink with blood. “Oh! I forgot. You’re hurt!” She reached for him, but he stepped away from her questing hands. He tugged the neck of his shirt off his shoulder and inspected the damage.

  “It’s nothing, look. Just a graze. Not even a through-and-through.”

  It was as he said. The bullet had gouged a deep furrow on the outside edge of his bicep. The torn flesh was ugly, still seeping blood, but it was better than Georgie had feared. “Well, you still need to clean it out and bandage it,” she said. “That river water is revolting. It could easily become infected.”

  He untied the neckerchief from around his throat and handed it to her. “You do it. I can’t with one hand.”

  Her fingers shook as she secured the square of linen tightly around his upper arm. The touch of his skin made her shiver. On impulse, she slid her hand over his collarbone and then flattened her palm over his heart. His pulse beat, strong and steady beneath her fingers, and she bit back a sudden sob of relief. “You took a bullet meant for me!”

  He frowned down at her and gave a dismissive shrug, as if embarrassed. “I would have done the same for Alex. Or Seb.”

  “You could have died,” she persisted, her voice a little quivery.

  “Jesus. Come here.” He enfolded her in his arms, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Her throat closed and tears stung her eyes. She buried her face in the curve of his neck, trying to hide the damnable weakness, but he wouldn’t allow it. He caught her face in his palms and turned it up. He kissed her eyelids, her cheeks, her temple. His hold on her was so tight, it was almost painful, as if he was trying to absorb her pain into himself, her tears.

  After a moment he leaned back, and his expression was as serious as she’d ever seen it. “I would die for you,” he said simply. “Don’t you know that by now?”

  It took her slow brain a moment to assimilate his words. “Wh-what?” She blinked. “What did you say?”

  “I would die for you,” he repeated. “There’s only a few people I can say that about in this world, but you’re one of them, Georgiana Wylde. I love you.” He pressed a reverent kiss to her lips. “I don’t expect you to do anything about it,” he added quickly. “We can still keep to our agreement. You can leave me whenever you want. I just thought you should know, that’s all.”

  Joy exploded in her heart, and elation made her breathless. “I love you,” she breathed, and felt him jerk against her. He stared at her, stupefied, as if he couldn’t believe his ears. Then, he closed his eyes as if in torment.

  “You can’t,” he said brokenly. “That would be stupid. And you’re not a stupid woman. You’re a woman who can run a shipping empire, calculate interest payments, haggle for silk. You’re far too clever to love someone like me.”

  “I love you,” she said stoutly. “And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  He raked a hand through his dripping hair and groaned. “We cannot possibly be together. Don’t you see? God, I hate your damned money!”

  He let her go abruptly, turned on his heel and paced away, then pivoted and strode back to her, his expression thunderous. “How can I possibly prove that it’s you that I want? I can’t ask you to give it all away, just so I can stay with you without it. The only way we could reasonably be together would be if I had the same fortune as you. There would be equality. But that will never happen. I’ll never have a fortune like yours.”

  Georgie wrapped her arms around her body, missing his touch. “You’re thinking about this all wrong.” Her eyes were brimming with tears, but she gave him a watery smile. “Just for a moment, imagine what it would be like if our places were reversed. If you were the one with an embarrassing amount of money. What if you knew, in your heart, that you loved me? Wouldn’t you want to share everything you had with me? Wouldn’t you want to share your body, your life—everything it entailed—with me?”

  She gained confidence as she spoke. The words tumbled straight from her heart; she was certain of their rightness. He faced her, chest heaving, fists clenched at his side. But at least he was listening.

  “Think of our marriage vows,” she said. “Neither of us really meant them when we said them—I barely paid attention—but the answer was right there.” Her voice was reedy, choked with emotion, but she soldiered on, desperate to make him understand, terrified of losing him.

  “For richer or poorer. In sickness and in health. You’d stay with me if I were poor and sick, Benedict, I know you would. So, why won’t you stay with me when I’m healthy and rich?” She shook her head. “It’s illogical. And besides which, it’s too late.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “We’re married, for better or for worse, so it’s just something you’re going to have to get used to. I refuse to let you leave me now, after all this.”

  Chapter 42.

  Benedict studied the woman in front of him and felt as though his chest would crack open, his heart was beating so hard. Her cap had come off somewhere during their adventures and her furious diatribe had left her with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes.

  “I love you. You love me,” she said crossly. “I fail to see the problem.”

  A droplet of water slid down the side of her nose and down to the corner of her mouth, and he wanted to lick it away but he made one last-ditch effort to dissuade her. She could do so much better than him—a penniless rogue. “Men are supposed to provide for their women. That’s the way society w
orks. You should marry a man with a fortune equal to your own.”

  She made an inelegant snort through her nose. “Oh, stuff and nonsense. This is the modern age, Benedict. The world is changing.” She saw he was about to argue and raised her hand. “I agree that marrying only for money, with no other sort of compatibility, is a huge mistake.”

  She had that right. His own parents were a case in point. His father might have supported his mother financially, but he hadn’t provided for her emotionally. He hadn’t loved and cherished her. He’d never been there for her through life’s ups and downs.

  Georgie’s expression was an adorable mixture of frustration and pleading. “I don’t need you to provide for me financially. I need you to love me. I need you to love me so much that you can overlook the ridiculous amount of money I have and accept that it’s just part and parcel of who I am. Can you do that? Please.”

  It was the “please” that broke him; Benedict almost fell to his knees. She didn’t have to beg him for anything. He was hers, body and soul. Happiness, acceptance, trickled through him, melting his resistance like a spring thaw.

  “I suppose I must,” he said, trying to joke, but his voice broke halfway through, giving him away. “Because I really can’t imagine living without you.”

  Her smile was the sweetest thing he’d ever seen. She slanted him a teasing, haughty glance from beneath her lashes. “You do realize that you’ve never actually proposed to me, don’t you?”

  He frowned. “You’re right.”

  He sank to his knees, there on the grass, and watched her brows lift in surprise. It struck him that he was no better than poor, besotted Simeon Pettigrew, standing outside in the rain. Here he was, wet and wounded, offering himself, lacking even fancy clothes or clever words.

  He took her hand in his. “It will come as no surprise that I have no expectation of a sudden inheritance of a gold mine,” he said gruffly. “Or even any army pension. I still have a bundle of debts. My profits from the Tricorn Club are being used to recover the family estate. That said, please take this as a formal request: Georgiana Caversteed Wylde, would you please do me the immense honor of becoming my wife? Again. Forever.”