Lady Elinor's Wicked Adventures

by Lillian Marek

  The Channel apparently took offense at such hubris.

  There was not a storm, precisely, but winds and tides and currents all decided to play a game of tag, tossing the yacht about as if it were nothing more than a dinghy.

  Lady Penworth crouched over a chamber pot and moaned that she was going to die. Her husband held her gently, emptying the chamber pot and wiping her face with a damp cloth as needed, and made soothing noises.

  Rycote lay collapsed in his bunk, an arm covering his eyes, regretting that he would not live to see the newly planted apple and pear trees in his orchards bear fruit. There were more regrets, but he always tried to ignore foolish dreams.

  The three servants huddled on the floor of the main cabin, clinging to the legs of the dining table, which was firmly bolted to the floor. They could not imagine what on earth had ever possessed them to leave dry land.

  Lady Elinor stood on deck, holding firmly onto the rail to maintain her balance, and took deep breaths of the salty wind. It was wonderful, spectacular, fantastic, exhilarating—she did not know enough superlatives to describe the way she felt. She was beginning an adventure, and she reveled in a freedom she had never known.

  It was not that she had grown up in a stifling atmosphere. Neither of her parents considered ignorance and stupidity to be virtues, even for women, so she had always been encouraged to learn, to examine, to question—at least, in private. But she had always been protected, she knew. While standing here on the deck of the ship was not actually dangerous, it was possible to pretend that it was, that she was riding a storm-tossed sea that could wash her up on the shores of some fantastic land where dragons and dangers awaited, prepared to test her courage.

  “Norrie, what in God’s name do you think you are doing?”

  She looked up to see Tunbury running toward her, skidding a bit on the wet deck as he came to a halt beside her. His hair was blown every which way, and he was fighting the wind in an effort to button his coat.

  “Hullo, Harry. Isn’t it grand?” She grinned up at him, not commenting on the skid. Even though he had broken her mood, her heart gave a surprisingly familiar thump. To her confusion, that seemed to happen every time she saw him. “We’re surrounded by darkness. You can’t see a thing. We could have sailed off the ends of the earth, be traveling through space, for all we know.”

  “And when you get washed overboard, we won’t have a prayer of finding you because no one will be able to see you, you ninny.” He had to shout over the noise of the waves. He probably would have shouted anyway.

  She turned away slightly. He was talking to her as if she were still a child, the way he always seemed to talk to her these days. Honestly, he had treated her with more respect when she was ten and he was showing her how to bait a hook. Couldn’t he get it through his head that she was an adult? And entitled to be treated as one?

  “You have no sense,” he said, still shouting.

  Just then the ship lifted and sent her lurching into him. He put an arm around her waist to steady her, and she found herself leaning against him, her hands on his chest. There was a frozen moment when the world seemed to go silent. She could swear she heard her own heart beating, and his as well.

  Something strange was happening. That much she knew, though she could not say what it was. Men had put their hands on her waist and held her before. It happened every time she danced at a ball. But that felt no different from her brother’s touch.

  This was different.

  This felt nothing like having her brother hold her.

  She wanted Harry to hold her closer. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and melt right into him. She felt her bones dissolving. If he hadn’t been holding her up, she would be a little puddle on the deck. She wanted…she wasn’t sure what she wanted, but there was something, and it was important. A little moan escaped her throat.

  Then the wind and the waves regained their voices and he jumped back, snatching his hand away.

  “You aren’t wearing a corset.” He sounded a bit hoarse, and she might have thought he was making an accusation if she hadn’t recalled the tremor she had felt when his arm was wrapped around her waist. Of course, she probably would not have been able to feel the tremor if she had been wearing a corset. Then again, if she had been wearing a corset, he might not have trembled. A puzzlement.

  But he had been trembling. It wasn’t just her own trembling that she had felt. And she could still feel the heat of him where he had touched her. She wouldn’t have been able to feel that through a corset, at least not as well.

  How dare he scold, as if she had done something wrong, when he was the one who was making her feel—well, all these things. If anyone was at fault, he was. She put up her chin and snapped at him. “That’s right. I’m not wearing a corset, nor am I wearing crinolines or a half-dozen petticoats. The way we are tossing about, I wouldn’t be able to move about on deck if I were, so I left them off.”

  They both glanced down. The wind was blowing her skirts against her in a way that made it obvious that she had left off her petticoats. That she had legs. It was quite liberating. He made an odd sort of growling sound. Then the ship did its dip-and-rise thing again. She wasn’t holding the rail any longer so she went tumbling against him again.

  She didn’t make any effort to keep on her feet because—she wasn’t quite sure why—she wanted to lean against him. Her hands were pressed against his chest, where the rough wool of his jacket was lightly covered with damp. She could feel it right through her gloves. Would it be too forward to put her hands on his shoulders?

  Apparently he thought so. He grabbed hold of her arm just above the elbow and held her away from him. Half leading and half dragging her back toward the cabins, he spoke without looking at her. “You will get inside and stay inside until your mother tells you that you may come out on deck. And that will be when it is safe to come out properly dressed.”

  He sounded absolutely furious, but she was now feeling quite furious herself. “I am not a child, Harcourt de Vaux, and I am quite sensibly dressed even if I do not live up to your standards of what is proper.” She pulled her arm from his grip and stumbled to the door. “I came outside for some fresh air because, in case you had not noticed, it is quite stuffy in the cabins, to say nothing of the unpleasant smells. And I was perfectly safe until you came along and began hauling me about and acting like a bear.”

  She pulled open the door on the passage to the cabins and marched through. How could he manage to be so utterly infuriating? So stupidly male? Her only regret was that the wind prevented her from giving the door a satisfactory slam.

  *

  Acting like a bear, was he? Well, that seemed reasonable, since all he wanted to do was crush her in his arms. Did she have no notion of the effect she had, walking around like that? Not just on him. She would have the same effect on any man.

  He closed his eyes and leaned against the door. No, the problem was him. She was right. The way she had dressed was perfectly sensible if she wanted to come out on deck, and it was perfectly sensible to want to come out on deck. The cabins were filled with people moaning and retching. She could do nothing to help them and the fresh air was welcome. He had come out for the same reason.

  After all, it wasn’t as if this were a public steamer. It was, practically speaking, her own home. This was her father’s steam yacht, and the only passengers were her own family.

  And him.

  He thumped his head against the door. He had behaved like an idiot. She had every right to be annoyed. It was hardly her fault that the realization that she was not wearing a corset and a dozen petticoats had given him an overwhelming desire to rip off whatever she was wearing and make love to her right there on the tossing deck.

  He was a beast.

  She was an innocent. She was part of a decent, loving family. A young girl like her knew nothing of the passions raging in him. If it seemed that he always ended up scolding her like some elderly pompous uncle, it was because as long as
he scolded, he was in no danger of saying the things he must not say. He dragged her about by the arm because as long as he did that, he was not pulling her into an embrace, crushing her to him.

  Self-disgust welled up in him. He had no right even to be in the same room with her. His very existence could contaminate her. His father—the earl—was a useless drunkard and his mother was no better than a whore. How could he even put a hand on her?

  How could he not put a hand on her when she stood beside him, looking so innocent?

  He had to keep his distance, make certain he was never alone with her. Surely it would be easier once they were on dry land again. There would be steamers on the Saône and the Rhone, and another to take them from Marseilles to Civita Vecchia, but those were not likely to be difficult journeys, not like the Channel. The others would always be around.

  As long as they were all in a group, he would be able to manage. He was sure of it.

  *

  They spent a day in a hotel in Calais while Lady Penworth recuperated. Lady Elinor took care of her mother, and Rycote and the servants huddled in their own rooms to recuperate, while Tunbury and Lord Penworth took a long walk and spoke of nothing more personal than politics.

  The drive to Paris took place under a gray and gloomy sky, which in no way managed to dampen Lady Elinor’s spirits. She was enchanted by the rows of poplars lining the road and by the signs in French on buildings—“It’s so much more thrilling to stop at an auberge than at an inn!”

  She was slightly less enthusiastic about staying at the British Embassy on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Lord and Lady Cowley, the ambassador and his wife, were perfectly gracious in welcoming the marquess and his family, but she had not come to the continent to visit Englishmen, especially Englishmen of the sort she saw every day at home.

  Even the meals were the same. Breakfasts of sausages and eggs and tea, when what she wanted were croissants and café au lait. Afternoon tea, when she wanted to sip an apéritif in a café surrounded by artists and writers—which was precisely what Pip and Harry had done, curse them.

  Nonetheless, she behaved herself. She smiled sweetly and thanked Lady Cowley prettily and didn’t scream with frustration. Nor did she snap at Lord Cowley when he chuckled and apologized for boring her when he realized that she had been listening to the conversation he was having with Papa about the best way to handle Louis Napoleon and his dreams of glory. She even managed a sugary simper. Fortunately, Harry came along and drew her away. At least she supposed it was fortunate.

  “It is so infuriating.” She strode across the room, fists clenched, and plopped herself down on a settee. “Why do men assume that women are featherbrained idiots with no interest in anything other than fashion and frivolity?”

  Harry had followed her and sat down beside her, a bit more relaxed. “Um, perhaps because you just simpered at him like a featherbrained idiot?”

  That earned him a glare. “Of course I did. If I had done anything else, he would have been horrified. Poor Papa has to deal with these ignorant, bigoted fools, and I don’t want to make things any more difficult for him than they already are. I do have some common sense, you know.”

  Harry looked dubious.

  “Papa actually finds me quite useful.”

  “Useful? What do you do, charm people into supporting him?”

  “Don’t be silly. That would never work. What I do is ask them to explain something to me, like the public libraries or the coal mine inspection proposals. They naturally explain in a way that makes their view sound like the only sensible one. Then I can tell Papa what they really think even if they have been waffling in public.”

  He stared at her and then burst into laughter. “Why, you conniving little minx!”

  “Oh, stop it.” She started to grin. “I only do that sort of thing when I have to.”

  “When you have to,” he agreed.

  “And I only have to when gentlemen assume that I am a brainless ninny.” The grin faded. “It really isn’t fair, you know. You were able to go off wherever you wanted and do whatever you wanted, and I can’t even go for a walk around London by myself. Here we are in Paris, wonderful, glamorous, exciting Paris, and here I am shut up in the embassy, smiling politely at the same kind of stuffy, pompous Englishmen who used to come to Papa’s political dinners at home.”

  Lady Penworth appeared before Harry could say anything. There was an excited gleam in her eye. “Elinor, Lady Cowley has promised to take us shopping tomorrow. There is an Englishman at Maison Gagelin, a Mr. Worth, who is said to design the most marvelous gowns.”

  Elinor perked up instantly. “Wonderful!”

  “Fashion and frivolity?” Harry murmured.

  Elinor sniffed. “I never said I didn’t like fashion. I love clothes. I just resent it when people assume I can’t possibly be interested in anything else.”

  *

  One of Mr. Worth’s gowns was finished just in time for a visit to the opera—a deep rose taffeta. Elinor loved the slithery rustle it made when she moved and the way the lace ruffles of the sleeves lightly tickled her arms. With some of the new silk flowers twined around the elaborate chignon her maid, Martha, had fashioned in her hair, she felt quite pleased with her appearance.

  She felt even more pleased when she heard Harry’s sharp intake of breath when she entered the hall and saw the look in his eye. He definitely was not thinking of her as a child.

  More pleasure awaited her when they reached the building on the Rue le Peletier that housed the Théatre Impérial de l’Opéra—the official name of the Paris Opera. Although the building had been intended merely as a temporary home for the opera company and was built of wood rather than stone, Elinor decided it was quite decorative enough.

  The ambassador had an excellent box in the first of the four tiers of boxes, providing a good view of other boxes as well as the stage. The gilded pillars and arches, to say nothing of the patrons’ jewels, glittered under the gaslit chandeliers and sconces. A quick glance around told her that although she and Mama might not be the most spectacularly dressed women in the audience, they were probably among the top dozen.

  Elinor allowed Harry to seat her in the front row, sent a dazzling smile in his direction, and prepared to be admired.

  Even after the lights dimmed and the opera began—something by Donizetti or Rossini, she thought, given the elaborate trills the soprano indulged in—Elinor maintained a graceful pose, lifting her fan to her cheek on occasion without ever being so rude as to fidget and distract other patrons. When the lights went up again for the interval, there was an expression of delight on her face, which changed to innocent surprise as a stream of elegant young Frenchmen flowed into the box to ask the Cowleys for an introduction.

  *

  By the time they were ready to leave, Harry thought he was going to go mad. What in God’s name did Norrie think she was playing at, encouraging these clowns? They might call themselves comte or baron or whatever, but they were obviously cads, each and every one. The way that cretin with the curling moustache—he had to be wearing a corset to fit into that wasp-waisted frock coat—had bent over her shoulder, he was obviously trying to peer down her bodice.

  And then there was that pair right beside him discussing her attributes! When he spun around in fury and they realized that he spoke French, the speaker had blanched. “Pardon, monsieur. I intended no disrespect, I assure you.” If the fellow hadn’t been such a namby-pamby, Harry would have challenged him on the spot.

  The minute the final curtain fell, while the applause was still going on, he had wanted to grab hold of Norrie and drag her out of the theater and into the carriage. But no, the ambassador had insisted that they wait until the crowd thinned out so that the ladies wouldn’t be crushed. As they waited, Lady Penworth and Lady Cowley stood to one side chatting while Norrie stood at the front of the box, looking out over the sea of departing Frenchmen, half of them stumbling into each other because they were looking at her instead of wa
tching where they were going.

  With a muttered curse, Harry grabbed Norrie’s hand and pulled her to the side, out of sight of those idiots.

  “Ouch!” She pulled her hand loose and rubbed it.

  “Sorry.” He doubted he sounded sorry. He certainly didn’t feel particularly sorry. He snarled at her. “Don’t you think you’ve put yourself on display sufficiently for one evening?”

  “What on earth are you talking about? I was only watching the audience. The gentlemen are remarkably elegant, aren’t they?”

  “Is that what you call it? They were practically drooling over you at the interval.”

  “Yes.” She beamed at him. “Wasn’t it delightful?”

  “Delightful? They almost came to blows trying to retrieve your program when you dropped it. And the things they were saying. Don’t pretend you didn’t understand. I know how fluent you are in French, for all you were pretending to understand not more than one word in ten and sounding like a schoolgirl at her first lesson.”

  “That was fun. You hear so much more when people think you don’t understand them—you hear all the interesting things.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t understand them. Damnation, Norrie, it wasn’t decent. You ought to be spanked.”

  “Don’t be such a prig, Harry.” She smoothed her glove over her wrist. “They should use me at the peace conference. I could eavesdrop and then tell them what the French are really thinking.”

  Too angry to say anything coherent, he snatched up her cloak and wrapped it around her. At least sandwiched between her parents and the Cowleys, she was cut off from her slavering admirers.

  *