Mrs. Summers returned with two neatly folded sheets. The first, they spread on the floor in front of the basin, then waited while Rafferty positioned a chair on top. The second, she tied to cover him. “So you won’t get wet. It will be easier to cut if the hair is damp,” she explained.
“Good.” He smiled. “From the look of those scissors, I was afraid you intended this to be a burial shroud.”
“Not yet.” She grinned, enjoying the banter. “Just relax, Mr. Rafferty.” She pressed his shoulders down so that he’d slide to the edge of the seat. “Lean back and let me pour water over your hair.”
“Somehow this is not how I envisioned an etiquette lesson.”
“Neither had I.” She tested the temperature of the water. “But we do what we must.”
LORD GOD IN HEAVEN! DID THE WOMAN NOT REALIZE what she was doing?
As she leaned over him to turn on the faucets, the sculpted mound of her breast hovered an inch from his lips. His eyes fixed on the fullness of her, watching the rise of her lacy blouse as it teased and taunted with its close proximity. He clenched his teeth, tempted as he was to catch the froth between them and pull her near. She was so close, he could almost see her lady corset beneath the blouse and the gentle swell above. Lean a little closer, he prayed, imagining his tongue coaxing her rosy nipples into unladylike nubs of arousal.
Suddenly, warm water, comforting as a leisurely bath, flowed over the top of his brow and around the sides of his face. Like a fine Irish whiskey, it warmed and soothed, before her hand, soft and gentle, followed the path of the water. His groin tightened. He firmly gripped the arms of the chair, attempting to cease the decadent thoughts the warmth, the water, and her teasing breast inspired.
“Is the water too cold?” she asked. “I thought you flinched.”
Lord help him, he couldn’t be held accountable for his lips if he unclenched his teeth to speak. Instead, he shook his head, the action liberating droplets of water like some shaggy beast. A few drops found their way to the linen covering her chest, and satisfied with the surroundings, the drops began to spread.
He should close his eyes. A gentleman would close his eyes. His lips curved. Fortunately, he never claimed to be a gentleman. He watched the moisture spread into a small circle of translucence. An obscured view of a blue ribbon threading through lace appeared beneath her blouse. His imagination filled in the rest.
Arianne gathered his dangling locks into a queue. With a firm hand she secured it to the back of his head, then slowly dragged the other hand down its length, presumably pushing the water before it. He closed his eyes, imagining her competent hands wrapped around another length doing much the same thing. Once. Twice. Without thinking, he issued a soft groan.
She stopped. “Am I hurting you? Did I pull too hard?”
Sweet Jesus, how was he to answer that? Beneath the sheet and his clothes, he could feel his cock fighting for similar ministrations.
“It’s all right,” she said, straightening. “I think we’re ready to cut now.”
He carefully pushed himself to a sitting position, letting the sheet hide his arousal. He grimaced, imagining her horror if she knew. As if her soft lady hands would ever touch anything so . . . so . . . much in need.
“You’re awfully quiet, Mr. Rafferty.” She pulled a comb through his wet locks. “Are you afraid of my talent with scissors?”
He rubbed his chin. Arianne’s obvious talent was precisely what he did not wish to discuss. “No. I was just thinking I’m glad I shaved before I came here. Wouldn’t want you taking a straight blade to my neck.”
She laughed and parted his hair down the middle to his forehead. “That’s unlikely. I’ve not—” He jerked upward, catching her by surprise. “What’s wrong?”
“No, you don’t.” He racked his fingers through his wet hair, obliterating the center part. “You can cut my hair, but you won’t turn me into one of your dandies.”
“One of my what?” She frowned down at him, then shook her head. “The symmetrical look with a center part is all the rage in London.”
“If you’ll look out that porthole, you’ll note we’re not in London anymore.”
“I hadn’t realized you were so vain, Mr. Rafferty.” A gleam shone in her eye.
“Not vain, just . . . just . . . I won’t look like one of those,” he grumbled, imagining the guffaws were he to appear at his old haunts all sissified.
“One of those what?” she asked, perplexed.
“A sod, woman.” He could feel his face redden. Next she’d be complaining that he’d used such banal language in the presence of a lady, but what was he to do? She’d forced it out of him.
His hand pushed the wet hair to the right. “Just . . . just part it on the side.”
The comb scraped a new path. He’d just begun to relax when a new horror struck him. “And no side curls. No matter what the fashion in London.”
She laughed again, and his fears abated. “I promise.”
So he relaxed, listening to the snip of the scissors and experiencing the pleasant sensation of her fingers threading through his hair. She moved about him, lifting sections, then snipping off the ends. Every now and then she would stare intently into his face, not really seeing him, but moving her gaze from side to side.
She was so above his station, did she ever really see him? Or had her attention always been of a cursory manner? She had flawless skin, he noted. And clear blue eyes that he knew from experience could shift in a moment from the color of a sun-filled sky to that of a thunderhead rolling swift over the water.
Every time she moved, the faint scent of roses stirred in her wake. She must have an entire floral shop at her disposal. He’d have a hard time seeing a nosegay in another woman’s hand and not thinking of Arianne. Good Lord, was she ruining him for other women? He hoped not, for surely once the Irish Rose reached its destination, she’d be gone, and he’d be on his own.
“Mrs. Summers, can you look at this?” she asked, uncertainty in her voice. “His hair isn’t lying as flat as it should.”
Mrs. Summers crossed to stand behind him. “Oh dear.”
The sympathetic tone of her voice caught his ear. “What?” he exclaimed. “I thought you knew—”
“I’m not a barber, Mr. Rafferty,” Arianne said. “Your hair doesn’t look bad; it’s just not as I envisioned.”
“Where’s a mirror?” He stood, letting the sheet covering him fall to the floor. It wasn’t that he was vain, he assured himself; he just didn’t wish to look like a fool.
“Doesn’t it feel more comfortable?” Arianne edged backward toward a china cabinet, her smile uncertain. Did she just hide a hand mirror behind her back? “Lighter perhaps? I removed a great deal from the back.”
He ran his hands down the back as if they had eyes to see. The hair was indeed shorter, but if his fingers were an indication, disheveled. He pulled a knife from his boot and tilted the flat shaft in an effort to see his reflection. The front wasn’t as bad as he expected.
“You must admit the shorter hair gives you a more dignified appearance,” Arianne said.
“The dignity of a man comes from more than the cut of his hair,” Mrs. Summers intoned.
“But it can be jeopardized if the man resembles a fool.” Rafferty turned his head from side to side, but he still couldn’t see the back.
“Sorry, I was detained,” Eva said, walking into the saloon. “I’m afraid the motion of the boat—” Her eyes widened. “What happened here?”
Her tone confirmed his suspicions.
“I was trying to make him look more respectable,” Arianne said, her voice apologetic. “But I’ve never cut a man’s hair and now . . . well . . . He can’t always wear a hat.”
Eva strolled over and brusquely ruffled her fingers through Rafferty’s hair. He fought to keep his annoyance from his face. “I can fix it,” Eva said. “I’ve fixed worse.”
“Thank you.” Relieved, Arianne hugged her. “You’ve come to our aid aga
in. Thank you so much.”
Eva picked up the scissors and moved them deftly across the back of Rafferty’s head. Eva shaped his hair on a diagonal, and while the end result was shorter than even Arianne intended, it didn’t look bad.
“It’s all a matter of following the shape of one’s head.” Eva stood back to observe her work. “There. Much better. Is there a hand mirror so he can see?”
Arianne shyly produced the one she’d hidden. She should be grateful for Eva’s intervention. And she was . . . but once again she’d fallen short. Lord Henderson had recommended her as an expert, yet none of the lessons she’d prepared for Rafferty seemed to be working the way they should. Perhaps the Baron was right. She wasn’t all she should be.
Rafferty employed the hand mirror and beamed his thanks to Eva while Arianne looked on.
Phineas interrupted. “I was wondering, Lady Arianne, if I might borrow the likes of Rafferty for a moment.”
Rafferty stood. Phineas broke into a wide smile. “Well now, you look like a proper Englishman, and not the devil himself.” He glanced at Arianne. “I do believe you may have created a silk purse from a sow’s ear.”
Rafferty grumbled something, but Arianne didn’t really hear it. Instead she was remembering those same words from Miss Sharpe. You can’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear.
“That would take more than a haircut,” Rafferty grumbled.
“My thoughts exactly,” Arianne said, thinking of the Baron. Perhaps he wasn’t the catch she had imagined.
Ten
THE IRISH ROSE HAD CROSSED INTO DEEP WATER. Arianne knew this, not by the change in the color of the sea or the shift in the taste of the air, though both of these things occurred, but by the increased roll and pitch of the vessel. Walking on deck was difficult, but staying in an enclosed room even more so. The fresh air helped keep one’s stomach settled, but Arianne was troubled by the small explosions of spray that fell like rain on the deck when the bow sliced through a wave with a thud. The salty water splashed on board in its attempt to pull the vessel under, then scampered through the drainage holes with a hiss of failure to return to the sea. She reminded herself of Rafferty’s assurances that the Irish Rose was seaworthy, but the hissing water whispered otherwise.
Eva, as well as several other passengers, stayed in their cabins, victims of mal de mer. However, after two days of such confinement, they ventured forth. Arianne renewed her efforts to teach Eva and Rafferty the proper rules of conduct. They discussed the fourteen different types of forks and the eleven types of spoons. Rafferty left before they covered the knives. She reviewed the responsibilities for maintaining the household, the responsibility and management of the servants, the rules on invitations and seating for dinner parties, and the rules for proper dress for various occasions. Arianne grew tired of hearing herself speak, and she imagined Eva and Rafferty felt much the same.
After dinner each night, the passengers tended to linger about the dining saloon, playing cards, watching Phineas practice his magic tricks, and often indulging in drink. Inevitably the group would erupt in song. One evening, Mr. Skylar brought a fiddle to the saloon and accompanied the boisterous group in their medley. The music inspired Arianne.
“We are going to have a dance,” she announced.
“Dance?” Rafferty shook his head in disbelief. “You wish to stage a dance on the Irish Rose?”
“I love the idea!” Eva leapt up in pantomime of a waltz.
“There’s not enough room,” Rafferty scoffed. “This isn’t the White Star Line.”
“I’m well aware of that,” Arianne murmured irritably, then forced a smile. “I’ve spoken with Mr. Skylar. He volunteered to play some melodies on his violin so that you and Eva might have the opportunity to dance together. You’ll be expected to do as much in Washington.”
“Just Eva and I?” His gaze held such intensity and promise that her mouth dried to the consistency of the calling cards about which she had earlier lectured. She had difficulty framing a reply when Eva came to her rescue.
“Mr. Barings will want to join us, and I’m sure that German couple will want to dance as well. Certainly one of the gentlemen will wish Lady Arianne as a partner.” She twirled by on one of her rotations around the dining saloon.
“Yes. One of the men most certainly will,” Rafferty replied. She noted his omission of “gentle.” “However, I’m afraid I haven’t the proper clothes available for a dance.” His lips lifted in a smirk, a jest.
“As this will be a lesson and not a public soiree, the appropriateness of attire is not as important as it would be otherwise,” Arianne counseled, wondering about his many excuses. “Mr. Rafferty, you do know how to dance, don’t you?”
The smirk faded. “The dancing I’ve done would not be appropriate for your aristocratic parties. Just as the dancing you’ve done would not be appropriate for mine.”
“Then I suppose that’s all the more reason we should practice,” she insisted, choosing to ignore his scowl. “Tonight after dinner we can meet near the stern where there’s sufficient room for several couples.”
Eva ended her dancing demonstration by hugging Rafferty’s neck. She leaned close to his ear. “Tonight, we’ll dance under the stars.”
AS EVA HAD PREDICTED, THE NIGHT SKY GLITTERED with stars that sparkled like cut diamonds flung to the heavens. Kathleen helped Arianne into a walking suit of gray toile that was destined to be altered to suit Miss St. Claire. While it wasn’t the most current of fashions, Arianne always liked the fuller skirt and the bold black trim. As she anticipated watching Eva and Rafferty dance, and not participating herself, she’d chosen a suit for the brisk night air. After witnessing Eva’s earlier display of affection, Arianne wasn’t quite as enthused about this evening’s entertainment as she had been when she first conceived the idea. Eva arrived on the deck with one of Arianne’s altered dinners gowns, a pale green satin and lace. She looked lovely, Arianne thought, and sure to catch Rafferty’s attention.
For his part, Rafferty joined the party looking stunningly handsome in a chesterfield jacket and crisp white shirt. Arianne began to wonder if there ever was an occasion when his appearance didn’t take her breath away. Phineas accompanied him to the deck, but with harmonica in hand, he joined Mr. Skylar on the metal housing that made a makeshift stage.
They began with a waltz. As Arianne had suspected, Rafferty pleaded ignorance of the steps. Once Arianne demonstrated, he led Eva about the stern, managing to trounce on her toes only two or three times. Eva refused to dance with him on the next song, complaining her toes needed to recover. She did, however, accept Mr. Barings’s invitation to waltz. Arianne made a mental note to speak to Eva about the etiquette surrounding the acceptance and refusal of dance invitations.
“Would you honor me with a dance?” Rafferty asked her, hesitantly.
“The honor would be mine,” she replied. She placed her hand lightly on his forearm, feeling the hard muscle there. He slid his hand up and down her side as if searching for just the right spot to hold her. His hand settled at the curve of her waist, but there was nothing settling about the awakening beneath his fingers. A comforting heat spread through her frame in all directions and ignited in the most private of areas. He stroked the inside of her arm from her forearm to her elbow before lifting her hand. Stimulation tingled up her arm even through the barrier afforded by her jacket.
“Shall we?” he said with a lopsided grin. The music began, and he guided her through the steps. He was stiff and uncertain, but he only stepped on her toes once. His concentration centered on the count and not her; still, she enjoyed the sway and swirl of the waltz held in his arms. The music came to an end.
“Again,” Rafferty called to the musicians.
“Are you sure you don’t want to try something else?” Arianne asked. “Perhaps a galop?” She saw Captain Briggs swirl by with Mrs. Summers on his arm. She smiled in amazement, not having actually seen Mrs. Summers dance before. “I believe we have enough t
o try a quadrille.”
“No,” he replied, narrowing his eyes. “I want to master this . . . with you.”
That familiar look of determination, the one she remembered from the reception, settled in his gaze. If Rafferty approached everything with the same intense determination as he did the waltz, she could understand Lord Henderson’s faith in the man.
“Very well,” she said. “Then look at me, not your feet. Don’t count; listen to the flow of the music. When you’re ready . . .” She captured his gaze, hoping to distract him from that intense focus. She succeeded. She saw it in the softening of his jaw. “Then so am I.”
They soared together across the stern of the Irish Rose beneath the approving stars. His initial apprehension faded, replaced by surprise and then desire as they swirled with the violin. When the last note was played, his hungry gaze slipped down to her lips. She thought he might kiss her, there in full view of the passengers. She dismissed the warnings and alarms sounding in her head. She wanted his kiss. She longed for his kiss. She parted her lips.
“Arianne.” Mrs. Summers tapped her arm. “Miss St. Claire would benefit more from Mr. Rafferty’s attention.”
The spell was broken. “Yes,” she said, gazing into Rafferty’s eyes, watching regret replace desire. Or were those her own emotions reflected in his eyes? She stepped back. He hesitated a moment before he released her arm. “I suppose she would,” she said, though not convincingly.
Arianne once again resumed the role of teacher as she watched her students practice the waltz without the passion she’d felt in Rafferty’s arms. She noted that Rafferty kept his gaze on Eva, and she didn’t offer any complaints of sore toes.
“This dance was a delightful idea,” Mrs. Summers observed. “They make a wonderful couple, don’t they?”
Arianne chose to keep her opinions to herself. “I saw you dancing with Captain Briggs,” she said.
“He’s a lovely man,” Mrs. Summers replied, a bit flustered. “He has been explaining to me all about the navigation of the ship and the taking of soundings. He’s really very brilliant.”
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