by Cheryl Holt
“May I have a little taste?”
He urged her to try it, and she removed the cork and took a huge gulp. The elixir slid down her throat, and her eyes watered. She coughed and coughed. There was no mystery to the brew. It was laced with alcohol.
No wonder he could tout a calming effect. If she drank too much of it, she’d be passed out on the floor!
“Oh my,” she sputtered. “It’s quite potent.”
“It definitely is.”
“With where I’m going, though, it might be just what I need.”
“Are you off on a journey, chérie?”
“To Scotland—as companion to the two most horrid twins you’ve ever met.”
He commiserated, being very supportive of her complaints, which she appreciated. No one ever listened to her; no one ever sympathized or consoled, and he was so understanding that—before she knew it—she had not one, but two bottles of the Daily Remedy in her reticule.
She held up a vial. “What’s this?”
“Ah . . . it is my biggest seller, my Spinster’s Cure.”
“It cures spinsters? Of what?”
“If you swallow it while staring at the man you hope to marry, you will be wed within the month.”
It was an absurd declaration, and she laughed as he bragged about a successful customer he’d had, an ordinary commoner who had ingested the potion and wound up wed to a viscount.
Though his story was nonsense, it intrigued her against her will, niggling at a feminine part of her character that yearned for love and romance. She wanted there to be magic in the world, and she thought life would be marvelous if she could solve all her problems simply by consuming a peddler’s elixir.
“My Spinster’s Cure,” he boasted, “will aid you in fulfilling your wish to be married. You crave a husband, yes?”
She gaped at him, stunned by his comment. “Of course. How did you know?”
“It is my job to know. You would like to have a home of your own, a cozy cottage in the country, with dogs and cats and three”—he halted and studied her—“no, four children.”
She gaped again. How could he have guessed? She’d dreamed about the family she wanted—so often and in such detail—that she had already picked the names of her four babies: Michael, Marcus, Margaret, and Mary.
Late at night, when she was alone in her bed, she would envision herself with a handsome husband. She’d be puttering about in her own kitchen, her children seated at the table, immersed in their lessons. They’d chatter away, asking her questions, and she’d be so happy, surrounded by people she cherished.
Suddenly, Mr. Dubois didn’t seem so farcical. Nor did his stories seem so false or contrived.
Perhaps he really knew something about amour. Perhaps he really had a tonic that could help. If she bought his Spinster’s Cure, where was the harm?
If it was fake, it would be no great loss. Naught would happen. She’d have a fond memory of Dubois, and she’d chuckle over her gullibility in making a silly purchase.
But if his potion worked, if it actually altered her destiny . . .
She wasn’t prone to fantasy or flights of fancy, but wouldn’t it be splendid if his claims turned out to be true?
“You are absolutely amazing,” she murmured.
“Aren’t I, though?”
“I’ll take two vials.”
“A prudent choice. A double dose can never hurt.”
Chapter 5
“MISS Lambert, the sea air is giving me a chill.”
“You poor dear.”
John was seated at the head of the intimate dining table in Captain Bramwell’s cabin, and he furtively watched the exchange between Miss Lambert and Miranda. He pretended he wasn’t paying attention, but it was impossible not to notice the tension.
Bramwell’s vessel was a merchant ship, so the group surrounding him was a small one, comprised of John’s family and two of Bramwell’s officers. Bramwell himself was on deck, directing them through the busy shipping lanes leading out of the city.
John had grown up sailing in the summers, and it was a diversion he relished. He was an investor in Bramwell’s company, and he traveled with the man whenever he could, seizing any excuse to be out on the water.
While most people would have endured a long, bumpy carriage ride to Scotland, he chose an exhilarating alternative, and he wouldn’t have others spoiling it.
Miss Lambert had informed him of the twins’ intent to harass her. At the time, he’d discounted her complaint, but it was becoming patently clear that her description of the relationship was accurate, which he found problematic.
He hated discord and quarreling, and he planned on a quiet eight weeks in Scotland before he settled in London for the winter. He wouldn’t tolerate any friction among the female members of his party.
“Would you run and fetch my shawl?” Miranda requested of Miss Lambert.
“I’d be happy to,” Miss Lambert said.
It was a task a servant should have completed, and with supper having just been served, it was churlish of Miranda to make Miss Lambert go below. Plus, they had left the calmer currents of the Thames, and the turbulence was increasing as they moved from the protected river and out into the ocean.
Miss Lambert wasn’t accustomed to the pitching of the ship, so it would be difficult for her to manage the ladder down into the hold.
“We’ve just sat down,” John was surprised to hear himself say, “and Miss Lambert hasn’t even picked up her spoon. Perhaps, Miranda, you could wait until she’s finished her meal.”
“I’m cold now, John,” Miranda claimed, even though the room was hot as Hades with eight other bodies crammed into it. “When I’m so uncomfortable, I won’t enjoy my food.”
“You’ll survive,” he curtly retorted.
“I don’t see why Miss Lambert can’t get it,” Melanie chimed in, defending her sister. “She’s a servant, after all. Where’s the harm in having her perform a servant’s chore?”
“Her supper will still be here when she returns,” Miranda added.
They were being extremely discourteous, and John was about to scold them, but Miss Lambert glanced up, her furious gaze cutting into him like a knife.
“I don’t mind getting it,” she insisted. “The air is stuffy in here. I could benefit from the cooler temperature outside.”
She flashed a severe scowl, warning him to be silent. Then, with smiles all around, she pushed back her chair and hurried out.
An awkward moment passed, but John smoothed it over by beginning to eat. The others joined in, muffled table chatter resuming. Concealing his aggravation, John studied his plate, and the twins smirked when they thought he wasn’t looking.
The little beasts! What scheme were they hatching? How would it work to Miss Lambert’s detriment?
Oddly, he was concerned as to the answer. He kept thinking about her more than he should, but he shouldn’t have been thinking about her at all, and he wouldn’t make it a habit.
She was gone for an eternity, and he was wondering if he shouldn’t send someone to check on her, when she strolled in, carrying a blue shawl.
She sat, and as she handed it to Miranda, Melanie whined, “I’m cold, too. Would you get mine for me?”
“I suspected you might want yours,” Miss Lambert replied, “so I brought it as well. That way, I don’t have to go back down right away.”
“Aren’t you considerate?” Melanie cooed, venom in her tone.
“Yes, aren’t I?”
Miss Lambert stared at the twins, her expression notifying them that she was aware of their malicious game and determined to beat them at it.
Brava, Miss Lambert! he mused. She was no shrinking violet, and if the twins meant to trick her with their bullying tactics, they’d have a hard time besting her.
To emphasize the point that they hadn’t really needed the shawls, the twins laid them on their chairs, and John was incensed anew on Miss Lambert’s behalf.
“Melanie,
Miranda,” he snapped, “aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What?” they asked in unison.
“First, you will say thank you to Miss Lambert, then you will cover your shoulders to shield yourselves from the chill that has you both so discomfited.”
They fumed, then muttered an insolent, “Thank you, Miss Lambert.”
Grudgingly, they tugged on the shawls as he’d demanded.
As for Miss Lambert, if he’d been expecting gratitude, he was grossly mistaken. She glowered at him, irked by his intervention, but he’d merely tried to help her deal with the pair. Apparently, she’d rather fight her battles on her own. Fine. She could spend the next two months wallowing in misery. He’d be damned if he’d stick his neck out a second time.
He spun toward Violet and inquired, “Are you enjoying the trip, Violet?”
“It’s been . . . interesting.”
It was a tepid response and not anywhere close to what he’d been hoping to hear.
She’d never sailed before, and he’d been anxious for her to thrive during the voyage. He didn’t know much about her, their courtship having been one of the fussy, stilted ordeals typical of an aristocratic match.
The engagement had been finalized after extensive discussions with lawyers, bankers, and land agents. The process had taken more than a year to complete.
Prior to his proposing, he and Violet been allowed a few brief, highly structured conversations, with her chaperones hanging on their every word. They’d danced at several balls and had sat together at three suppers, but that was the sum total of their betrothal interaction.
The reason he’d had Esther invite Violet to Scotland was so he could become acquainted with her. It didn’t seem as if they had much in common. She was so much younger, and she was very timid. He couldn’t abide nerves or shyness in a female.
He wanted her to love his Scottish castle, to revel in the history of the place as he did. He wanted her to love his horses and dogs, and he absolutely insisted that she love sailing. If she didn’t, he would . . . would . . .
He suffered a moment of panic, terrified that he was planning to wed a stranger, someone who might not value what he valued. The thought of it—of entering an empty marriage devoid of camaraderie—filled him with dread, but as fast as the ridiculous notion swamped him, he shook it away.
He wasn’t like his mother, Barbara, who’d pined for excitement, who’d been ruled by her emotions. His pending union with Violet had naught to do with romance or affection or any such folderol. It was a business arrangement, initiated for the financial benefit of the parties.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
He peered over at her. “The moon is out this evening, so it will be very beautiful on deck.”
“How nice,” she mumbled, looking green around the gills.
“Will you walk with me later?”
She sucked in a deep breath, held it, let it out. Inhaled again. Exhaled.
“I’m not feeling very well,” she said.
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“I don’t think the ocean agrees with me.”
His heart sank. “It can take some getting used to.”
“Would you excuse me?” She stood abruptly. “I must return to my cabin.”
With one hand clutching her stomach and the other covering her mouth, she ran out. He watched her go, struggling not to show any upset.
If she didn’t care for sailing, they’d just have to find other similar hobbies. It wasn’t the end of the world, but as he pondered their lack of common ground, it certainly seemed like it was.
His despondent rumination was interrupted by Miss Lambert rising to her feet. She was the only person sensible enough—or kind enough—to chase after Violet.
“I’ll check on her,” Miss Lambert said to no one in particular.
“Aren’t you feeling sick?” Melanie asked, appearing hopeful.
“It’s your first sea voyage, too,” Miranda stated. “You can’t be faring much better than she.”
“I’m fine.” Miss Lambert threw it out like a challenge. “I’m healthy as a horse.”
She marched out, and the twins exchanged another significant look, as if they were already plotting how to next test Miss Lambert’s patience. He sighed, hating all the drama.
The meal dragged on for two more hours, and he endured it with as much grace as he could muster. To his surprise, after Miss Lambert departed, he lost the energy for socializing. It became a trial, and he observed—bored out of his mind—as the twins flirted with Edward, as Esther quipped and complained.
By the time he was able to slip away to his cabin, he was brimming with annoyance and eager to be alone. Vaguely, he wondered about Violet, but worry over her condition produced scant concern because Miss Lambert was front and center in any musings.
Was Miss Lambert attending Violet? How was she herself weathering the rougher seas?
Miss Lambert . . . Lambert . . . Lambert . . .
She’d infested his head, like a malignant brain disease. Why was he so captivated? Why couldn’t he focus on anything but her?
He paced like a lion in a cage. Though his cabin was second in size to Bramwell’s, it was small and austere, with a bunk, a chair, and chest of drawers. The ceiling was so low that he had to stoop when he entered, and the cramped space was driving him mad.
He opened the door and tiptoed into the hall, excited to climb up on the deck and stand under the starry sky.
As he reached the ladder, Miss Lambert emerged out of the darkness from the other end of the corridor, where she was sharing a cabin with Violet. In an instant, they were very close, a hint of her perfume tickling his male senses.
Moonbeams wafted through the hatch, lightening her blond hair so it seemed silvery white. Her skin glowed with the same shimmering hue, her big blue eyes sparkling like diamonds.
She’d let her hair down, the luxurious locks curling to her waist, and she had to have dressed hastily. The top few buttons of her gown hadn’t been buttoned, and bare toes peeked out from under the hem of her skirt.
“Hello,” he whispered.
“Hello, milord.” She whispered, too.
The encounter was very shocking, very intimate.
“How is Violet?” he remembered to ask.
“Not well. The odor in our cabin is a tad . . . ripe.”
“You sneaked out?”
She frowned, deeming his comment a chastisement.
“Her maid is with her.”
“Then you’re free for a bit.”
“As free as I can be while trapped on board a ship in the middle of the night.”
He chuckled, as he noticed she was holding a vial in her hand. He took it from her, and she released it with reluctance. He lifted it toward the hatch, assessing the contents. It contained what appeared to be red wine.
Was she a drinker? Why hide it? He wasn’t a teetotaler, and he didn’t demand abstinence from others. Wine had been served with supper; she could have had plenty.
“What’s this?” he queried, as she snatched it from him and tucked it into the folds of her skirt.
“It’s a . . . tonic a peddler gave me. To ward off seasickness.”
“You seem unaffected. Have you needed it?”
“No, but I thought I should keep it with me—just in case.”
“How are you enjoying the trip so far?”
“I’m enjoying it immensely. I believe I’m meant for sailing. I wish I could sail off to the ends of the earth and never stop.”
“Ah, a kindred spirit. I often feel the same way.”
He studied her, seeing her in a whole new light. How was it that he’d known, deep in his heart, that she would love to sail? What else might they have in common?
“You’re having some trouble with the twins,” he mentioned.
“Not really. I’ve caught on to their games. They think they can scare me off, but they have no idea who they’re up against.”
“You’re
a pistol, Miss Lambert.”
“I can be—as they’re about to learn.”
“Would you walk on the deck with me?”
“No, I would not.”
“Why?”
“We shouldn’t be seen together. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
It was the sort of remark he normally would have made himself, and if he hadn’t been working so hard to be quiet, he’d have laughed aloud. Imagine it: his servant lecturing him on morals and behavior!
“Everyone is asleep,” he said. “No one will see.”
“Some of the sailors are awake.”
“I don’t care about them,” he bizarrely insisted.
“I do.”
“Coward.”
“I won’t deny it.”
Vividly, he recalled the evening in her bedchamber at Penworth Hall, when he’d improperly entered. His body still tingled at the memory of how he’d pressed himself to her, how her private areas had touched his own.
He loomed in as he had that night and trapped her against the ladder. Their torsos were wedged into the narrow space, and he was agog to discover that—in her haste to flee Violet’s nausea—she hadn’t donned a corset. Her full, round breasts were unencumbered.
He couldn’t recollect ever being in a woman’s presence when her bosom was so blatantly unfettered. The realization nearly brought him to his knees.
To steady himself, he rested a hand on her waist. She inhaled sharply and leaned away, but he wouldn’t let her escape.
She peered up at him, her concern evident.
“Are you afraid of me?” he murmured.
“Yes.”
“Why? I’m harmless.”
“In your dreams maybe—but not in mine.”
He riffled his fingers through her hair, riveted by the soft, lengthy tresses.
“You’re very beautiful.”
“You shouldn’t say that to me.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
He felt as if he’d been inhabited by an alien being that was driving him to attempt conduct he’d never previously considered. He wasn’t the type who harassed his maids, who tumbled his servants or demanded sexual favors, so she’d pricked at a reckless facet of his personality that he hadn’t known he possessed.
