His Secret Heroine

by Delle Jacobs

  Chloe blinked as her aunt's whispering voice startled her out of her reverie. She set the folded ivory fan in her lap.

  They were late. And she was thoroughly aware the tide waited for no man, or for that matter, no lady whose decrepit coach had slipped a cotter pin of major importance just before dawn as they were about to set out. If he left without them, her golden opportunity would be gone.

  "It is not at all the thing to be all atwitter."

  She wanted to protest that she was not at all atwitter, but looked to the coach window to see her fingers once again dancing a veritable polka against the black enamel sill. She laid both hands in her lap, willing them with all her mind to be still.

  As at last they turned toward the little quay at Tilbury, Chloe searched through the tall, barren masts. Her heart tripped along with the steady clopping of horses' hooves past ship after ship.

  The coach halted and she saw the Xanthe at the quay, tricked out in a gypsy's colors, with two unusually slanted back masts of triangular sails, a tall ketch that Sir Reginald said had been re-rigged in some nebulous fashion that she hadn't comprehended. Around it were docked a mass of smaller boats of the sort that ran up and down the Thames all the time.

  Lord Reginald dashed down the battened gangway just as Cargill opened the carriage door. Her breath caught in her throat. She had thought him handsome yesterday, but today he was magnificent. This was his element, this water, wood and wind that made his summer-sky eyes bluer, his broad shoulders broader.

  "Ladies, a pleasure to have you join us." He bowed as if propelled by his natural exuberance.

  "Do forgive our tardiness, Lord Reginald," said Aunt Daphne, accepting his salute to her hand. "We did so fear you had gone off without us."

  Linking arms with both ladies, Lord Reginald led them to the gangway. "But only a word, dear lady, and we would wait an age to have your company."

  Anxious eagerness flashed in his eyes as he left them with other guests, and Chloe felt almost deserted, which she acknowledged was silly of her. She nodded to Lord and Lady Mythe, Lord Castlebury and Lord Bibury.

  As the ship moved out from the dock, Lord Vilheurs hurried up and bowed over her hand, his black eyes sparkling. Chloe tried to smile. The man seemed to be everywhere she went. She could not discourage him-she was too desperate, but her heart was not at risk with him, a point definitely in his favor.

  Yet it was Lord Reginald who had her eye as he talked with the grey-haired captain and studied the sails over their heads before he returned to his guests. Perhaps it was just her excitement at finally glimpsing a solution to her problem.

  Or perhaps not. His presence behind her was as palpable as a brisk breeze. "The river seems very crowded," she said, looking back at him.

  His blue eyes lingered on her a bit too long. Chloe looked down, her pulse hammering. Perhaps she should reconsider Lord Vilheurs, who at least could not make her heart race in such a troublesome way.

  "More now than later," he said. His voice was oddly raspy. "The tide has just turned. Every boat seeks to catch it."

  The Xanthe swung around to catch the current. Her sails dropped and billowed, yet the air seemed to barely stir.

  "A light air day," Lord Reginald said. "We'll not get far. Perhaps later this summer we shall sail down to Margate and back. With a clear sky, one can actually see the coast of France."

  "Are you quite sure it would be safe?" asked Lady Mythe. "With the Blockade and all?"

  "Quite sure, Lady Mythe," he replied. "The French have not seriously threatened our shores since Trafalgar."

  Chloe had been so fixed on Lord Reginald's narration, she had not noticed Lord Vilheurs take her by the arm to subtly coax her in the other direction to where a sailor had laid out a small feast upon a Welsh plaid shawl.

  She did not want to join him, nor to eat. Still, a properly biddable young miss would not object, and above all things, Chloe needed to be that very decorous creature so admired by all eligible men. With a sigh, she sat beside Lord Vilheurs and helped herself to dainty biscuits and a glass of ratafia. Lord Vilheurs leaned close, his dark eyes gleaming. Chloe steeled herself to the discomfort of his hot breath on her neck, but could not stop herself from shifting ever so slightly away from him.

  Lord Reginald leaned against the gunwale, his jaw set grimly as he watched. Demurely, Chloe applied her gaze to the plaid weave of the Welsh shawl, and attempted not to notice that Lord Vilheurs was again leaning closer to her ear than she found comfortable.

  "What an annoying fribble he is," said Lord Vilheurs in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

  Chloe jerked back, astonished. "I beg your pardon?"

  The man's lips formed a narrow smile. "To think, he fancies himself a common sailor. Amusing, do you not think?"

  "Indeed?" Chloe set down her biscuit and picked up her fan.

  Chloe watched his sneer, noticing for the first time the dark hairs that protruded from his nose like a stiff brush.

  "A proper gentleman does not dabble in such common pursuits," said Vilheurs, and again disdain flared his nose.

  "Really." She raised her open fan to her face to hide her irritation. "What do you dabble in, Lord Vilheurs?"

  Lord Vilheurs opened his mouth, then quickly shut it.

  Chloe gritted her teeth. She was not good at all at being demure even though she knew full well no man wanted a bold hoyden for a bride. Yet if she let Lord Vilheurs glue himself to her side, Lord Reginald would form entirely the wrong idea.

  That would not do.

  She stood, a bit too abruptly, and graced the man by her side with the best smile she could summon up.

  "I fear I am neglecting our host," she said, and strolled across the deck, where she scanned over the ripples. To her dismay, Lord Vilheurs hopped up and followed.

  Abruptly, she swept around and fixed a bold gaze directly at Lord Reginald's bright blue eyes in a blatant plea for rescue. In two strides, Lord Reginald reached her, taking her arm. "For shame, Villy," he said, with a grin that was clearly beyond what a proper gentleman might show. "You have monopolized our Miss Englefield from the moment she came aboard. As forward as begging the third dance, don't you think?"

  Vilheurs turned dark eyes on him like swords to run him through, but Lord Reginald chuckled and deftly directed Chloe's attention to a huge square-rigger that dwarfed the Xanthe.

  "The Nahoo," he said, pointing. "Just in from Ceylon. Headed for the East India Docks."

  "How is it you know so much about ships, Lord Reginald?" Her pulse thrummed at the touch of his hand at her arm.

  "I love ships. As a young boy, I wanted to go to sea, before I understood only cits and salts did that."

  She cocked her head at the odd admission, and he hesitated, as he awaited a sneer from her.

  She smiled instead. "But you might have joined the Navy."

  He shook his head. "My older brother sank my chances when he outraged my father by taking his pair of colors in the Guards. But someday I shall sail somewhere, just for the adventure."

  Chloe watched the ever-widening channel as the light breeze caressed her face. What would it be like to sail away with him?

  "Have you ever wished for an adventure, Miss Englefield?"

  She froze. Had he guessed her secrets?

  "It has been done, you know," he said. "Women going to sea in the guise of men."

  She gulped. She should never have looked at him so boldly.

  "Truly," he said. "Though I must confess I am at a loss to comprehend why a woman would leave a comfortable home for the rigors and dangers of the sea."

  She trained her eyes once again along the ripples that were growing choppy as the wind freshened. She knew the answer too well to say aloud, yet something in his intensity made her want to answer. "Perhaps if you asked, she would tell you it had not been all that comfortable."

  "Indeed. Why might that be?"

  "A woman does not have a man's opportunities, Lord Reginald. If her mother were invalid, i
f her father abused her, or perhaps if she had no other way to survive, would she not do what must be done?"

  "Surely it would be less rigorous to become a governess."

  "And if she could not? What if perhaps she had been turned out without a character? If she had to choose between that and other even less savory choices?"

  He stared openly. She held her breath. She'd just doomed herself, to even know of such things, much less speak of them. "I had not thought of that," he answered. "You are an astute young lady, Miss Englefield."

  "There is nothing astute about what every woman knows, sir. A female life can be a precarious one."

  "Many ladies are not aware of the plight of others."

  Her hands gripped the gunwale. She was no sheltered lady, but she dared not let him know that. "More is the pity. But I must wonder how your ladies of the sea managed to keep their secrets. Surely the basic differences would be obvious."

  Lord Reginald's mouth wriggled like a naughty boy with a secret. "A small man can more easily get around in cramped quarters, and many a country woman is as strong as a man."

  She smirked back. "But would not the physical differences be noticed? Could she live among men without— Men are much more open about some things..."

  "There is not a great deal of bathing and changing of clothes at sea, Miss Englefield."

  Chloe's mouth opened, but it could not quite form a word.

  Amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Yes, it would be difficult to conceal. But if you could, would you not like to have such an adventure?"

  Her cheeks flushed. How could he know she had secret longings no civilized woman should have? But she smiled to hide her secret thoughts. "If ever such a glimmer entered my mind, Lord Reginald, I fear you stifled it when you took away the opportunity for bathing and changing one's garments."

  It was Lord Reginald's mouth that hung open this time. He stared at her as if feasting with his eyes on an eternal banquet, and set her heart racing like hounds after the fox. Her eyelids fluttered, and she studied the seams of her tan kid gloves. "But come, you are neglecting your other guests, Lord Reginald. And I should see to my aunt."

  With a shaky smile, she turned away, leaving the chill of the strengthening wind behind. Then abruptly, she pivoted to face him again. "Thank you for the lovely irises."

  Again and again, she caught him staring, blatantly begging a silent question, and she blushed and looked away.

  He was everything she never wanted, a man who scrambled her brain and tangled her heartstrings in hopeless knots. But not even that mattered when it came to saving Madeline and Allison.

  She had to choose. Lord Vilheurs was richer, safer.

  But Lord Reginald was the son of a duke. He had power. And power was what she must have, far more than money.

  Chloe took a long, deep breath. Boldly, she set her gaze to ensnare his. She lifted her fan to touch her lips, obscuring their silent message. But he heard it. And his eyes replied. He would pursue her to the ends of the earth.

  Chapter Three

  Once back at his rooms, Reggie dashed to his desk and within minutes was lost in his writing. All through the night he continued, barely even noticing the chimes from the mantel clock, and regretting that time passed so rapidly when he had so many words that had not yet made it to paper.

  He jerked back to reality when Puckett dashed in, slamming the door behind him. "Sir, your father. He's coming."

  Reggie jumped up from his desk, jerked off the smock, while Puckett scooped up the scattered pages and shoved them into the hidden panel of the desk. Reggie slipped into his coat and tugged on gloves to cover his ink-stained hands.

  The door opened. Hostility flickered like sparks as the duke entered. Reggie gritted his teeth. No one dared suggest to the duke that he behave like any reasonable man and knock before entering. In any event, the Duke of Marmount had never been a reasonable man and would not consider becoming one now.

  "Going somewhere, Reginald?"

  "I meant to, Your Grace." A quick glance at the Cheval glass showed his cravat was lopsided, and he turned to Puckett, who silently tucked his fingers through the creases.

  "It can wait." The duke strode straight to Reggie's desk, picked up the quill, and turned it over in his hand. "Letters?"

  Reggie forced himself to breathe. "Correspondence, sir."

  "Not that damnable poetry again."

  "No, sir. Not in quite some time."

  "Well, there's that. You have been inattentive to your cousin, Reginald."

  Reggie wanted to groan, but stifled it. "Yes, sir."

  "She has complained to me. No doubt you have been playing with that bedamned ship."

  "Boat, sir. A ketch is a boat. Not full-rigged, only two masts—"

  With a wave of his hand, the duke dismissed Reggie's objection. He picked up the half of lemon and sniffed it. "What is this obsession you have with lemons, Reginald?"

  "Freshens the air, sir. And I am fond of the flavor."

  The Duke's nostrils wrinkled. "Reginald, I do not care how much you sail the bedamned boat once you have married. But until then you will pay court to your cousin Portia. Have I not made myself clear about this?"

  "You have, sir," Reggie replied through barred teeth.

  "A married man need not be concerned with his wife's sensibilities. A single man, however— But there is no need for that discussion. We have had it before."

  "Indeed, sir." Numerous times. Reggie also had his father's perfect example on that subject.

  The duke ran a gloved finger over a marquetry table and inspected the imaginary mark it left in dust that wasn't there. His nostrils flared the tiniest bit. "I cannot conceive why you wish to live like this. Featherstone could be yours, and the trust as well."

  It already was, and they both knew it. Reggie's inheritance from his grandfather should have come to him on his twenty-fifth birthday, four months past. But the duke had called upon a technicality in the will, claiming Reggie to be too immature to manage his affairs, and Reggie would be hard put to dislodge the duke's hold over the trustee.

  "It's time you come up to scratch, Reginald. I'll not brook any more delays. Do you understand me?"

  Reggie nodded, knowing that would not satisfy his father, who continued his fixed stare from steel blue eyes, waiting to hear the actual words. Reggie gave in. "I do, sir."

  Just the slightest folding of the man's lips acknowledged the response, but Reggie knew how to read it.

  "You will call upon your cousin and make your addresses. I had not wished to say this, but if you do not, you will receive nothing on quarter day. You do understand me."

  Reggie returned the icy glare with his face carefully schooled. "Yes sir." He had not said he would comply, but knew his father's great conceit equated understanding with obedience.

  His father's visits were something to be endured. Hostility might merely crackle in the air, but the slightest hint of rebellion would bring the duke's wrath descending with the vindictiveness of Olympic gods. Reggie followed his father from room to room, tolerating the criticism which trod the thin line between fact and insult, because he knew the inevitable next step.

  After precisely fifteen minutes, the duke stood at the door. Puckett deposited the rolled rim beaver hat in the duke's hand. Without so much as a curt nod, the duke pivoted, and if Puckett had not had sufficient familiarity with the duke's habits to anticipate him with an open door, the duke would have walked right into it.

  The moment the door closed behind his father, Reggie and Puckett let out deep sighs together.

  "That was a close one, sir," said Puckett.

  Reggie nodded at the obvious. He could manage fifteen minutes, for it was always precisely that, but he could never tolerate living in his father's household again. If he married Portia, it would be all of the same, for Portia would be completely biddable, not to her husband, but to the duke. And Reggie would never write another word.

  Reggie's argument, that he was n
ot his father's heir, and would not ever be, was futile. From the day Robert had slipped away to fight a war rather than deal with his domineering parent, the Duke of Marmount had persuaded himself his heir would die in battle. All the duke's attention had turned on Reggie, rage boiling beneath the rim of the duke's emotional cup, always at the point of spilling over. But in the end, Robert would inherit. It was the only thing the duke could not control. Reggie hadn't cared about that. He had only wanted to please his father. But after more than six years of trying, he had finally accepted that the duke would never be pleased.

  Reggie had nothing to gain, not even his father's elusive love, by marrying his obnoxious cousin. He certainly would not accept the misery of eternal domination for the sake of an inheritance he didn't want and would never receive.

  A shudder shook him all the way down his spine. He had to sell The Adventuress soon. And if he wanted Chloe, he'd have to move fast. Before the duke discovered her.

  * * *

  "Are you quite sure this is what you want, my dear?" asked Aunt Daphne as she descended the stairs with Chloe.

  In the entry below, Chloe heard an unfashionably early caller with Cargill. She touched her aunt's arm. Her spirits dropped quickly as she recognized Lord Vilheurs's oily-smooth voice that fit so well with his nearly black hair and eyes. Chloe set a passable smile on her face, stifled a sigh and descended to the entry as Cargill passed a bouquet of white and red roses to a maid.

  "My dear Miss Englefield," Vilheurs said after addressing her aunt. "So pleasing to see you are well after that dreadful boat ride."

  Chloe blinked, but then recalled Lady Lavington's discomfort. Perhaps he assumed such was the fate of all females. She led the gentleman toward the salon. "I am surprised, Lord Vilheurs. We found it pleasant."

  "Do forgive my early hour, my dear, but my impatience is born of concern. Dare I say, I feared for your health in such a chill wind?"

  Chloe repressed a snicker. "I am not of a fragile nature, sir. Such fresh air cannot be bad for one. Did you not see the pall hanging over town? I should fear that more."