“I can’t read,” she confessed stiffly.
Amy next offered Edmund a cutting glance as if she was vexed that he had made such a fuss about her illiteracy. He glowered back at her, slighted. He had only wanted to spare her any embarrassment. He folded his arms across his chest and vowed to sit quietly in the plush chair beside the window, and refrain from uttering another word.
“Oh…well…we’ll teach you letters some other time.” Quincy opened the book. “I’ll just read the passages to you now and we can practice the mannerisms and movements.”
Amy looked back at him and nodded, smiling slightly. “I’m good at memorization.”
“Splendid!” He flipped through the pages. “Let’s begin with conversation. The book is divided between the sexes, for there are different tenets for men and women. Ladies ‘must exhibit sensibility and tact. Be sure to inquire about your partner’s interests, for one always loves to comment about one’s affairs.’ Now”—he closed the book—“we’re seated together at supper. How will you begin the conversation?”
Amy straightened her spine and folded her hands in her lap. “I…” She slumped her shoulders in defeat. “I don’t know.”
“Well, what do you know about me?”
“You’re a sailor and a gentleman.”
He chuckled. “I’m not so sure about the latter.”
She made a wry face.
“Let’s keep to the topic of sailing, shall we? How will you exhibit tact and sensibility, while inquiring about my interests?”
She sighed and primped herself for another attempt at polite conversation. “Good evening, Mr. Hawkins.”
“Good evening, Miss…” He frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t know your last name.”
Edmund mulled that over, too, concluding he wasn’t familiar with her surname, either. There was still so much he didn’t know about the lovely Amy. He found it surprising that he was eager to learn more about her, for he wasn’t the sort to fret about details…especially when he was already privy to the woman’s most salacious secret.
“It’s Peel,” she whispered, as if Quincy had made a genuine social blunder.
Quincy grinned. “Good evening, Miss Peel.”
“I understand you are just arrived from a long tour at sea?”
“That’s right, Miss Peel. I’ve spent the last six months off the coast of Africa.”
“Africa, really? Have you ever been to Madagascar?”
Edmund suspected Amy had suddenly overlooked her lessons in favor of a more earnest, even sensational interest in the wicked queen’s sordid past. He observed her arched spine as she leaned more closely toward Quincy, seeking answers.
“I’ve been there once,” he admitted.
“What was it like?”
The couple prattled on for a few more minutes before Quincy grinned, bringing the conversation to an end.
“Well done, Amy,” he praised. “You maintained the conversation in a pleasant manner and demonstrated true intelligence with your questions.”
She beamed—and it squelched Edmund’s heart to know Quincy had made her feel proud of herself, and he had not.
“I don’t see what any of this has to do with being a lady’s maid or companion,” Edmund groused, breaking his vow of silence. “Amy needs to know how to look after her future mistress, is all.”
“A woman expects her companion to be a proper young lady.” Quincy eyed his brother in a critical manner. “Amy needs to meet her employer’s expectations or she won’t make much headway in the field.”
Edmund quieted at that sound reasoning, however much it irked him.
Amy, meanwhile, narrowed her scintillating green eyes on him again, clearly cross, before she looked away. “I appreciate your help, Quincy.”
“Not a’tall.” He smiled. “Someone should get some use out of this book.”
“At least you’re willing to offer me assistance,” she said to the scamp, though she looked pointedly at Edmund once more.
“Don’t mind Eddie.” He chuckled. “He was born with a frown. It’s like pulling teeth to get him to say a few meaningful words.”
“What do you mean?” Amy appeared confused, her eyes still fixed firmly on Edmund. “He talked too much when he stayed with me.”
“He did?” Quincy looked at his brother. “You did?”
“Piss off,” returned Edmund.
Amy gasped.
“I was talking to Quincy,” he snapped.
“Lesson number two.” Quincy lifted two fingers in the air. “A lady doesn’t curse, nor does she keep company with men who do.”
Amy humphed in compliance, and returned her attention to Quincy and their slowly developing lessons.
After another half hour of mock conversation, Quincy shut the book. “Let’s learn about something more fun…like ballroom etiquette. Do you dance, Miss Peel?”
The provocative images stormed Edmund’s brain: a firm, supple body spinning across the stage, hips rolling, silky fabrics swooshing, gold coins softly clashing as the veiled figure gyrated and twirled in erotic splendor.
Edmund eyed the lovely Amy from across the sitting room, the blood in his veins pounding. He observed the woman’s deep flush, sensed her warming flesh. She was seated with poise, yet a wild, exotic creature dwelled secretly within her heart…and he ached deep in his bones to lock limbs and dance with the beautiful, sensual Zarsitti.
“Aye, she dances,” said Edmund in a quiet yet assured voice, still staring at Amy.
She glanced at him with fire in her eyes. “I don’t know the most current, fashionable steps, though.”
Swishing her round hips and undulating her tight belly was rather scandalous, he reflected with growing carnal hunger. It was a private dance: one reserved for a lover.
“Like the waltz?” wondered Quincy.
“Yes, that’s right,” she said in a rushed manner, twisting her fingers together in her lap as if she might tamp down her dark secret, send it into oblivion. But only Edmund was privy to her true nature as a dancer. His brothers assumed her a barmaid from the club.
Quincy placed the book aside and bounded to his feet. “Well, I’ll teach you that.”
“No,” barked Edmund, drawing the couple’s prompt attention. He wasn’t about to let his flirtatious brother touch Amy in an intimate manner. He’d break all of Quincy’s fingers first.
He said with less bite: “I’ll teach her the waltz.”
Quincy shrugged and returned to the chair. “She still needs to practice good manners in public.” He snapped his fingers. “I know! We can take her to the fete at Chiswick on Friday.”
Edmund cocked a brow. “We?”
“You’ll need a chaperone,” he said with a boyish smile.
“I don’t think you qualify as the chaperone,” Edmund remarked in a dry tone.
“Fine. I’ll ask Belle—no, she’s too busy with the children.” He stroked his chin. “How about James and Sophia?”
Amy visibly shuddered at the mention of his brother James; the notorious captain often elicited that sort of response from women.
“I’ll pen Sophia a note right now.” Quincy was back on his feet and heading for the door. “I know she’ll consent to their being chaperones.”
“James will be here later today,” said Edmund. “He’s coming to ‘visit’ with me, remember? Why don’t you just ask him about the fete when he arrives?”
The scamp flicked his fingers in a dismissive gesture. “If I ask James, he’ll say no. However, Sophia will be much more agreeable.” He winked. “She likes me, after all. Oh, and I’ll inquire about a new wardrobe for Miss Peel. She needs to look the part of a lady, too.”
Quincy departed from the room, leaving Edmund alone with a scowling Amy in the spacious chamber.
“Ignore Quincy’s last remark,” he said. “He didn’t mean to insult you. He’s too forthright at times.”
He watched her in silence for a short time. Perhaps it was a long time. He’d neglected
to observe the mantel clock or listen to its chiming bells. There was one thing he had not neglected, however: feeling the sensual pull Amy had over his senses.
“Alone at last, Miss Peel.”
She ignored him as he slowly crossed the room and settled into Quincy’s former seat. He picked up The Book of Etiquette and randomly turned the pages. “I wonder what the book says about a young, unmarried lady sitting alone in a room with a scoundrel?”
She eyed him sidelong with the characteristic glare that so often amused him, even aroused him.
“I thought you said no scoundrels lived in the house.”
He smiled at her.
She said stiffly, “I’m not to talk with gentlemen who curse.”
“And if I promise not to behave like a gentleman?”
She pinched her lips together, but she also took in a deep, audible breath through her nose. The slight blush that stained her cheeks was endearing…and ever so alluring. The impulse to whisper hot words into her delicate ear, and make her blush even more, gripped him with a savage hold. He had to curl his fingers more tightly around the book just to keep his wits in place and his hands away from her sweet skin.
The silence stretched between them. At length, she snapped, “Aren’t you going to teach me how to dance?”
“Do you really need lessons, Zarsitti?” She made a moue as he put the book aside and lifted from the chair, extending his hand. “Shall we dance?”
Amy firmed her lips again and accepted his offered hand, her warm fingers slipping across his palm. He grasped her hand with vigor, muscles stiffening, and he sensed the strong shiver that rippled through her extremities as he escorted her to the center of the room.
He released her hand and pressed the front length of his body against her. She was wearing a simple white day dress with thin bronze lines running all the way down her frame, making her figure look even more elongated. He glanced at her slippered toes, then studiously admired her lanky limbs and well-formed hips before he lighted upon her piercing green eyes. Heartbeats boomed deep in his breast as she pegged him with such might, such vim. She stirred the gloom in his belly until it swirled away.
He circled her waist and cupped her other palm, the blood in his veins slowly heating at their close proximity. It was so right to hold her, he thought with zeal. It was so bloody right to keep her in his arms…tight in his arms.
“Should we be standing so close together?” she demanded, flustered.
It wasn’t proper, no. However, he wasn’t thinking about being proper right then. He was thinking about Amy’s lush body secured in his arms, her artful, supple body.
“Place your hand on my shoulder,” he instructed gruffly.
She obeyed the direction, licking her bottom lip. He shuddered at the teasing gesture. She hadn’t meant to be a flirt; he sensed that intrinsically. But she’d captured his imagination nonetheless.
He was half a head taller than she, so he inhaled the rich scent of her gold locks, twisted and pinned in a loose chignon. He matched her rapid breathing, her quick pulse.
“Now follow my lead.”
He stepped to the right. He next took a step back before sliding his left foot to the left side of the room. Taking a step forward, he completed the quadrangle.
Amy eyed his movements with obvious scrutiny, and quickly learned the four basic steps. “Do we move in a square like this forever?”
“No, we can dance across the room, too, keeping the same rhythm and steps. I just wanted you to become accustomed to the movements first.”
“I think I’ve memorized them,” she said tartly, clearly underwhelmed by the simplicity of the waltz, which paled in comparison to the lavish dances she was wont to memorize and perform, he surmised.
“I like watching you dance,” he remarked in a soft voice as he whisked her across the wide room, avoiding the furnishings, keeping her secured in his embrace.
She loosened her grip on his hand as soon as he’d made the intimate confession, but he held her fast despite the resistance. He wasn’t ready to let her go just yet.
“You keep a pet snake in the house, do you?”
The flutter in her voice betrayed her unsettled disposition. He smiled inwardly, knowing he’d struck a powerful chord within her, so much so that she prattled about more mundane topics in order to keep from thinking about his touch, his presence.
“Aye, a Jamaican yellow boa. She belonged to my brother James. But his wife wouldn’t permit the snake inside their house after the wedding.”
Amy snorted. “I understand her sentiments. And why is the snake named after the woman?”
“Spite.” Edmund shrugged. “James and Sophia have a long history. She abandoned him once, and he was furious. He found the snake in Jamaica, where he and Sophia—the real Sophia—had first met, and so he named the serpent after her.”
Amy twisted her lips into a grimace, clearly not appreciating the dark humor in the situation. “Have you been to the Caribbean?”
“I’ve sailed most of the world.” He danced with her with such gusto, he bumped his leg against a side table. The brief spurt of pain had him wondering curtly, “Are you practicing being a lady with me?”
Were all the questions about his family, his past, idle chitchat to pass the time and practice her mannerisms? Did she really care to know anything about him or his life?
“Well, that’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” she said suspiciously. “It is why you’ve brought me to St. James? To become a lady?”
He was quiet at that, staring at her intently, even irritably. He had brought her to St. James to protect her and see her settled in a new profession, aye. However, he had thought to know her better, too…to seduce her.
Well, kiss her, in truth. He wouldn’t tarnish her chances at a respectable profession with a scandalous affair. But he had yet to get past her deft right hook. And now that his memory had returned, he realized he hadn’t the delight of knowing the taste of her sweet lips. He intended to correct that injustice before they parted ways.
The woman’s eyes narrowed on him in turn, prompting a response from him.
“Yes, of course, that’s why I brought you here, Miss Peel.”
She glared at him, dubious. “I don’t understand you, Mr. Hawkins.”
He frowned. Mr. Hawkins, was he? That didn’t suit the intimate, passionate nature of his desire for the lass. “How so?”
“Quincy insists you never say a word, yet I know that isn’t true.” She looked deep into his eyes with scrutiny. “Why are you so reserved now that you’re at home?”
“Would you prefer to see me unreserved?”
She gritted, “I’m curious, is all.”
He shrugged again. “I’ve nothing much to say when I’m at home.”
What was there to say when he was with his brothers? Quincy was too outspoken, enough for the both of them, and James and William preferred to rule the roost. The two eldest siblings brooked no argument that they were in charge of all their lives. Edmund found no reason to contest their tyranny, and so refrained from speaking at home unless there was something particularly worthwhile to impart.
Amy scowled at his unforthcoming answer, he supposed. She looked over his shoulder as they danced and spotted something that clearly captured her interest.
“Is that your late father’s ship?” she said, and nudged her chin forward, gesturing toward the model schooner on the long side table.
“Aye, the Bonny Meg.”
A pirate ship.
Edmund wondered with wolfish delight what the diffident Miss Peel would think to know she was residing with a band of former pirates: the most infamous pirates to ever ravage the high seas.
He smiled at the scandalous thought.
“What is so amusing?” she demanded, words clipped.
“You have your secrets,” he said in a coy manner, “and I have mine.”
It was their father, Drake Hawkins, who had first pirated, and then, after a bout with an incurable
illness, he had transferred command of the Bonny Meg to James. All four brothers had served aboard the schooner as buccaneers. Even their sister, Mirabelle, had at one time joined the crew—as a stowaway! But after she had married the Duke of Wembury, it was too dangerous for them to maintain their wicked pursuits. If word ever spread that the duchess was related to pirates, her reputation would be ruined, and they all loved her far too much to ever let that fate befall her. And so they’d “retired” from piracy, though not from the sea.
“What secrets?” Amy demanded, but at his prolonged silence, she huffed. “I think I’ve memorized the waltz.”
Edmund trimmed their twirling steps to a slower tempo before he brought their warm, slightly sweating bodies to a halt in the center of the room.
She quickly parted from him. “I think I’ll retire to my room and unpack the rest of my belongings.”
He and Quincy had retrieved the remainder of her furnishings from St. Giles that morning, and had placed the articles in James’s former bedchamber.
The lass skirted off, flustered, hips swinging in a very pleasant manner. He watched her with keen interest as she departed from the room.
She wasn’t very unlike him, he thought, for they both had to conceal their secret lives in order to fit into high society.
Chapter 9
It was breathtaking.
Amy’s eyes glazed over the wondrous assortment of brilliant flowers, shrubs, tart fruit trees, and vegetable gardens: thirty-three acres of carefully cultivated land, leased from the Duke of Devonshire. Tents exhibited the finest fruits imported from around the world, hothouses protected the most delicate blooms that had traveled from various foreign climates.
It was the Horticultural Society’s first-ever fete. The duke had even opened his own private gardens to the inquisitive public, who numbered in the thousands. Refreshment stands suffered under the demand for sweet juices as a series of army bands entertained the strolling guests.
It was dusk, the gardens brimming with candles in little glass orbs hanging from trees. Amy had walked the grounds all day, yet she wasn’t fatigued. She was amazed. She wanted to take in every lovely spectacle. She wasn’t accustomed to such natural splendor. She was accustomed to soiled streets and noisy thorough-fares and putrid stenches. The estate, so vivid, captured her imagination in such a profound manner, she’d neglected the real reason she was there: to practice the art of being a proper lady.
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