Shipmate: A Royal Regard Prequel Novella

by Mariana Gabrielle

  “Yes?”

  “Lord Pinnester’s tailor provided me with your measurements, so you needn’t stand still for Bronson and his tape until the first fitting.”

  “First?”

  “Husband, I do hope you will allow me to help you make the changes that are needed, and trust I can manage the tasks on your behalf, rather than questioning both my judgment and the demands of your sovereign.”

  He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “Of course. Of course. Do you know, there are some days I wish I had never met the King or the Prince of Wales?”

  Laughing, she answered, “I daresay a great many such days. But you have, and it has been more blessing than curse, and I, for one, am grateful, for the association has provided me an exemplary husband. There, you have rolled a six to my four, so you go first.”

  “You are right,” he grumbled, “I am churlish to complain of God’s blessings.” He took his turn, brooding through the opening moves, but brightening as the game grew more spirited. It had not taken long for Bella to become a good challenge.

  When they were well into the middle game, he observed, “You have been aboard ship four weeks today.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Bella murmured, bumping two of his tiles out of the game. During the daytime, Bella could display no timidity with the men on the crew, showing a firm, competent face at all times, acting as the compassionate arm of a triumvirate formed with her husband and Captain Johnson. When alone with her husband, however, her shy nature was often still in evidence, most especially when he exhibited a poor temper.

  He took up the dice and smiled when she looked at him through her lashes.

  “If you call me ‘my lord’ when we are alone, I will be forced to address you as Isabella.” She wrinkled her nose. “Just so,” he said, nodding and raising a brow.

  “Yes, Myron,” she began again. “It has been four weeks.”

  “Quite a champion you have now in Hawley.”

  Since her attacker had risen from the Prince of Wales’ own bed, he had vowed to act as Bella’s stalwart protector as long as he lived, prepared even to die in her service.

  “He is very sweet.”

  “You are certain he has made no move to—”

  “Husband,” she said, with the air of finality she was rapidly learning. She wondered if perhaps some tones of voice were magically only available to wives. “His flesh was flayed from bone, and he is only just walking. I hardly think my, er, charms—such as they may be—are foremost in his mind.”

  Myron tapped his dice cup on the table. “As you say.”

  He had consented, reluctantly, to allow her as much license as he could stand to make a place for herself on the crew. Since he had set the goal himself, before the unfortunate incident, he could find no real reason to argue. He did, however, find plenty of reason to remain nearby whenever she interacted with the men. He had too much experience of sailors not to.

  Half an hour later, when they had each won one game of the three-of-five they had agreed, he took up her hand before she could arrange the pips. Looking up at him with a furrowed brow, she asked, “Is something amiss?”

  Stroking the back of her hand, his voice dropped in volume, became smoother, almost tender. “You are quite healed of your injuries, are you not?”

  Her mouth fell open until she snapped it shut. She tried to pull her hand away, but he would not let go, only brought the fingertips to his lips and kissed them. She whimpered, heat rising in her face so fast she was afraid her hair might be set aflame.

  When he kept looking at her across the table, quietly stroking her fingers and wrist, she nodded swiftly, turning her eyes away.

  “I do not wish you to be afraid of me.”

  “I am…” She trailed off with, “not.” Gulping, she said, “Not precisely afraid.”

  “The marital act is not… It is… well…” Now he was blushing. “The Bible tells us we are to procreate.”

  Staring at her lap, she agreed, “Yes. And I do wish children. Very much.”

  With a gulp, he forged ahead. “Pleasure… as such… is not the intent… that is to say… I hope no one has filled your ears with…” The suave tone in his voice had been replaced with alternating high and low pitch, gruff to placid and back again. His hand, rather than holding her gently in the same reassuring grip, was very nearly convulsing around her fingers. “I do not believe our Lord intended for… in any case… It should not be so terribly… unpleasant… er… I will take measures to…” He mopped his brow with his handkerchief, “there are… oils and such…”

  Finally, she grasped his fingers and held his hand between both of hers. With courage she didn’t know she possessed, she put her husband—her kind, caring, protective husband—at his ease.

  “We shall find our way in this as we have each day since we were wed. I have never known a man I would so trust with my… my person. I do not believe you will allow me to be hurt, if it is within your power.”

  He puffed out his chest a bit at that. “Quite right. I would never see you hurt, Lady Holsworthy.”

  “Of course not.” She patted his hand. “And I believe now, of all times, you must call me Bella, my lord.” At her wry grin, his shoulders unwound, and his thumb traced the back of her hand. “Might I have a few minutes in my chamber?" she asked. “To… er…” She wanted to swallow her words, but managed to enunciate. “To prepare?”

  He nodded, and she poured him the last cup of tea in the pot before she left the room.

  ***

  Bella woke in the night feeling as though she were sleeping in a furnace. It took a moment to realize she was wrapped in a heavy flannel nightrail, a thick woolen blanket, and her very large husband’s very warm arms, all on a very small bunk. She struggled to free her legs from the twists of fabric without waking him, but to no avail. His arm tucked her closer to his side, and he placed a kiss on the crown of her head.

  “Is everything all right, sweeting?”

  She finally pulled the fabric loose about her ankles and knees again and settled back into his shoulder. “Yes, Myron.” She traced her fingers along his chest, twisting them in his chest hair.

  “You are not… there is no soreness?”

  “A bit. Not enough so I would notice. Will it… always…?”

  He hastened to comfort her, his voice once more the slow, steady rumble she was coming to rely on. “It should not be so painful again.”

  She nodded. That was what Charlotte said. She decided in that moment that everything else her cousin had told her about marital relations had been a well-meaning lie. It was not like the fireworks show at Vauxhall. It was not like the crescendo of a symphony. It was not like sliding into a cool pond on a hot day. This was exactly how Aunt Minerva had described it: “It cannot be counted the most pleasant of activities, but it is not the worst, either.”

  Of all the duties marriage had wrought thus far, this was among the easiest, and she had never seen Myron so relaxed as when they drifted off to sleep to the sound of waves slapping gently against the hull. It was like looking at an entirely different person. Softer. Sweeter. More… loving.

  And it was rather pleasant to be held by him. She had never in her life felt so protected. So cherished. This part, she quite liked.

  She snuggled in closer, placing a delicate kiss on his massive shoulder, and he pulled her tighter against his chest. “Sleep, my dearest,” he whispered against her hair. So she did.

  ***

  Thanks for reading!

  If you enjoyed Bella’s “Happy-for-Now” with Myron, make sure to read her “Happy-Ever-After” in Royal Regard, and look for her continuing story in the ongoing, impromptu storytelling space, the Bluestocking Bookshop on Facebook.

  If you liked Shipmate, please help other readers find it, too. Consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book.

  Acknowledgements

  While it was never my intent to create a Royal Regard ‘world,’ I must acknowledge the many readers who
demanded to know the backstories of the characters in the book, resulting in the prequels. The usual thanks go to Jude Knight and the Bluestocking Belles, who are my stalwart support through every project I complete, and also the Writing Wenches, my ‘tribe.’ My research into ships and seagoing travel during the Regency was both supported and (frequently) corrected by historical consultant, C. A. Sorensen. Additional feedback was provided by early readers, who made so many salient comments about Bella and Myron that the manuscript almost doubled in size, so special thanks for the contributions of: Jacqueline Reiter, Angela Withrow, Andra Jenkin, Scott Amis, Maria Arell, Sonja Fröjdendal, Quenby Olson Eisenacher, Crystal Cox, and Liana Abarca-Smith, who cared enough about the hero and heroine to be grouchy when they felt I had misrepresented their respective natures.

  About Mariana Gabrielle

  Mariana Gabrielle is a pen name for Mari Christie, who is not romantic—at all. Therefore, her starry-eyed alter ego lives vicariously through characters who believe in their own happy-ever-afters. And believe they must, as Mariana loves her heroes and heroines, but truly dotes on her villains, and almost all of her characters’ hearts have been bruised, broken, and scarred long before they reach the pages of her books.

  She is a professional writer, editor, and designer with almost twenty-five years’ experience, and a member of the Bluestocking Belles, the Writing Wenches, and the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers. She has written two Regency romances, Royal Regard and La Déesse Noire: The Black Goddess, and two Royal Regard prequel novellas (with two more yet to come), and a mainstream historical, Blind Tribute, to be released in 2016).

  Author Website & blog: www.MarianaGabrielle.com

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MariChristieAuthor

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/mchristieauthor

  Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/marichristie/

  Other books by Mariana Gabrielle

  La Déesse Noire: The Black Goddess

  (available now)

  Sired by a British peer, born of a paramour to Indian royalty, Kali Matai was destined from birth to enthrall England’s most powerful men. She hadn’t counted on becoming their pawn.

  Royal Regard

  (available now)

  When Bella Holsworthy returns to London after fifteen years roaming the globe, she faces unwelcome attentions from two wicked noblemen, the ton’s spiteful censure, and the bitter realities of a woman alone in England.

  ‘Tis Her Season: A Royal Regard prequel novella

  (available now in the box set, Mistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem)

  Charlotte Amberly gives back a Christmas gift from her intended—the ring—then hares off to London to take husband-hunting into her own hands. Will she let herself be caught?

  A Rose Renamed: A Royal Regard prequel novella

  (coming soon)

  Major John Smythe returns from Waterloo a broken man, determined to stay one step ahead of his former life, but when he meets Rose Allen, the sins of his past must be confronted, for without her, he has no hope for a future.

  To read more about Bella’s life with Myron,

  and to find out how she is blessed with both a Happy-for-Now and a Happy-Ever-After in one lifetime, make sure you pick up Royal Regard!

  When Bella Holsworthy returns to England after fifteen years roaming the globe with her husband, an elderly diplomat, she quickly finds herself in a place more perilous than any in her travels—the Court of King George IV. As the newly elevated Earl and Countess settle into an unfamiliar life in London, this shy, not-so-young lady faces wicked agendas, society’s censure, and the realities of a woman soon to be alone in England.

  Unaccustomed to the ways of the beau monde, she is disarmed and deceived by a dissolute duke and a noble French émigré with a silver tongue. Hindered by the meddling of her dying husband, not to mention the King himself, Bella must decide whether to choose one of her fascinating new suitors or the quiet country life she has searched the world to find.

  Continue on to the first chapter.

  Royal Regard

  Chapter 1

  1820: London, England

  Teeth clenched against the wrong thing she was sure to say, shoulders cramped and stomach churning, Baroness Holsworthy smoothed down the tiers of ruffles on her borrowed dress, tapping her toe out of rhythm to the music. The stays she wore so infrequently, but would never abandon in London, dug into her waist like a fork into flummery.

  Bella tried not to stare into the looking glasses lining the Almack’s ballroom, hoping to appear insouciant, well above silly concerns of wardrobe and hairstyle, ignoring the sight of her lips trembling. However, this only left her to look at the overwhelming crowd of vexatious people, not just their harmless reflections.

  She picked at the poorly fitting, delicate tulle floating around her body, a borrowed dress better suited to her prettier cousin Charlotte at age seventeen than either woman in their thirties. Wriggling her shoulders beneath the almost-adequate alterations Charlotte’s maid had accomplished in the fifteen minutes allotted for the impossible task, Bella thoroughly regretted her spontaneous decision to call on her cousin so late in the day.

  The music had already started for a contredanse, but she paid little attention to the dancers taking their places, distracted by the bright candlelight mirrored in the gilt trim along every wall. She stopped her toe drumming against the parquet floor; given her situation, there was no prospect of dancing, so it made no sense to engage even one foot with the music. Of course, the only other activity to engage in was gossip, from which she would be excluded by virtue of being the primary topic.

  The aristocrats peering at her through quizzing glasses over the bannister of the upper floor set her heart trembling, so she turned the corner of her eye, her peripheral vision next caught by a grouping of at least half a dozen women, just outside her hearing, staring at her as they chattered behind their fans.

  It seemed a fine moment to take in the frescos above the bas-relief mouldings, all pretty enough, but no masterpieces here. The sculpture might as well be plaster pasted onto the cheapest marble veneers, and the paintings could have been commissioned from any student at the Royal Academy. Having seen so many masterworks around the world, she could find nothing to keep her attention from wandering back to the echoes of guests in the wavy pier glass, which had been silvered poorly and was, if she looked closely, somewhat unclean.

  She patted at her chignon, searching out loose tendrils of her stick-straight hair. Surely, it would be falling out of the tight ringlets by now, a style that made her face look a half-stone heavier and had no chance of surviving the heat of the crowds, no matter how chilly the spring evening outside the door. As suspected, loose strands were already sticking to the back of her neck above her nearly bared shoulders, and she grimaced, envisioning the sweaty mess in plain view of anyone behind her.

  She sought her husband in the crush of bodies, mindful of her fluttering hands, but unable to quell them. Craning her neck, her nose wrinkled against too many colognes barely masking the smell of too many people. Her cousin, the Marchioness of Firthley, appeared at her side and snapped her fan across Bella’s arm.

  “You look like you have a palsy, Bella. Stop twitching. They will be along shortly.”

  Between her rigid carriage, the height of her coiffure of black curls, the steep heels of her dancing shoes, and the sleek velvet gown making her appear more slender than her figure allowed, Charlotte seemed to tower above Bella, though she wasn’t more than an inch taller. Less than a year older, the unyielding lines of her proud visage added a decade to her show of superiority.

  Bella reined in her movements, but continued to eye the throng. “I merely—” She crumpled a ruffle near her hip without noticing the fists she had formed.

  “It was the only dress I had that could be altered.”

  Sighing, Bella capitulated, “You carry no blame for my dreadful silhouette.”

  Papa had always called her sturdy. Unfashionably s
quare in form, with rather broad shoulders, her best feature lovely, long legs she had always wished she could use to her advantage. While Empire styles flattered her figure as much as clothing ever did, she had never fit comfortably into Charlotte’s dresses, even with enough corseting to buckle her knees. These scores of ruffles made her look more like an Egyptian column than a woman.

  Smiling more gently, Charlotte patted the pink mark the fan had made on Bella’s forearm, reminding her cousin yet again, “Even after fifteen years, they are the same people they were when you left, and you are now a baroness with a goodly fortune and a husband distinguished in the diplomatic service. You may find you are made a countess before long. Alexander says four-to-one at White’s.” Charlotte’s sharp eyes flashed, and she spoke from the side of her mouth. “Prepare to pretend you are civilized. You’ve been spotted.”

  Reflected in the silvery glass behind Charlotte, Bella’s eyes widened in alarm, and beneath her unfashionably sun-warmed skin, her face paled. Pivoting, she insinuated herself behind Charlotte’s right arm and ducked her head behind the princess sleeve of Charlotte’s much lovelier gown.

  Charlotte stepped away, leaving her no place to hide. “Lady Lannedae and Lady Yarley are coming this way, and I shall have to present you to the hostesses before long, or we will be summoned. It is miraculous I could secure vouchers without an interview.”