by Louise Allen
‘How are you entertaining yourselves?’ he asked, his tone at variance with the messages his eyes were sending. ‘I find I am growing blasé about flying fish and whales.’
‘I still have needlework,’ Averil said. ‘There is all the table linen for my trousseau. The light on deck is so good it makes doing white-work monograms very easy.’
‘I intend to carry on reading,’ Dita said. ‘Novels,’ she added, daring him to comment.
‘Sensation novels?’ Alistair enquired, ignoring her challenging look.
‘Of course. I packed the most lurid novels I could find and I am devouring them shamelessly. I have an ambition to write one and I am reviewing plots to see what has not been covered. Perhaps I shall become an eccentric spinster novelist.’
‘How about a story set on a pirate ship?’ Alistair suggested, his expression so bland she could not tell if he was teasing her or not.
‘Oh, yes, what a wonderful idea, and quite fresh, I think.’ Dita cast round their little group for inspiration. ‘My heroine—who will look just like Miss Heydon—has been carried on board by the villain—a tall, dark, dastardly character with a scar on his cheek—’ Alistair raised one eyebrow, which she ignored ‘—who has chained the hero in the foul bilges.’
‘How is she going to escape his evil intent?’ Averil asked, missing this byplay.
‘The hero escapes, but, single-handed, even he cannot overpower the villain,’ Dita said, improvising wildly. ‘So he must haunt the ship, stepping in only to save her at critical moments.
‘There will be storms, sea monsters, desert islands, the villain’s lascivious attempts upon the fair heroine’s virtue.’
‘Perhaps she flees him and climbs into the rigging?’ Alistair suggested. ‘And he climbs after her and forces her down to the deck before pressing his foul attentions upon her in the cuddy.’
‘It sounds highly improbable,’ Dita said frigidly. ‘Although the foul attentions sound … characteristic.’
‘No, it’s brilliant,’ Callum contradicted. ‘It will make a perfect cliffhanger. She hits him with the soup ladle and escapes to barricade herself in her cabin.’
‘I was thinking of a carving knife,’ Dita said with a tight smile at Alistair, who smiled back in a way that had the hair standing up on the back of her neck. A hunting smile …
‘It sounds wonderful,’ Averil said, breathless with laughter as she dabbed at her eyes with the napkin she was working on. ‘You must write it, Lady Perdita.’
‘In instalments,’ Daniel added. ‘And read one every evening. We will all contribute plot ideas as the story develops and take on roles. The hero is, of course, so perfect that none of us can approach him, but I see myself as the flawed, but ultimately noble first lieutenant of the ship, Trueheart. He loves the heroine from afar, knowing he is unworthy, but will redeem himself by the sacrifice of his life for her in about episode sixty-three.’
‘Very well,’ Dita agreed. ‘I will do it. It will be a three-volume epic, I can see.’
The novel proved to be an absorbing occupation. Averil patiently embroidered the corners of innumerable handkerchiefs and table napkins and Dita wrote while they sat under their awning in the heat.
By the time they crossed the Equator Averil had moved on to pillow cases, the passengers, sustained by turtle soup, began to think hopefully of home and Dita had filled pages of her notebook.
Every afternoon after dinner the passengers retreated to their cabins out of the sun to recruit their strength before supper. Dita found that a difficult routine to settle to, despite having followed it for a year in India. Here, on the ship, she was too restless to lie dozing in her canvas box. And for some reason the restlessness increased the longer she was on board.
She was not afraid of her family’s reaction when she got home, she decided—that was not what was disturbing her. Papa would still be angry with her—that was only to be expected, for he had taken her elopement hard—but Mama and her brothers and sisters would welcome her with open arms. Nor was it apprehension about her reception in society; she was ready to do battle over that.
No, something else was making her feel edgy and restless and faintly apprehensive in a not unpleasant kind of way, and she very much feared it was Alistair. The memory of their lovemaking on Christmas Eve should have served as a constant warning, she told herself. Instead it simply reminded her how much she wanted his kisses and his caresses. And Alistair, maddening man, had not tried to lay a finger on her, so she could not even make herself feel better by spurning him.
Had he turned over a new leaf and decided on celibacy? He was not flirting with anyone else; she knew that because she watched him covertly. Or was he deliberately tantalising her by apparent indifference? If so, he was most certainly succeeding.
Her only outlet had become the novel. The plot became more and more fantastical, the perils of Angelica, the fragile yet spirited heroine, became more extreme, the impossibly noble, handsome and courageous hero suffered countless trials to protect her and the saturnine villain became more sinister, more amorous, and, unfortunately, more exciting.
Three days after they crossed the Equator, with the Cape Verde Islands their next landfall, Dita found herself alone in the canvas shelter on deck. A sailor adjusted the sailcloth to create a shady cave and she settled back on the daybed the ship’s carpenter had made and looked out between the wings of the shelter to the rail and then open, empty sea.
She lay for a while, lulled by the motion of the ship, the blue, unending water, the warmth on her body. Then, insidiously, the warmth became heat and the familiar ache and need and she shifted restlessly and reached for her notebook and pencil.
The roll of the ship sent the little book sliding away and she sat up and scrambled to the end of the daybed to reach for it. ‘Bother the thing!’
A shadow fell over the book as Alistair appeared and stooped to pick it up. ‘Ah, the Adventures of Angelica.’ When she tried to twitch it from his fingers he sat down on the end of the daybed, held it just out of her reach and opened it.
‘Give it back, if you please.’ It was hard to sound dignified when she was curled up with her slippers kicked off, her petticoats rumpled about her calves and no hat on. Dita scrambled back towards the head of the daybed, pulled her skirts down and held out one hand.
‘But I want to read it.’ He flipped to the end and read while Dita pressed her lips together and folded her hands in her lap. She was not going to tussle for it. ‘Now, let’s see. So, Angelica has escaped on to the desert island and Baron Blackstone is pursuing her, so close that she can hear his panting breaths behind her as she flees across the sand towards the scanty shelter of the palm trees. How is she going to escape this time?’
‘The gallant de Blancheville has sawn his way through the latest lot of shackles and is rushing to her rescue,’ Dita said with as much dignity as the ludicrous plot would allow her.
‘I cannot imagine why Blackstone hasn’t thrown him overboard to the sharks,’ Alistair commented. He leaned back, one hand on the far edge of the daybed, his body turned towards her, the picture of elegant indolence. ‘I would have done so about ten chapters back. Think of the saving in shackles.’
‘Villains never do the sensible thing,’ Dita retorted. ‘And if I kill off the hero, that’s the end of the book. With you as captain of this ship the drama would be over on page three; de Blancheville would have walked the plank and poor Angelina would have thrown herself overboard in despair.’
He curled a lip. ‘The man’s prosy and disposable. Have her falling for Blackstone. Think of the fun they could have on a desert island.’
‘I really wouldn’t—Alistair! That is my ankle!’
‘And a very pretty one it is, too. Has your chaperon never told you it is fast to shed your shoes in public?’ He ran his hand over the arch of her foot, then curled his fingers round it and held tight when she jerked it back. ‘Relax.’
‘Relax—with your hand under my skirts?’
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‘Don’t you like this?’ His thumb was stroking the top of the arch of her foot while his fingers brushed tickling caresses underneath. It was disturbingly reminiscent of the way he had caressed her more intimately.
‘I’ll scream.’
‘No, you won’t.’ He slid off the daybed, knelt beside it, bent and lifted her foot. ‘Pretty toes, too.’
‘You can’t see my toes,’ she said in a brisk, matter-of-fact tone, which became a muffled shriek when he began to suck them through her stocking. ‘Stop it! ‘
In answer his hand slid up her leg to her knee, tweaked the garter and began to pull down her stocking.
‘Alistair, stop that this minute… . Oh …’ Her stocking was off, her toes were in his mouth and he was sucking and licking each one with intense concentration. It was wonderful. It was outrageous and she should stop him. But she couldn’t, Dita thought as she flopped back inelegantly on to the pile of bolsters, not without creating the most dreadful scene by struggling.
Why having her toes sucked should be so inflammatory, she could not imagine. And Alistair must enjoy doing it, although she could not see his face, only his dark head bent over her foot as he sucked her big toe fully into his mouth. ‘Aah …’
He released her and went back to stroking her instep and ankle. ‘Tell me the story.’
‘How can I concentrate when you are—?’
‘Do you want me to stop?’ He glanced sideways, his eyes full of wicked mischief.
‘Yes! No … no.’
‘Go on then.’ He closed his lips around her toes again, but did nothing more than nibble.
‘Um …’ She forced herself to concentrate. ‘I think we need a sword fight. De Blancheville has been freed by—oh, that is wonderful, don’t stop … Freed by Tom the cabin boy, who is really the lovely Maria in disguise. She has stowed away to follow Trueheart, whom she loves from afar, and thinks that if de Blancheville removes Angelina then Trueheart will stop wanting her and … ah, oh, please … be Maria’s.’
‘Please?’ He lifted his head again, put down her foot and shifted up the daybed. ‘Please what, Dita?’
‘I don’t know!’ He was sitting on the edge now, his hip against hers. Her voice shook as he leaned in. ‘That was my toes. Toes aren’t—’
‘Erotic? Oh, but they are. Every inch of your body, inside and out, is erotic, Dita. Think what fun we could have finding out about eyebrows, or earlobes or the back of your knees.’ His hand slid up her leg as he leaned closer. ‘And all the places my tongue wants to explore.’
‘After Christmas Eve, I don’t think it is wise,’ she managed to say. Eight years ago his lovemaking had not been so sophisticated. He had been practising, of course.
‘Don’t think.’ His breath was on her lips now; his hand cupped her intimately. She closed her eyes on a shuddering sigh as something, distant, banged.
Alistair moved so fast that he was on his feet, tucking her stocking under her skirts, pulling them down round her feet, before she realised that it was the door of the cuddy banging to.
Dita sat up, pulled her feet under her and fanned her flushed face with both hands. Alistair, apparently engrossed in her notebook, was sitting on one of the chairs at the mouth of the canvas shelter as the approaching voices resolved themselves into the Chattertons and Averil.
‘Oh, here you are, Dita,’ Averil said, peeping into the shelter. ‘What have you been up to?’
‘Plotting,’ Alistair said easily. ‘We have just decided that the novel needs a duel.’
The others clustered round with exclamations of agreement. Dita made an effort. ‘This swashbuckling is all very well, but someone will have to write the duel for me because I have never seen a sword fight.’
‘We will choreograph it on the poop deck tomorrow,’ Callum declared. ‘And you can take notes. I’ve got my foils. Dan?’
His brother groaned. ‘You know I’m useless with a rapier.’
‘I’ll fight you,’ Alistair said. ‘No reason why we can’t do it after breakfast, is there? The chaperons aren’t going to object to a harmless bout of fencing.’
‘I would love to try it,’ Dita said wistfully. Any kind of violent exercise appealed just at the moment. ‘Would you show me, Mr Chatterton?’
‘Of course!’ Callum had loosened up considerably over the course of the voyage. He was not the only one, she thought, fanning herself. ‘No reason why a lady cannot try a few of the moves with perfect propriety.’
‘No.’ Alistair still lounged in his chair, but his voice was definite. ‘I will show you, if you insist.’
‘Lady Perdita asked me,’ Callum stated. The atmosphere became subtly charged.
‘I will fight you for the privilege,’ Alistair said.
Callum narrowed his eyes, his whole body tense, but Averil clapped her hands and laughed. ‘How exciting! Shall we lay wagers? I will venture ten rupees on Lord Lyndon.’
‘And I wager the same on my brother,’ Daniel said. In the sunlight Alistair’s amber eyes glinted like those of a big cat and she shivered.
‘Will no one else back me? Lady Perdita?’
‘Ten rupees on Mr Chatterton,’ she said.
‘Then if I win I will claim a forfeit from you,’ Alistair said.
‘Indeed?’ Dita tried to sound dignified and knew she simply sounded flustered. ‘I am sure you will choose something that is perfectly proper, my lord. If you win, that is. Gentlemen, perhaps you would excuse us? There is something I wish to discuss with Miss Heydon.’
The men took themselves off, Alistair with a sidelong smile. He made as if to slide the notebook into his pocket and then bent and put it on the end of the daybed. ‘What is this? Someone must have dropped it. Is it yours?’
Her blue garter ribbon dangled from the tips of his fingers, the fingers that only moments before had been caressing her intimately.
‘Certainly not.’
‘Oh well, I had better keep it, then.’ He put it in his pocket and strolled off while Dita seethed.
‘That was a garter,’ Averil whispered.
‘I know. Mine. I have taken my shoes off, and a stocking. Very fast, I know, but it is so hot.’ She retrieved her stocking from under her skirts and pulled it on. Perhaps Averil would assume her raised colour was due to the embarrassment of being almost caught shedding clothing.
‘What was that about?’ Averil asked, sitting down on the end of the daybed. ‘One could cut the atmosphere with a knife, all of a sudden.’
‘I expect the men are getting bored.’
‘It wasn’t that, I don’t think. Lord Lyndon sounded as though he was challenging Mr Chatterton to a duel; his eyes positively made me shiver. I do wish you would not tease him so, Dita.’
‘I do not tease him. I am going out of my way not to do so, but he is being extremely provoking.’
‘May I ask? Have you and Callum Chatterton an under standing?’
‘No!’ Dita laughed. ‘Of course not.’
‘Why of course?’ Averil put her feet up and curled her arms around her legs. With her chin resting on her knees she looked like a curious cat. ‘He is intelligent and obviously destined for preferment. His brother is an earl, he is charming and good looking and he doesn’t flirt like his brother. You like him, don’t you?’
‘Of course. I would be foolish not to. But I couldn’t possibly marry him.’ It occurred to her as she said it that she had looked at Callum, back in Calcutta, with interest. And close contact had only heightened her regard for him. So why couldn’t she contemplate him as a husband?
‘You would be a very good match for him and could only help his career.’
‘You forget my reputation,’ Dita pointed out.
‘If you were the daughter of Mr Blank, with a dowry of five hundred pounds and freckles, then possibly that would be fatal. If he thought the worse of you for it, then he would not be so friendly, and if he had less honourable intentions, surely you have become aware of that by now?’
‘
True. But I do not love him.’
Averil was silent for just long enough for Dita to realise how tactless that was. They both spoke at once. ‘I am sorry, I did not mean—’
‘I am sure I will be very happy with Lord Bradon,’ Averil said with stiff dignity.
‘Of course you will,’ Dita said. ‘You are marrying with a strong sense of duty to your family and he is a most suitable choice and you have the type of character that will create happiness. I do not have a duty to wed and I do not have your amiable nature.’
Averil bit her lip. ‘Is it Lord Lyndon? You and he seem to have so much in common.’
‘Our only common ground is shared memories, and our only compatibility appears to be in the bedchamber,’ Dita said, goaded. And not just the bedchamber. Here, in the open air, at the dinner table when he only had to look at her from under sensually drooping lids for her to ache with desire. Anywhere, it seemed.
Averil blushed and investigated the lace at her hem intently. After a moment she said, ‘That is not enough, is it?’
‘No, it is not.’ Dita began to gather up her pencils. ‘Alistair is not jealous, he is just territorial and I seem to have become part of that territory.’
‘Oh dear,’ Averil sighed. ‘And I do love a romantic ending.’
‘Never mind.’ Dita conjured up a smile from somewhere. ‘When you are married you can find me just the man.’ If he exists, she thought as Averil, cheered by that idea, smiled.
Chapter Eleven
Alistair took one of the foils from Daniel Chatterton and tested the button on the point. It seemed secure and he brought the blade down through the air with a swish, pleased the weapon was light and well balanced in his hand. They were an expensive pair: Callum must take his fencing seriously.
Word of the bout had spread and most of the passengers were on deck to watch. One young lady had even brought her sketchbook and Dita was perched on a stool, notebook and pencil in hand, her face in shadow under a broad-brimmed hat.
