An Improper Proposal

by Patricia Cabot

  There was the sound of a ladylike slap, followed by an urgent, “Don’t,” from Georgiana. “Ross, I mean it. Put me down. I’m extremely put out with you right now—”

  “Do we have to go back to that damned party now?” Ross wanted to know. “I can think of something I’d like considerably better—”

  Their voices faded into whispers and soft laughter, and then Payton heard the door to their bedroom close. Despite their differences and near-constant bickering, she knew that her brother and sister-in-law really were deeply in love. And she knew with equal conviction that she and Drake could have been equally happy with one another, were it not for two things: the fact that he didn’t seem to be aware of her existence …

  And, of course, Miss Becky Whitby.

  It was well after midnight, but despite the toddy, Payton couldn’t sleep. She could hear the music from the dance below drifting up through the open casement windows, along with the occasional ripple of laughter, and crash of crystal (Hudson and Raleigh’s handiwork, no doubt). She wondered how long it would be before the orchestra packed up and went home. The wedding ceremony was at ten o’clock—less than twelve hours away.

  Less than twelve hours. Connor Drake had less than twelve hours of bachelorhood left.

  And what was she doing? Just lying there. Sulking.

  Well, and what was she supposed to do? Go downstairs and throw herself at him? Even if she didn’t believe he’d got Becky Whitby with child, he was obviously marrying her for some reason. It was undoubtedly a good reason, or he wouldn’t be doing it. Connor Drake wasn’t the sort of man to do anything without considerable deliberation; that’s what made him such a good navigator. Her brothers jokingly accused him of being too methodical, of plodding, even, but he’d never run a ship into a reef, even in areas where reefs lurked beneath the waves as densely as schools of silverfish. So for whatever reason he was marrying Becky Whitby, he knew what he was doing. Payton wouldn‘t—she couldn’t—second-guess him.

  Not like that scary grandmother of his. What was it she’d been spewing on the stairs? That she, Payton, was the only one who could stop him? Lady Bisson obviously didn’t know anything about the baby—if there even was a baby, which Payton refused to believe. If there was a baby, Lady Bisson surely couldn’t blame her grandson for doing the only proper thing. There were men, Payton knew quite well, who’d use a girl and cast her away, regardless of the consequences. Connor Drake wasn’t like that. If he’d gotten Becky Whitby pregnant, then he’d marry her. He wouldn’t try to pay her off, let alone abandon her. He was too much of a gentleman for that.

  That he ought to have been too much of a gentleman to have impregnated her in the first place was the thought that had finally made Payton sit up, climb from her bed, and pad barefoot to the window. She needed, she felt, some fresh air.

  Resting her chin in her hands, she gazed out across the moonlit garden. The scent of honeysuckle was heavy in the air. A vine of it was growing up a trellis just beneath her window. Becky Whitby, she thought to herself, was a lucky girl. She’d get to live in this house, and smell the heavenly scent of honeysuckle every spring. What lucky star, Payton wondered, had Becky been born under, that she got to marry Connor Drake, and live in this house, and smell that honeysuckle every spring?

  And what unlucky star had shone the night Payton was born, making her destined to lose both her only dream and the man she loved in a single night?

  Even worse, she’d lost the dream to the man!

  It wasn’t bloody fair.

  How long Payton would have sat there feeling sorry for herself, she didn’t know. Probably not long. Payton’s spirits were naturally high, and it wasn’t long before she’d begun drumming her fingers along with the dance tune the orchestra had begun to play. True, there was a very good chance that tomorrow she was going to have to watch the man she loved marry someone else. And true, it was beginning to look as if Georgiana was going to get her wish, and Payton would have to endure a full season in London.

  But she couldn’t help thinking that there was an equal possibility her prayers would be answered, and the odious Miss Whitby might die during the night. And if she died, there was a chance that Drake would be too heartbroken to put out to sea again. Payton could very generously offer to take the Constant off his hands. And maybe, in a year or two, when he’d had a chance to get over his grief—

  It was while Payton was engaged in this delightful fantasy that she smelled, mixed in with the sweet scent of honeysuckle, the faint odor of cigar. And not just any cigar, but the kind Drake smoked of an evening, whenever they were wind-becalmed.

  Jerked out of her pleasant dream, Payton grasped the windowsill with both hands and leaned out of it, peering into the blue darkness. It was then that Connor Drake stepped out from behind a pear tree and into the moonlight. He didn’t notice her, of course, but she could see him quite clearly, a tall, broad-shouldered man, his hands in his trouser pockets, a thin wisp of smoke trailing behind him as he paced, his gaze on the clay pathway beneath his feet. He was clearly alone, and lost in his own thoughts—thoughts that didn’t appear to be so very pleasant, if the slump in his shoulders was any indication of their nature.

  But what did he have to be unhappy about? In the past two months, the man had got himself a title, a beautiful bride, and his own command. Payton’s command. While she had … what?

  Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  The injustice of it all hit her like a wet sail in the face. How dare he? How dare he walk around, looking so mournful, when he had everything, everything a man could ever want?

  It was without conscious thought that Payton stood up on the window seat, lifted the hem of her nightgown, and began backing down the trellis.

  It wasn’t such a shocking thing to do, really. The window wasn’t that far from the ground. The mizzenpost, to and from which she climbed on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis, when they were at sea, was much higher—though it had to be admitted that, generally, she didn’t climb it in a nightdress.

  Still, she was well used to going about barefoot, and when she really thought about it, it wasn’t Georgiana at all who deserved the nickname “little monkey.” By rights, it was Payton who deserved it most.

  The trellis was decorative, and had been attached to the house for the purpose of being climbed by plants, not humans. Still, Payton scrambled down it without incident, having to jump the last few feet when a large and thorny-looking rosebush loomed into view. She landed unscathed on the soft clay path, and unnoticed by the revelers beyond the open casement window just beside the rosebush. Straightening her nightdress, which was one of the high-necked, excessively virginal ones Georgiana had purchased for her upon learning with a shock that Payton had been in the habit of wearing exactly nothing to bed, she looked about, and spied Drake wandering, his back to her, toward a small stone fountain some half-dozen yards away.

  He appeared to be deep in thought. Well, and why not? He was probably anticipating his happy, happy life as husband, father, and master of the Constant.

  We’ll just see about that, she said to herself, and strode toward him, her fists clenched.

  In her anger, however, Payton forgot one very important thing. She forgot that Connor Drake was a man who’d been half his life at sea. And most of those years at sea had been spent on waters that were infested with every imaginable kind of piratical vermin. It did not pay to sneak up on a man who was used to keeping midnight watch on a quarterdeck in the South Seas. He would as soon run you through as throw you overboard.

  Payton, thoroughly grounded by her rage, had forgotten all about that. But Drake, lost in his own thoughts, had not. When she reached up to tap him, not very gently, on the shoulder, he spun around fast and, a split second later, had Payton by the throat.

  “Bloody hell, Drake,” she managed to choke. “It’s only me.”

  He released her instantly, at once furious and contrite.

  “Payton.” Even in the moonlight, his gaze was un
naturally bright on her. “What are you doing out here? Are you mad? Is everything all right? Did I hurt you?”

  He certainly had. She felt as if his fingers had left a ring of fire around her neck. Massaging either side of her neck where he’d gripped her, she croaked, thinking she’d only gotten what she deserved for being so foolish, “Damn you. Who did you think I was, anyway? Did you think the Frenchman had snuck onto your grounds and was plotting to assassinate you?”

  “You’re not all right.” He shook his head. “I’ll send for a surgeon.”

  “Surgeon?” she echoed. There. That was a little better. She wondered if she’d ever be able to swallow again. She coughed experimentally. Everything seemed to be in working order. “I don’t need a surgeon.”

  “Georgiana, then. Let me get Georgiana—”

  She glared up at him, really annoyed now. She was certain she was going to be able to swallow again someday. It just might take a while. She’d have to, she realized, wear something with a high collar to the wedding, or his finger marks would show. She was sure they’d left bruises. “What good would waking Georgiana do?” she demanded.

  He stared down at her, seemingly unable to explain his justification for waking her sister-in-law. But Payton had a pretty good idea why he wanted to get Georgiana. He’d read the rage in her eyes. His back was to the moon, and his face was lost in shadow, but she thought she knew what he was thinking. And that was: Oh, no. Not this. Not now.

  He obviously had far more important things to deal with than the enraged little sister of his best friend. Well, too bad. He was going to have to deal with her, and right now.

  “Payton, I’m sorry,” he said.

  She just stared at him, her hands on her hips. “I told you, it doesn’t hurt.”

  “Not about your throat, though I’m sorry about that, too. I meant about the Constant. I know how much you wanted her—”

  “You could,” Payton said stiffly, “have said no.”

  “How, Payton? How could I have said no? They were all sitting there, looking so happy, your father, your brothers—”

  “I wasn’t looking happy, was I?”

  “I was planning on telling them tomorrow,” he said. “After the ceremony. I’ll tell them I don’t want it then, when there’s no one about.”

  This surprised her, genuinely surprised her. Moved, she decided she might not have to hit him, after all. She realized she could no longer smell the honeysuckle. Instead, all of her senses were filled with him: the lingering scent of the cigar he’d thrown away as soon as he’d realized who she was; the way his rough fingers seemed to have burned her skin; the breadth of him encompassing her complete field of vision, so that unless she turned her head, she could see nothing but him. Behind him, the fountain burbled. When the wind blew gently, some of the spray struck her face.

  “And will you tell them,” she asked politely, “to give it to me, instead?”

  She thought he smiled. “No. You’re on your own there, Payton.”

  Her jaw dropped. She couldn’t believe her ears. “Why?” she demanded. “If you’re so willing to give her up, why won’t you tell them to give her to me?”

  “Because I happen to agree with them. You haven’t any business commanding a sailing ship.”

  This hurt far more than his fingers, wrapped around her throat, had. “What do you mean? Drake, you know I could do it—”

  “I haven’t any doubt you could do it. What I doubt, and very highly, I might add, is that any crew would ever give you the chance. Payton, you’re a young girl—”

  “I’m almost nineteen, for pity’s sake!”

  His voice was hard, but filled with amusement, just the same. “Like I said. Do you really believe men—and I mean men like your brothers, Payton, men like me—are going to obey the orders of a nineteen-year-old girl?”

  “If she’s the one handing out their pay, then the answer is yes.”

  “Payton.” He shook his head, chuckling a little. “You startled me nearly to death, you know, sneaking up on me like that. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  She couldn’t believe he was laughing. “Don’t try to change the subject,” she snarled. “This may be a great joke to you, Drake, but to me, it’s my life. If I don’t get my own ship, I’m going to have to marry a duke.”

  This stopped the chuckling at once. “Which duke?” he wanted to know.

  Payton, taken aback by his sudden vehemence, blinked a few times. “No duke in particular. Not yet. Georgiana just said I was going to have to marry a duke or a viscount or someone. She said I can’t marry Matthew Hayford—”

  “Do you want to marry Matthew Hayford?”

  Again, he spoke with some urgency. Lord, what was his problem? He’d gone positively dense since she’d spoken to him last.

  “No,” Payton explained patiently. “Of course not. I’m just saying that even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. I haven’t any say over my own destiny. But Drake, listen, I have an idea.” She did, too … a far better idea than her original one, of hitting him. Her sister-in-law had recently impressed upon her the somewhat radical idea that a woman could get her way more easily with fawning than with fists. She thought she’d give the theory a try. “Instead of handing the Constant back to my brothers,” she suggested sweetly, “you could just sign her over to me.”

  Now it was his turn to shake his head. “Payton, I already told you, I agree with your brothers—”

  “Oh!” She whirled away from him, her disappointment an almost physical pain. Georgiana was wrong. She ought to have hit him, when she’d had the chance.

  Drake’s deep voice cut through her indignation. “Payton, is that a nightdress you’re wearing?”

  She threw him an aggravated look over one shoulder. “Yes. What of it?”

  “Did you come down the stairs dressed in just that?”

  “What do you think I am, stupid? I didn’t come down the stairs at all. I climbed out the window, of course.”

  Drake sat down with surprising heaviness on the side of the fountain. “Payton,” he said, with what struck her as infinite weariness. “You’ll kill yourself someday.”

  She suddenly felt a little tired herself. It was hard going, this constant fighting. It wore at her a little. She joined him on the side of the fountain, feeling the marble smooth and cool—and a little damp—against her buttocks, through the thin lawn of her gown.

  “I rather doubt it,” she said, referring to his earlier statement. “I’m a very good climber. You might recall all those coconuts I managed to knock down, that time we were all wrecked on Inagua.”

  She saw him nod in the moonlight. “Of course,” he said tonelessly. “How could I have forgotten?”

  Payton squinted at him. This was not the Drake she knew. He seemed older, somehow. Drake had always been old—a decade her senior—but he had never seemed old … at least, not this old. And while he had never joked and laughed quite as raucously as Payton’s brothers, he had never before seemed sad to her. He did now.

  What did he have to be sad about? Nothing. She was then one whose life had gone so off course.

  “Well,” she said. She noticed that one of his hands—his left one—lay on the marble between them. It was a large hand—hers could easily have disappeared into it—covered with skin hardened and browned from years of hauling rigging. There were, by her estimate, about eight inches of marble between her and that hand. Eight inches of marble, and the odious Miss Whitby, of course. She traced a circle through the light mist that coated those eight inches.

  “What is it, Payton?” His voice was gentle. When she looked up, surprised, he smiled. “I know you. There’s something else, isn’t there?”

  The question caught her off guard. Of course he would ask it. Of course he had to be wondering. While shipboard, it would never have come up—she’d often kept him company when he’d pulled midwatch, and he’d never once asked her whether there was something she wanted. But they weren’t at sea now. They were in E
ngland. Civilized, boring England, where young ladies didn’t sit up with gentlemen after midnight—or anytime, really, unchaperoned. Not if Georgiana had anything to say about it, anyway.

  So what did she want from him? She had asked for the Constant. He had said no. So why didn’t she go inside? It was damned uncomfortable, sitting there by that fountain. It was past midnight, and she was clad only in a nightdress, the spray from the fountain was dampening the back of it.

  “You’re cold,” he said suddenly.

  It was a statement of fact. And before she could deny it, he was taking off his evening coat, and wrapping it about her shoulders.

  “Here,” he said. “What were you thinking, coming out here without a robe? Or a shawl, at the very least. I bought you that silk shawl in Canton. Why aren’t you wearing it? Did you lose it? You’re never happy unless you’ve lost everything you own. I sometimes suspect you of having Bedouin blood in you.”

  Payton, overwhelmed by the warmth emanating from the satin lining of his coat, and the equally compelling warmth in his deep voice, heard herself asking, as if someone else were speaking for her, “Why, Drake?”

  His cool, strong fingers were still working at the collar of his coat, turning it up around her ears. “Why what?” he asked lightly.

  Oh, God, she thought. Shut up, Payton. Shut up. But to her horror, she kept right on talking. She asked, “Why are you marrying her?” Some of her short curls brushed his knuckles with feather-light softness as she shook her head. “I don’t understand it. You always said—” Her voice broke. Oh, Lord, what was happening to her? Was she crying, for pity’s sake? But she never cried! “You always said you’d marry me.”

  She couldn’t see him very well. He was just a dark blur, surrounded by a brighter blur of blue moonlight. But she could feel him. The hands that had been turning up his coat collar moved to cup her face. His palms were rough against the smooth skin of her cheeks.