A Ravishing Night With The Mysterious Earl (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Olivia Bennet

  “We have come into port?” Jemima tried to peer over Ben’s shoulder, but he was too large, blocking the landscape beyond entirely.

  Ben chuckled. “Not as of yet, Barton. But soon. By my reckoning, that must be Portugal.” He stood to one side and let Jemima get a look through the open sliver. Sure enough, land had appeared on the near horizon. A blessed sight, to Jemima’s gathering cabin fever.

  “Will all of the men go ashore?” she asked.

  “I imagine so,” Ben replied. “Sailors love to be at sea, but they love it even more when they get a glimpse o’ land. Once their duties are over, on board, they’ll likely take some time to get accustomed to the local flavors.”

  “Local flavors?” She glanced at him with a puzzled expression, that made him chuckle raucously.

  “It’s best ye don’t know, lad. It’s best ye don’t know.”

  She thought of what she’d seen in the courtyard at her home, the night before her escape, and wondered if that was what he was alluding to. Would these sailors go ashore to find willing young ladies, with whom they might sow their wild oats?

  She was appalled by the thought. And yet, she felt a slight frisson of excitement. These sailors were freer than any gentlemen she had ever known, which was likely the point—they were not gentlemen. The ladies they would seduce likely shared in that same freedom; a truly curious notion for someone such as Jemima, who had lived her life surrounded by rules and expectations.

  She wondered what it might be like to surrender herself, body and soul, to a gentleman. Her limbs entwined with his. His lips upon her bare skin, bringing new experiences she had only dreamt of in absolute secrecy. A sudden, sinking realization came to her—unless she was fortunate enough to discover love with a gentleman whom she could envision herself marrying, she did not know if such a tantalizing thing would ever come to pass.

  “Will you join ‘em, Barton?” Ben turned to her, disturbing her carnal reverie.

  She shook her head, blushing slightly. “No, I do not believe I shall. But I may wander the decks at my leisure, to take in some of the fresh air.” If all of the sailors were due to go on shore, then that meant one thing—Harry would also be away from the vessel, giving her a much-needed opportunity to walk around as she pleased. She would not do so until she was certain he had gone, but the prospect of being allowed to wander brought her a refreshed joy.

  “You sure? Ports are interesting places. It’d be a shame if ye missed out.”

  Jemima smiled. “I will be quite satisfied, I assure you.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself. You be all right peeling these onions whilst I go and see what’s happening?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You’re a good lad, Barton.” Ben pulled off his apron and set it on one of the stools. He exited the galley a moment later, leaving Jemima to lock the door after him. She could not take any unnecessary risks. Just because it was not night did not mean that Harry would not attempt to gain access.

  * * *

  A few hours later, as the ship pulled into the port town of Faro, on the south coast of Portugal, Jemima waited in the galley and listened for the sound of the sailors departing. It was early evening, the sun glowing with bronzed light upon the water. Ben had not returned, but she had not expected him to.

  She lingered a few minutes longer, before finally letting herself out of the kitchen. She paused in the hallway, her ears pricked. Silence echoed back, peppered with the creak of the swollen planks that made up the body of the Evening Star.

  She breathed a sigh of relief as she crept along the lower deck, glancing into the open doors of the cabins, just to make sure that everyone had departed for shore leave. The cabins were empty, scattered with the detritus of men who lived in close quarters—shirts, boots, trousers, braces.

  It felt good to be out of the confines of the galley. Even walking this far felt strangely liberating. Knowing the furtive nature of Harry, she had sensed that he would not be able to resist visiting the port town, and the carnal endeavors that could await him there. He was not unlike Eddie—the young rogue whose actions she had witnessed in the courtyard. And that brought her certain level of comfort, for she knew Harry would be far from here.

  At the bottom of the steps, which led up to the top deck, she smiled up at the soft light that spilled down the staircase. She could already feel the touch of the balmy evening, drifting across on a warm, salty breeze. With excitement racing in her heart, she mounted the steps and emerged into the fresh air. Nothing had ever felt so glorious in all her life, after almost a week-and-a-half of protective self-incarceration below decks.

  This is what I longed to see.

  She hurried across the top deck and paused at the bulwark, gazing out upon the harbor of Faro. Other vessels had docked close by, and the port thrummed with life, as the town’s inhabitants mingled with newcomers, hawking their wares. Jemima observed olive-skinned beauties sashaying along the wharf, dressed in flowing dresses that would keep them cool in the heat. The sailors clamored for their attention, but they were as coy as they were remarkable. They would not relent easily.

  “Ah, so you have finally emerged, Mr. Barton?” A voice made Jemima turn. She recognized him as the captain of the Evening Star, James McMorrow. He seemed more gentlemanly than the other sailors on board, though she had not had the pleasure of conversing with him.

  She nodded shyly. “I could not resist, Captain. Tell me, is this Portugal?”

  “It is, Mr. Barton. Would you care to join the other men on shore? Although we have kept a skeleton crew, to maintain the ship, the other sailors will not be back until morning. You are welcome to take some time for yourself, for the men will not return to dine this evening.”

  “No, I am quite content to remain here, Captain. Though, I must say, it is a delight to look upon such foreign shores. I did not think, in all my life, that I would ever see anything other than England.”

  James chuckled. “You did not intend to be a sailor, then?”

  “I had contemplated it.” She realized she had, perhaps, said too much.

  “Where do you hail from?”

  “Yorkshire, Captain.”

  He nodded. “Are you running from some crime?”

  She glanced at him with wide eyes. “Not at all, Captain. I would never do such a thing.”

  “You may be at ease, Mr. Barton. It is my duty to ask, that is all,” James replied softly. “A captain should know the nature of his sailors. If you were to be running from some crime or other, you would not be the first. I simply ask for honesty. It is my firm belief that men have the propensity to change, if they desire it. And I have no concern with granting second chances, as long as there is truthfulness.”

  “You may be assured, Captain, I am no criminal.” Lord Beaurgant is the miscreant, not I.

  “Then why did you choose to come here, with us?” He sounded genuinely curious.

  “I wished to see more of the world. England had become rather too small and suffocating, and I seized an opportunity. I am unmarried, I have little family, and I had no foreseeable hope for the future. Joining the Evening Star served as my escape from that otherwise banal existence.”

  “You speak rather poetically, Mr. Barton. Indeed, you do not sound as though you have come from the kinds of places where sailors usually emerge from.”

  She blushed. “My father was a steward, at a grand house. I was raised alongside the children of landed gentry. I suppose it had an effect upon me.” The lie tripped more easily from her tongue now, for she had repeated it often enough to the curious sailors who thought her manner of speech unusually polite.

  “Did you not wish to walk in your father’s footsteps?”

  She shrugged. “The future he envisioned for me was not one that I desired. I have always been somewhat rebellious, I suppose, and I did not wish to bend and bow to the rules of the social elite.”

  James chuckled. “Now that, I can understand.” He paused. “But tell me, are you settling i
n well here? I find it very peculiar that you have hardly emerged from the galley. Ben has spoken to me of his concerns. Are you having some difficulties?”

  “No…no, not at all,” Jemima lied. “I prefer privacy, I suppose.”

  “You are not being threatened? You are not fearful of any of your fellow sailors?” He seemed concerned, which calmed her nerves somewhat. Having someone like the Captain on her side could prove useful, if Harry ever stepped further across the line of propriety.

  She shook her head. “I am not, Captain.”

  “I am glad to hear it. Although, I would urge you to integrate more, if you are able. I should hate for you to be continually in solitude during this voyage. Life at sea can be a lonely existence, if you let it. It can drive even the strongest of sailors to lunacy, and I would not see that happen to you.”

  She smiled. “I will try, Captain.”

  “Very well, then.”

  “Do you intend to go into the port?”

  He nodded. “In due course. There is someone I must speak with first, but then I will undoubtedly find a quiet taverna in which to take my evening meal. The food here is delicious. You may enjoy it, if you can bring yourself to leave the vessel.”

  “I will keep that in mind, Captain.” As she gazed out upon the harbor, she felt a deep longing to act upon the captain’s suggestions. For if she did not experience these new countries, and these new cultures, then what reason did she have for being here? What difference was there, between this wooden prison and the pretty cage that her mother and father had wished to forge for her?

  Chapter 12

  An hour or so later, after staring listlessly out upon Faro’s lively goings-on from a hidden spot that she had discovered on the raised section of the upper deck, Jemima made a decision. She could not remain here, without at least sampling a taste of what Portugal had to offer.

  She walked to the bulwark once more and looked out at the harbor, steeling herself. She paused for a moment, as she spotted a familiar figure standing in the glow of the oncoming sunset. Captain James McMorrow stood with a fellow that Jemima did not recognize. They seemed to be friends, for they clapped one another on the back as they met.

  Indeed, they seemed very close, as they embraced warmly.

  I wonder who he is?

  She supposed the Captain knew a great many people in these port towns, throughout the years at sea that he had endured. Jemima envied him for that. To be an individual of the world, instead of one, sole country—that was a dream she did not know if she could achieve, though she desired it, with all of her heart.

  A moment later, the two gentlemen began to walk along the wharf, towards one of the tavernas at the far end. It solidified her resolve to partake in some of the Portuguese culture, though she felt a certain apprehension. After all, she did not know the language, and she did not know if she would be accepted. Nor did she have any friends whom she could dine with, not unless she could find Ben amongst the crowds of people.

  Nevertheless, she headed down the steps from the upper deck and moved along the gangway. Keeping her head down, she walked quickly, immersing herself into the vibrant melting pot of the port. Exotic voices shouted around her, and she could smell the delicious scent of something cooking. It made her mouth water, especially after a week-and-a-half of the ship’s meager fare.

  Now, all she needed to do was find a peaceful spot to dine, where none of the Evening Star’s inhabitants would discover her. Harry was out here somewhere, and if she wished to enjoy the experience of this new country, she needed to avoid him at all costs.

  * * *

  Simon wandered the streets of Faro, soaking in the sights and scents and sounds of the port town. He always loved stopping in places such as this, where there were fewer British vessels in the harbor. The sailors and captains of other ships frowned on him almost as much as the society to which he had been born. He knew he did not belong, though he did not mind so much. He was carving his own path and, at least for now, it was paying dividends.

  He stooped underneath the lintel of one of the local tavernas and crossed the dimly lit room to the proprietor. After all, this was a somewhat unscheduled docking, for the sole purpose of acquiring some of the delicious Port that this country was known for. Simon never wasted an opportunity to add to his cargo, and Port sold rapidly at auction.

  “The Englishman has returned!” The proprietor, an olive-skinned gentleman with graying hair, clapped his hands together as he spoke in broken English.

  “I have, Felipe,” Simon replied, in equally broken Portuguese. It was a language that had never come naturally to him, though he enjoyed the learning of new languages.

  “What will it be this time?”

  Simon smiled. “I was hoping you might deliver ten crates of your finest tawny Port to the Evening Star tomorrow morning?”

  “Of course, my friend. Of course. I may add a few crates of the ruby Port too, if you would care to take them off my hands? For our usual sum, naturally.”

  Simon nodded. “That will do very well.”

  “Now, why don’t you take a seat and sample some of the season’s yield?”

  Simon chuckled. “I thought you’d never ask.” With that, he walked to a secluded table in the far corner and sat down, while Felipe brought him several small glasses of various kinds of Port to sample. As he leaned back in his seat and began to taste the rich, fortified wine, he felt the weight of the world slough away from his shoulders. Here, he did not have to be anyone at all. Here, he could simply be Simon Fitzwalles, the owner of a small fleet, who had no connection to polite society whatsoever.

  And yet, even in that moment of peace, he felt a poignant absence in the depth of his chest. He would have liked to have shared these adventures with someone other than Captain McMorrow and the rest of the crew. He would have liked to sit in this taverna with a beautiful woman, of equal intellect and wit. Not an ephemeral mistress, as some of the sailors kept, having one in most ports they visited. But a wife. Someone he could love.

  Someone I can share all of this with, as well as my heart.

  He wasn’t prone to romanticism but spending long periods of time upon the ocean had made him somewhat more poetic in his sensibilities. He had seen far too many remarkable things to not have been affected by them. And, with every beautiful thing he witnessed, he felt his loneliness all the more keenly.

  Does such a lady exist?

  He had contemplated the question a thousand times, and always returned with the same answer—no, she did not exist. She could not exist, for what sort of lady would give up the security of solid ground for a transient existence on the ocean tides? And having the freedom of following the tides was the only thing that brought him joy. If he could not keep that, then he did not know that he would ever be willing to settle into the institution of marriage.

  Maybe she does exist. Maybe she is in this very town.

  He sipped a glass of deep, pinkish port, feeling the syrupy spices on his tongue. Even surrounded by the chatter of the other clientele, and the brash laughter of Felipe, he had never felt more alone.

  * * *

  Peter Sheton mingled amongst the gathered guests at Lord Faulkner’s ball, which had been thrown to celebrate the recent engagement of his Lordship’s daughter, Imogene. The very lady that Peter sought, though not for any romantic endeavor. His mind was solely fixed upon the errant maid who was in the course of attempting to escape him. He had never known excitement and frustration like it, the blend of emotion proving a potent motivator that only spurred him on.

  I will kiss her soft lips, and I will bring her to heel.

  He smiled to himself as he made casual greetings to the other revelers. Before long, he spotted Lady Imogene, standing on the edge of the ballroom’s crowded dancefloor, sipping tentatively from a glass of champagne. She reminded Peter of a bird, pecking at the liquid in the glass. Lady Jemima would never have pecked—she would have taken hearty gulps, in her tantalizing brashness.

&n
bsp; “Lady Imogene, might I offer my congratulations?” Peter stepped up to the feeble girl, casting judgement upon her sickly pallor and her waif-like figure. Lady Jemima was an altogether more voluptuous specimen, and one he would enjoy making love to. He imagined that Lady Imogene would simply snap or weep, when the poor sap who wished to wed her arrived to claim her at their wedding night.

  Lady Jemima will fight me, and I will relish every moment, when I take her, one way or another.

  “Lord Beaurgant, it is a pleasure to see you here. I did not realize you were in London. Are you not usually at your country residence at this time of year?” Lady Imogene said sweetly.

  Prying creature. “Business called me into the city, Lady Imogene. And I found myself with an invitation to this wonderful occasion. Is your husband-to-be anywhere hereabouts?”