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

by Olivia Bennet

  Is this what becomes of gentlemen who do not marry? His father had always warned him that he would come to untold trouble if he did not wed as soon as possible. He had always ignored the warning, but now he felt the panic of it, rising up his throat like bile.

  “There was no error, Barton. I worry for your safety, that is all.” Simon could not look him in the eye, for he was terrified that he might suffer a repeat response if he were to hold that sapphire gaze.

  Barton shook his head desperately. “I cannot return to England, My Lord. Please, I beg of you, do not make me. I will become the finest companion you could ask for, if you will only allow me to remain here.”

  How can I say no? The boy sounded truly petrified at the prospect of returning to England. That brought its own set of queries, but Simon did not have the energy to pry, at that present moment. Everyone had their secrets. Simon was not exempt from that. He stayed away from England because he abhorred the social elite and the constraints of his position. Perhaps, Barton had similar reasons.

  “Then…I suppose you must stay, but I will not ask you to draw my baths again.” He dropped his gaze, feeling his cheeks enflame.

  “As you wish, My Lord.” Barton still sounded anxious, his manner jittery. “But, if there is a way I can improve, you must tell me.”

  “I will, Barton.” Simon turned away, wishing he had the arrogance to cast the boy off the ship. However, one stolen glance at those dark blue eyes, and he knew he could not do it. He did not have the cruelty in his heart, to kick a man whilst he was evidently down.

  “Can I fetch you anything before I go to the galley?” Barton forced a smile onto his face.

  Simon shook his head. “No, thank you. I will see you this evening.”

  “Very good, My Lord.” With a clumsy bow, the boy scurried away, disappearing out of the door. As soon as he was gone, Simon sat down in the nearest chair and let out a shaky sigh. At least the boy would not be around him constantly. Indeed, he was quite certain he could endure the evenings, as long as he did not have to look upon Barton in the daytime.

  You will overcome this. There was nothing else for it…he had to, or else he would end up teetering on the brink of insanity.

  * * *

  “Penny for yer thoughts.”

  Jemima looked up at Ben, realizing she had drifted into a daydream. The entire day had passed in much the same way, her anxiety rendering her silent as a graveyard. Her sole comfort came from the movement of the vessel, letting her know that they had moved away from land, and were headed in the direction of Spain. As long as they were moving, Lord Burhill could not force her to remain in a foreign country, entirely alone.

  His words that morning had taken her by surprise, and had not left her, no matter how hard she peeled potatoes or how keenly she threw her energies into creating the day’s meals. She had thought herself safe, after being taken into Lord Burhill’s care, but now that safety had been taken away. If he wanted her gone, there was little she could do about it.

  “Pardon?” She looked at Ben with apologetic eyes.

  “You’ve been mighty quiet today, Barton. Everythin’ all right?”

  She nodded wearily. “I did not rest well last night, that is all.”

  “Aye, well I don’t blame ye, after what you’ve been through. Not to worry, though. Harry ain’t gettin’ out of the brig anytime soon. He’ll be rottin’ in there by the time we get to Cape Verde.”

  “Yes…yes, I suppose there is nothing for me to worry about anymore.” She did not believe a word of it, though Ben was not to know that. He thought her nerves stemmed from Harry’s assault. He had no cause to know that it stemmed from her being removed from this very ship. Even now, she could not understand what she had done wrong, to elicit such sentiment from Lord Burhill.

  Was the bath so very terrible? He had seemed to enjoy it, from the way he had closed his eyes and the sound of his relaxed gasps. Perhaps he had been attempting politeness, so as not to offend her. Perhaps it had been too hot, or too cold. Or, perhaps, she had been too rough with the cloth.

  “You ought to be gettin’ to the Captain’s quarters, before he makes you come back ‘ere for good.” Ben smiled, but Jemima could not muster the same cheer.

  “Yes, of course.” She began to put together a tray for Lord Burhill’s dinner. “I will see you tomorrow.”

  “Aye, that ye will.”

  Taking the tray, she made her way back to the Captain’s quarters, her heart pounding with every step she took. Just because they were sailing once more did not mean he would not force her to leave when they reached Cádiz. However, as she got closer to the Captain’s quarters, she felt herself filled with a refreshed determination. She would make herself invaluable to Lord Burhill, so he would have no choice but to let her remain. That was her only hope now.

  As she opened the door, she found Lord Burhill sitting at the table with Captain McMorrow at his side. The two gentlemen looked up as she entered, prompting her to bow awkwardly with the tray in her hands.

  “Ah, Barton, there you are.” Lord Burhill’s voice was brighter than it had been that morning, though she sensed a hint of falsity within it. As though he were putting on a performance for the sake of Captain McMorrow.

  Were they discussing me? She hoped not.

  Captain McMorrow smiled. “Yes, we were just talking about you.”

  Oh dear…

  “You were?” she replied nervously.

  Captain McMorrow nodded. “Yes, we were discussing the unfortunate matter with Harry. I must apologize for his behavior. As the Captain of this ship, I feel a certain responsibility towards the actions of my men. That should never have happened to you, and I am sorry for it. Please be assured that he will be severely dealt with, upon our arrival at Cape Verde.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” She dipped her head, grateful that they had not been discussing her departure instead.

  “His Lordship tells me you have become his new manservant, whilst Brockmire is recovering from his pleurisy?”

  Jemima nodded. “Yes, Captain.”

  “I trust you are doing an exemplary job? Indeed, I can’t remember I time when I saw His Lordship so fresh-faced and cheerful. You must be doing something right.” Captain McMorrow chuckled, whilst Lord Burhill seemed to squirm in his seat, and Jemima looked away with a sheepish expression upon her face.

  “I did not think to bring any dinner for you, Captain. Would you like me to return to the kitchens to fetch you something?” At that moment, she wanted to be as far away from this room as possible.

  Captain McMorrow shook his head. “That will not be necessary, Barton. I was just about to make my excuses. I have already dined and have a great deal of work to attend to, though I thank you for your kind gesture.”

  “It is my pleasure, Captain.” Jemima struggled not to show her disappointment.

  “I will see you in the morning, My Lord.” Captain McMorrow flashed Lord Burhill a grin.

  He rolled his eyes. “I have asked you to call me Simon.”

  “Never in polite company, My Lord.” With that, he dipped his head to both his friend and Jemima and exited the Captain’s quarters.

  Longing to return to a sense of peace, Jemima laid the tray out in front of Lord Burhill and made to leave. However, his voice called her back, before she could run for her bedchamber.

  “Might you join me, Barton?”

  Jemima froze. “I have already dined, My Lord.”

  “I thought you might, but I prefer to have company whilst I eat. Would you mind?”

  Knowing she had no choice, Jemima took the seat opposite. As he began to dine, she studied the handsome contours of his face, unable to tear her eyes away whilst he was otherwise distracted. No matter how hard she tried, she could not forget the glisten of his damp skin, and the sweet scent of him as she had cleansed his body. Even though he was fully clothed at that moment, her mind kept picturing him the way she had seen him before. It was not something she could forget easily.


  “I am sorry for my words this morning,” Lord Burhill said suddenly, making her head snap away. “They were well meant, I assure you. I did not mean to cause you any upset, for you seemed rather perturbed when you left.”

  “It is only…it is only that I cannot return to England, My Lord. I worried you would demand that I leave, when, in truth, I have nowhere else to go. If you were to force me from this ship, I would be a lost soul, wandering aimlessly.” Her voice caught in her throat, as she remembered the reasons she had come here in the first place.

  Lord Burhill frowned. “Do you not have family? I thought you did?”

  “They would not accept me, if I were to return.”

  “How so?”

  Jemima sighed. “I refused to wed the person they selected for me. It caused a great uproar, and I chose to leave, rather than to bring them further shame by continuing to reject their wishes.”

  Lord Burhill stared at her, his eyes suddenly sad. “So, that is why you are here?”

  “Yes, My Lord. I am not sure they would accept me now, even if I were to return.”

  “I can understand your turmoil, Barton. Believe me, I understand.” Lord Burhill sat back in his chair, a strained frown upon his brow. “I had a similar experience with my own father, though he is dead and buried now.”

  “You did?” The air in the room had shifted, prompting her to lean forward with genuine interest. She no longer felt as anxious, for his previous words had allayed her fears of being cast away.

  Lord Burhill smiled bitterly. “He always wanted me to choose a bride, but I could never settle the way he desired me to. Captain McMorrow jests that I have chosen to wed the ocean instead of a true lady.”

  “Have you never thought to marry, My Lord?”

  He shrugged. “I do not know if a suitable lady exists. You see, I do not know that I could ever forgo this life that I have taken upon myself. I could never remain solely on land, for the oceans bring me greater joy than anything I have ever known. And yet, I do not imagine there is a young lady living, who would join me in such dangerous endeavors. If she were to exist, perhaps things would be different. As of yet, I have not met her.”

  “Maybe she is nearer than you think,” Jemima said boldly. “Perhaps, she is waiting for you in the next port, or the next. A lady who would join you in your every endeavor, and share in your enjoyment of these exotic lands.”

  Lord Burhill chuckled. “Then you must introduce her to me, should you find her. I lack the patience for searching.” He cast Jemima a wry smile. “However, I know definitely that she does not reside in fair England, and certainly not amongst the ton. Could you picture it—a great lady, clad in her finest gown, standing before the bow at my side? Her muslin would be ruined before we even left port.”

  “It is not so outlandish. There are young ladies in England who have dreams of far-off places…there must be, surely?” She dropped her chin to her chest, a secret smile edging onto her lips.

  “All they have ever shown me is disdain for my decisions,” Lord Burhill replied. “Even if they are interested, their mothers and fathers always look down their noses at me, as though I am a curious species they have never encountered before.”

  Jemima smiled. “That is because you are unique. I should think there are many young ladies who find you dashing and thrilling, in your adventuring ways. No?”

  “Honestly, I do not know. I suppose I have not attended enough soirées to find anyone who might make a suitable wife.” He looked weary, his eyes downcast. “And what of this young lady you were to wed? What made her so abhorrent that you could not bring yourself to marry her? Be assured, I cast no judgement on you; I am simply curious.”

  “They were…frightening, I suppose.”

  Lord Burhill burst into laughter. “Ah, now I have met a great many of those types of young ladies!”

  She watched him laugh, delighted by the way it lit up his amber eyes and softened the blunt edges of his face. In that moment, she wished she could have told him the truth. She wished she could have pointed to herself and said, “Me. I am the sort of young lady who longs for adventure and excitement, away from England. I am the sort of lady who would stand at your side, caring little for the dangers of the open sea.”

  But she could not.

  He was speaking to her as though she were a fellow gentleman, with whom he could be entirely open and honest. If she were to announce her true self now, she would shatter that sense of companionship. Out of concern for her wellbeing, he would surely put her on the next Naval ship they found and have her sent right back to her home.

  She wanted to believe that he would not, but she lacked the courage to take that chance.

  Chapter 22

  Peter rode into the nearby town of Borrowdale, urged on by this fresh trail of potential. Now that he knew what he was looking for, he stood a greater chance of finding Lady Jemima’s whereabouts. Truthfully, she could be in the next town over, and nobody would know it was her.

  But that is wishful thinking. After all, this was Lady Jemima—she would not have dared to stay so close, for fear of being discovered.

  Borrowdale itself was a quaint, countryside town, with a river flowing through the center of it. Bridges arched over the babbling water, joining the two halves of the town together. Along the stone banks, shops and cottages stood proud, with an inn at the nearside corner: The Frog and Bucket. A sign swung gently in the breeze, showing a carved rendition of a squat amphibian, jumping into a wooden pail.

  “Excuse me,” Peter said, stopping a young man in the road. “Might you point me in the direction of the local stagecoach?”

  The man nodded. “Ye can speak with the fella in the inn there. He’ll be able to tell ye more.”

  “Thank you.” Peter walked towards the Frog and Bucket, and ducked under the low lintel, into the cozy interior. A fire roared in the grate on the far side, though the afternoon was warm, and several customers sat around, nursing tankards of ale as a cloud of bluish smoke billowed overhead. He inhaled the sour scent of stale ale, combined with the acrid tang of lit tobacco. It took everything within his power not to wrinkle up his nose in disdain.

  Spotting the proprietor of the inn, an elderly, wizened man with no hair to speak of, and a frame so lean and lanky that he resembled a beanpole, Peter made a beeline for him. The fellow edged slowly towards him on unsteady legs, before coming to a shaky halt.

  “What’ll it be?” he asked.

  Peter smiled. “Actually, I was hoping you might be able to assist me in a rather pressing matter. My nephew has recently gone missing, and I should very much like to bring him home before he can cause any trouble. Would you happen to have seen a young man of slender build, with very dark hair and unusual blue eyes? He is about shoulder-height, compared to me, and has very delicate features. He would have passed this way just under a fortnight ago, and it may have been at a rather late hour.”

  The wizened old man shook his head. “I don’t recall such a fellow, but the memory ain’t what it used to be.”

  Peter struggled to suppress his annoyance. “Might you direct me towards the nearest stagecoach, then?”

  “Aye, if ye go out the door and head back up the road, you’ll find the stagecoach post just outside the town. They come along every few hours. Ye shouldn’t be waiting too long.”

  “Thank you.” Peter turned around and made his way back out into the warm afternoon, following the directions towards the correct spot. Sure enough, he found a lantern hanging from a lamppost, with a sign attached to it. A picture of a stagecoach had been carved into the wood, for those who did not know how to read, alongside the word itself.

  Glancing up and down the road, he folded his arms across his chest and unleashed an almighty sigh. He did not know how long he would have to wait, but he was determined. I only hope that you are worth this trouble, Lady Jemima.

  For, if she was not, he would be forced to punish her, in every way he could think of.

  * *
*

  Almost six hours and five stagecoaches later, Peter had almost run out of patience. The afternoon had turned to darkness, the night overhead twinkling with a billion burning stars. Although the day had been warm, the evening had grown cold, and he was beginning to shiver. His horse grazed casually on the verge, oblivious to Peter’s increasing frustrations.

  He was about to give up entirely, when he heard the steady approach of hooves, coming out of the darkness of the road ahead. Sure enough, the stagecoach pulled to a halt beside the post where Peter waited, the driver pulling gently on the reins to make the horses stop.

  “Ye lookin’ to go someplace?” the driver asked.

  Peter shook his head. “Were you driving this stagecoach around ten days ago, late in the night?”