A Lady at Last

by Brenda Joyce

  Amanda whispered, “I think you are very lucky to have such a grand family and so many places to call home.”

  “I am very fortunate,” he agreed, and he realized he fervently hoped Amanda was going to find such a pleasant existence in London, too.

  “What was it like, growing up at Adare?” she asked wistfully.

  Cliff was swept back in time. He smiled, remembering being on the verge of manhood, desires raging. “Ah, we were a rowdy, troublesome lot. We avoided our duties and spent as much time as possible racing across the countryside, pursuing light skirts and doing very much as we pleased.” He shook his head. “We would cut out on our lessons, gallop about the hills, swim in the river or the lake. Of course, when we were caught, there was always hell to pay.”

  “The earl must have beaten you,” she remarked.

  His eyes widened. “I don’t think he ever hit any one of us. He could make us drown in guilt with a look.”

  “He didn’t hit you for skipping your lessons?”

  He became disturbed. “No, he did not.”

  Amanda folded her arms across her chest. “That is so odd,” she finally said.

  “Not every parent uses corporal punishment. I personally think it barbaric,” he said grimly. Surely she had not been punished with the rod?

  She held her head high. “Well, that’s what you think. Not everyone would agree with you.”

  “No, they would not,” he said slowly. “Did Carre ever hit you?”

  She kept her chin up. “Of course he did. How else would I learn right from wrong?”

  He had a terrible feeling, answered by a terrible rage. “What did he do? Did he use the rod?”

  She shook her head, but his relief was short-lived. “He used his fists,” she said. “He had a temper and he hated disobedience. He’d whack me on the side of my head—usually on my jaw.”

  He was aghast. He realized his mouth was hanging open, and he closed it. “Good God! Amanda, you were a child, a female one at that!”

  She was wide-eyed. “But that’s what fathers do. They punish—with their fists, a rod, the whip. I didn’t mind. I mean, it hurt, and sometimes I saw stars. Like when he hit me at the prison. But usually he missed, because I was faster than he was and could easily duck the blow.”

  Cliff whirled and said, “Howard, take the helm.”

  The midshipman rushed to his side, taking the wheel. Cliff took Amanda’s arm, trying to remain calm when he was blinded by rage. They moved to the starboard side of the quarterdeck, an area no other sailor or officer would ever dare step upon, as it was, by tradition, reserved exclusively for the ship’s master. “His blows were frequent?”

  She said stubbornly, “I told you, he usually missed.”

  “You said he hit you at the prison. Surely—surely—you do not mean at the courthouse prison or at Fort Charles. Surely he did not strike you in the past few weeks?”

  She stared, refusing to reply.

  “He struck you recently? He hit a woman?” Cliff was in more shock than he could manage.

  “What do you care?” she said harshly. She was trembling. “Papa loved me. It was his way of making sure I obeyed him. He was furious when I told him I tried to do Governor Woods.”

  Cliff let her go, rubbing his face with his hands. It was fortunate that Carre was dead, because otherwise he’d kill the man with his own bare hands. Then he looked grimly at her. “So it was not his idea for you to proposition the governor on his behalf?”

  She shook her head. “Papa told me when I was twelve that my maidenhead was for my husband and my husband only.”

  He went still. In spite of his shock and horror, his blood heated, filling him. She had never known another man. His instincts had urged him to believe in her innocence, but reason had told him it was unlikely. Now there was no doubt—and he had another barrier to place safely between them.

  She said slowly, “You don’t hit or whip your children, do you?”

  “No, I do not.”

  She bit her lip, looking down.

  He touched her. “I would never hit a child or a woman. Amanda, you can choose to believe what you wish, but I cannot accept your father disciplining you with his fists.”

  “He loved me,” she insisted, looking up. Her eyes were shining with unshed tears.

  He hated himself. “Yes, he did. It was obvious.” He turned slightly away, remaining shaken. He had no idea how she had managed to maintain her innocence or her faith in her father, but he was not going to take either away from her. Yet the urge to do both consumed him. He clamped his lips together so he would not tell her what he really thought of Carre. And he would not pull her against his chest and caress her hair. His loins were stiff and throbbing; he knew where such a gesture would lead.

  “Does Ariella ever disobey you?” she asked, her tone uncertain.

  They were on safer ground. He exhaled. “Actually, she does not. And I wish she would.”

  “You do?”

  He smiled at her, relieved with the innocent subject. “I worry about her. Even when she disagrees with me, she pretends not to in order to please me. I would love to see her object to something dear to her heart.”

  “You want her to defy you?” Amanda asked, obviously amazed.

  “Alexi defies me all the time.”

  “And you don’t hit him.”

  “He is punished, but not with a fist or a whip.”

  She turned away.

  He felt deeply for her and he wished, foolishly, that she could have been spared her childhood. He decided to move the subject along. “I am glad to see you and Ariella becoming friends.”

  She glanced at him. “She helped me with my sentences today. She is very clever.”

  “I worry that she is too clever for her own good. One day, if she does not present me with a love match that I approve of, I will have to find her a husband. Her intelligence will make it difficult to find a suitable prospect. Most men will run away from such a woman with their tails between their legs.”

  Amanda laughed. “Men do not like clever women,” she agreed.

  “Some men do,” he murmured. He smiled at her, his mind veering to the fact that she was very clever, too. He quickly redirected his thoughts. “I know this may seem premature, but I have given a great deal of thought to Ariella’s future. She will be a great heiress, and that will help. But I will have to discourage the fortune hunters.”

  “She will be an heiress,” Amanda echoed, her soft smile vanishing

  He realized his faux pas. Carre had left his daughter with nothing, not a single cent, and he damned the man for it. His insensitivity was astounding, and silently, belatedly, he kicked himself. “I am sorry, Amanda. It is your turn to ask me questions, not my turn to bother you with my worries for Ariella’s future.”

  “She is so lucky,” Amanda whispered, distressed, “that you are her father and that she is so rich. Don’t worry. You will find a husband for her, I have no doubt.”

  And what about Amanda? Who was going to find a husband for her?

  He had never stumbled upon the subject of her marriage before, and he wished he hadn’t done so now. It made him terribly uncomfortable, but Pandora had been released from her box. Carre should have arranged her marriage, but thank God he had not, for the man he would have chosen would have been a pirate or some other socially unacceptable thug. It would be Dulcea Carre’s responsibility to marry her off.

  He somehow despised the notion, but he worried about it, now, too. After all, if Amanda was to marry well, she was going to have to undergo quite a bit of transformation and he wasn’t sure she would even wish to try. Gently, he asked, “And you, Amanda? Do you dream of marriage and a home of your own?” His smile was encouraging.

  Her eyes widened. “Who would marry me?”

  He could not bear her words. He cupped her cheek, tilting up her face. “You will have suitors, I am sure of it. And you will break a dozen hearts after you have spent some time with your mother.” He mea
nt it, but he was afraid for her, too. She would eventually be transformed into a proper lady while under her mother’s care. There was little doubt about that. However, he simply could not imagine Amanda making insipid conversation about the weather or last night’s supper party. Worse, he wasn’t sure she should be transformed at all. He tried to imagine her fashionably attired with proper airs, and suddenly detested the idea of her losing her originality. He wasn’t sure she could do both.

  “I am not like Ariella,” she said, jerking away and staring at him as if stricken. “I am not a princess with a fortune. Please, do not be so mean.”

  “I wasn’t jesting,” he exclaimed. “But your mother will surely provide you with a fine new wardrobe, a dancing master and whatever else you need for your new life. In a very short time after your reunion with her, I am certain there will be suitors lined up outside of your mother’s home.”

  “I don’t think so,” she cried, aghast.

  He felt terrible for her. “What do you wish, Amanda?”

  “To be free,” she cried. “To be a part of the wind and the sea—that’s all I’ve ever wanted!”

  How well he understood. He stared, almost reaching for her.

  But she backed fearfully away. “That’s what Mama will want, isn’t it? To make me a lady, to find me a husband, to marry me off?”

  “I would think so,” he said, and added, “What other choice is there?”

  She just shook her head, backing farther away.

  He never let her out of his sights as her back found the rail. “Come off the railing, Amanda.” He kept his tone coaxing, but it was an order and he was master of the ship.

  “I have made a mistake,” she cried, but she stepped away from the railing. “I want you to leave me anywhere but London—maybe on Malta,” she said.

  “Our demons are always greatest at night,” he said softly. “Come, Amanda, you are strong and brave and you can manage a reunion with your mother.”

  She nodded, wiping at a tear. “I’m sorry for being a nitwit.”

  “You could never be a nitwit, and I would be stunned if you did not have some trepidation,” he said lightly. He held out his hand. She hesitated and approached, taking it. He walked her to the steps.

  “While we are on the subject of your mother, I have assumed you have an address for her?”

  She nodded, her gaze on his, oddly trusting. “Papa said she lives at a place called Belford House.”

  He was shocked.

  “De Warenne? Do you know it?”

  He couldn’t speak. He knew Belford House, as he had been invited there several times. He knew Lady Belford—and her first name was Dulcea.

  She had platinum hair almost the exact same shade as Amanda’s and, if he recalled correctly, astounding green eyes. Now, the resemblance was unmistakable.

  But she had been married to Lord Belford for many years.

  Dulcea Belford was breathtakingly beautiful, elegant and polished, and socially obsessed. She was also promiscuous—behind Belford’s back, she had numerous affairs. She had pursued him, in fact, but he had not cared for her conceit or her manner. But he was the only male he knew who was not smitten with the socialite.

  He had no doubt that Amanda’s tale about her parents was very wrong and that her mother was not Dulcea Carre, but Dulcea Bedford.

  And if he was right, then Lady Belford was not going to be pleased to see her long-lost daughter, not at all.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  AMANDA SAT ON HER BUNK in the narrow cabin where she slept. She was sharing the accommodation with Anahid, who was asleep in the cabin’s other berth. Other than the two bunks, there was a small table, two chairs and a washstand. Amanda had taken the upper bunk. De Warenne’s children slept in the adjacent cabin, which was larger and more pleasantly furnished. But she did not care about the furnishings at all.

  It was almost dawn. De Warenne had retired to the captain’s cabin for a few hours of rest and even though she ached with restlessness and had not wanted to part company, she had allowed him to escort her to her cabin. She had pretended to be tired, too. But the past few hours, sailing with him through the night and then into the rising sun, had been the most pleasurable of her life. Although she hated discussing her future in England, de Warenne’s company was like opium, sweet, potent and addictive. She could not get enough, it seemed. She wished they were still on deck together.

  She fingered her small sack, then pulled out the beautiful lace nightgown and stared at it. De Warenne was so different from all the other men she had ever known. He was beautiful and strong, powerful and educated, generous and kind. Amanda inhaled. He was so kind. He knew she was afraid of England, and he had tried to encourage her to think that all would be well when she finally met her mother. She knew that was not going to be the case. Mama had loved her, for Papa had said so, but that had been years ago. And even if her mother remained devoted to her missing daughter, she was going to be terribly disappointed when she saw the woman her daughter had become.

  Amanda had passed too many fancy ladies on Queen Street in Kingston, and they had always stared at her, their pointy noses turned up in the air. There had always been whispers behind her back. “Look at the pirate’s daughter! She is a savage—just like her name!”

  And in that moment, Amanda wished she were a real lady.

  Because if she were a lady, she had no doubt Mama would welcome her with open arms.

  She sighed. Such wishful thinking was foolish. It was even dangerous. Being with de Warenne had made her briefly forget what was going to happen in another five weeks when she arrived at her mother’s door. She was almost certain that when she finally faced her mother, she would see shock, horror and then condescension on her face. She was so afraid that it was better not to think about it—as when she was a child, cowering belowdecks, while the pirates above murdered one another, she must close her eyes and clap her hands over her ears and not think about what might happen.

  But de Warenne made her smile; with him, she was firmly in the present, the future so far away, and he made her feel safe. In fact, she had never felt so secure in all of her life. She had never felt quite this way with Papa. Yet there was far more in her heart than feeling so well protected.

  She was painfully aware of his masculinity. His beauty and virility had been obvious from the start, but in the beginning, when she had seen him on the deck of a captured Spanish galleon, she had been a child and he might as well have been a god. Since meeting him a week ago, her grief had dulled her natural interest. She would always grieve for Papa, but the sadness was softer and easier now. And the child was truly gone. No child could have this wild, impossible yearning—no child could ache in so many private places—no child could start to dream as she was dreaming. There was a new yet familiar hunger in her and it seemed to be rapidly escalating. Seeing him emerging from the ocean that morning like Poseidon hadn’t helped.

  “Please don’t let me fall in love with him,” Amanda whispered, and it was only after she had spoken that she realized she had spoken out loud. She tensed, but Anahid never answered her, and she realized the woman was deeply asleep.

  Was she falling in love with the handsome, wealthy, nobly born privateer? His image flashed—his soft smile, his bold stare, his taut, hard body, dripping ice water. How could a woman not fall in love with him, she wondered desperately, even a young woman of seventeen?

  She did not try to delude herself. He preferred very elegant ladies and he was never going to return her feelings, although he seemed affectionately inclined toward her. But he did want her; she had two eyes in her head and she could tell whenever his lusty nature overcame him.

  She hugged the nightgown to her breasts. Her nipples were hard and tight and her skin tingled. Her body was hot and cold, all at once. The way he looked at her warmed her impossibly, and he had looked at her many times that night the way a man looks at a woman he is about to bed. But he had refused her offer to pay for her passage. She had even hin
ted that she would still do so, but he had not taken the bait. However, her heart and her body were demanding his attention now. She wanted to go to him—and that made her cold with fear.

  Because if she gave him her heart, she was ten times the fool—he would ruthlessly break it. Giving him her body would be easier, except he didn’t seem inclined to act on his male needs.

  Amanda closed her eyes, wishing she knew what to do. She could imagine de Warenne cupping her cheek as he had done earlier. She could feel his hard, large hand on her skin and she trembled. His behavior was so confusing! But then, she had never known a real gentleman before. And he did prefer real ladies. Maybe that was what was holding him back.

  She looked down at the nightgown. In it, the pirate’s daughter was gone, and she appeared every bit as much a lady as those elegant women strolling in Kingston.

  Amanda realized what she had to do and more cold fear crept over her. But men could be stupid and foolish when it came to fornication. How many times had Papa said a man was led by his cock, not his brain? She owed de Warenne so much—more than a few nights in his bed could ever repay—and he did want her, in some basic way. He might be trying to be a gentleman or he might not want her that much, due to her lack of breeding, but in that nightgown, he might easily be managed by his male parts. Wasn’t it worth a try?

  Maybe she wasn’t even falling in love with him. Maybe she wasn’t that different from the trollops and whores who ran with the crew; maybe she was just at that age now where she wished to satisfy her body, as they all so openly would do.

  Amanda pulled off her boots and stockings, her cheeks on fire now. She lay down, jerking her breeches off, and then her drawers. Tasseled belt, shirt and chemise followed. Very quietly, she washed herself at the washstand, determined not to awaken the Armenian. Then she slipped on the nightgown, quickly brushing her hair.

  Her heart thundered in her breast, deafening her. She glanced at Anahid, who remained asleep on the bunk—or so she thought, until the women looked right at her. Amanda grimaced, turning away before she could say anything. She slipped outside into the ebony-gray light just before dawn.