by Louise Allen
Oh, well, as the Duke of Wellington said, I must tie a knot and carry on. Although she rather doubted whether the duke, famous for his amours, ever found such things disturbing his plans.
‘Tired?’ Rhys was leaning against the rail, supported on both elbows. His coat fell back, exposing the length of those well-muscled horseman’s legs, the breadth of his chest, the flat stomach under the watch chain curving across the subdued silk of his waistcoat. ‘You look very heavy-eyed.’
Her body felt achy, her lids heavy. She knew the cause, but it was hard to fight it. She was tired, that was the problem. Once she’d had a good night’s sleep in a proper bed she would be able to control these infuriating animal urges perfectly easily. She was an intelligent woman, after all. Sensible. That was all it needed—common sense.
‘It must be this sea air,’ Thea murmured. The same sea air that blew Rhys’s shirt tight against his body and tugged his hair back from his face. The young man she had known had grown into the breadth of his shoulders and the strong bones of his face as a hound puppy grew into its big feet and suddenly changed from a friendly, ungainly plaything into a sleek, muscled killing machine.
And it was not just physical. There was an assurance about him. He knew who he was, what he was. He existed in his world with complete confidence. No, his worlds, she realised. Even castaway he was master of his household and received only respect. His reputation as a landowner was unblemished. He had a full social life in a shark pool where there was no tolerance for anyone who was less than polished, assured, courageous, physically and mentally adept. How did a young man acquire those attributes? she wondered. He surely never had a doubt, never felt the fear and uncertainty that she was constantly having to suppress.
As for the way he unsettled her, well, she was not a girl any longer. She had read a lot of books, watched from the sidelines many a flirtation and courtship, allowed Anthony liberties that had gone too far, even if they had been disappointing and had taught her little.
What she was feeling was physical desire and telling herself that ladies did not permit such feelings was no help whatsoever. Either she was the single wanton exception to the rule or well-bred young women were fed a pack of lies about sex. Thea strongly suspected the latter.
‘Sea air and the fact that you haven’t had a decent night’s sleep for at least two days,’ Rhys diagnosed. Apparently he could read some of her thoughts, but hopefully not all of them. ‘Still, this swell doesn’t appear to be upsetting you, so you might manage a few hours tonight.’
‘I agree, it is a positively pleasant motion, dip and rise. Very smooth.’ She ran her tongue over salty lips.
‘My lord, Lady Althea. There is dinner below if you would care to come down,’ Hodge announced.
* * *
Polly had been right, there was a distinct odour of something unpleasant below decks and the motion of the ship, when one couldn’t see the horizon, was far more noticeable than when she had been leaning on the rail. Thea took a plate of bread and cheese, a mug of tea, and went back on deck with a sigh of relief both for the fresh air and the interruption.
Rhys joined her as she perched on a barrel and sipped cautiously at the black brew. ‘Definitely better than down there,’ he said with a shudder, and bit into a slice of meat pie.
‘Rhys, why not find a wife now?’ He looked across, the pie still in his hand, and a chunk of pastry fell unheeded to the deck. Oh, goodness, whatever possessed me to blurt that out? Too late now to go back on the question. Thea ploughed on. ‘It will be the house-party season very soon, or you could go to Brighton. There would be plenty of opportunities to find an eligible young lady and then you could honeymoon on the Continent.’
‘It is too soon,’ he said. His expression did not invite her to continue.
Too soon? Six years? How long does it take to get over a broken heart? But if Rhys jilted me on the altar steps, would I feel able to marry another man even six years later? Probably not. He still loves her, then.
* * *
It felt like kicking his favourite hound, Rhys thought. Thea didn’t snap back or even show any sign that he had snubbed her, although he had an indefinable sense that she had withdrawn from him.
‘Of course, it was insensitive of me to ask,’ she said, each word laid down so carefully it might have been made of spun glass. ‘You are not fickle. You still love Serena. Marrying again, out of duty, will be difficult.’
Still love Serena? Of course not. He almost said it out loud before he realised that would shock Thea. She believed him faithful, steadfast, the sort of man who would love loyally until death, and somehow he couldn’t face the risk that she would think less of him if he admitted the truth.
It had taken six months, not six years, to come to his senses. Six months of heavy drinking, a succession of utterly unsatisfying amatory encounters and the crushing sense that if he wasn’t worthy of being loved, then he wasn’t worthy to behave like a gentleman, to care about his estates, to bother with his friends.
And then he had woken up one morning and asked why he was punishing himself. He had not driven Serena into Paul’s arms; she had been there all the time. She had deceived him, lied to him, used him. He knew then he was not going to drink himself into an early grave for the sake of a woman who had never loved him.
‘I meant that I need a holiday. I’ve been working hard on the estate with the new model farm, the changes to the tenants’ cottages, the improvements we’ve been making to the cropping and livestock systems. I just want a break, something completely different.’ He had also been burning the candle at both ends all Season and he was feeling utterly jaded with women, gaming... Not that he could tell Thea that.
Rhys took a swig of ale and watched Thea out of the corner of his eye as she chewed on her bread, apparently intent on digesting his words as thoroughly as her food.
What would she say if he told her the truth? I want all my wits about me before I select a woman who will not betray me, who will fulfil her part of the bargain, will prove to be the bland, undemanding countess that I will be able to coexist with for the rest of my life. But the whole damn thing feels so cold, so...mechanical, that I’m clutching at excuses to put it off.
He didn’t need to ask Thea’s opinion; he knew what it would be. She would frown a little, making a crease between the brows that were a shade darker than her hair. Then she would twiddle a strand of flyaway brown hair while she thought about it and finally she would tell him that he must wait until he found a woman to love and who loved him. Her obsession with love matches was the only irrational thing he had ever discovered about Thea.
If he waited to stray into the path of Cupid’s arrows, he would die a bachelor. No, he would decide on a wife on the basis of her suitability as a countess and the mother of his heir. She would have to be intelligent enough to be a pleasant companion and a good parent, of course. And she would be attractive enough to make sharing a bed no penance—he intended to take his marriage vows seriously—but really, beyond that, he was prepared to be flexible and businesslike about the matter.
The women he would be deciding between—or, rather, their fathers—would make their decision based on his title, his bloodlines and his estate. It would be rational, calm and safe on both sides. No messy emotions. No pretence of love. He had no intention of laying his own heart out to be trampled on again and he was wary of doing anything that would make an impressionable young woman fancy herself in love with him.
‘Yes, I see.’ Thea nodded at last, a firm little jerk of her head. ‘It is very sensible to take a holiday if you need a change.’
‘Are you cold? You shivered just then.’ They were both well wrapped up, but the wind was cutting across the deck, sending tendrils of her hair dancing. It was rather pretty, that soft brown. Not obvious, just...nice. He’d never noticed before. Rhys leaned forward and tucked a strand back behind her ear, and she shivered again. He really should not touch her, not until he was feeling more himself, he though
t, and frowned.
‘I must be tired. I think I’ll retire for the night.’
‘Hodge has made up the chaise, by the look of it.’ The valet was pulling down the blinds as he backed out of the vehicle.
‘I’ll just have a word with Polly.’ Thea stood up and brushed at the skirts of the serviceable walking dress she was wearing. ‘Goodnight, Rhys.’ She leaned forward and, before he could react, planted a chaste kiss on his cheek. ‘Thank you for bringing me. I’ll try not to be a nuisance.’
He must be forgiven for that idiotic moment on the quayside, he decided as he watched her making her way across the gently heaving deck, her skirts caught up tight to stop the wind tossing them.
She had developed some very feminine curves since he had last seen her, he realised as she vanished into the companionway. The memory of them pressed against his body was...stimulating.
Ridiculous chit. What on earth had possessed her to think those boy’s clothes would have been any protection at all once it had become light? It was fortunate that he had been home and she had not been out on the streets in the morning.
With a muttered curse Rhys got to his feet and went to see what Hodge was doing to make the carriage habitable for the night. This was Thea, for goodness’ sake! What was the matter with him? He was going to have to find some obliging female company when they reached Paris if a few days’ celibacy had this effect on him. Thea, indeed!
* * *
Hodge had created a snug nest for her with pillows and rugs. Thea took off her shoes and stockings, folded her cloak and lay down. How clever of Polly to suggest she take off her stays, she thought as she wriggled into a comfortable position. There was absolutely no reason why she could not get a perfectly good night’s sleep with the boat moving in such a soothing rhythm.
No reason at all, except that her foolish brain decided to worry about Rhys and his marriage plans. Not that he was going about finding a bride differently from most eligible gentlemen, she supposed, punching a pillow into shape. But this was Rhys, and he was too passionate, too involved, too...alive, to settle for a bland marriage of mutual convenience, surely?
If he would only take an interest in the young women themselves and not in their parentage and dowries, then he might find a soulmate, someone who could heal the wounds Serena had inflicted.
She tried to think what sort of young lady would suit him. Not blonde, of course. But she’d have to be pretty. And... Warm, rocked by the waves, Thea drifted off to sleep.
* * *
‘Ow!’ Thea let out a startled cry, more of confusion than pain. It was dark, her whole left side hurt from colliding with something hard and she had no idea where on earth she was. The surface she was lying on rose and fell and she thumped down again, her limbs tangled in blankets.
The chaise. I’m in the chaise on the deck of the ship and we must have hit a rock or something. Get out.... She scrabbled at the door catch but it wouldn’t open. I’m going to drown.... ‘Rhys!’
Chapter Five
‘Thea?’ The door swung open and Rhys landed on top of her with more force than grace, a shadowy form in the dark. ‘Are you all right? I heard you cry out.’
‘Are we sinking?’ She grabbed for him and found a handful of linen shirt. He must have shed coat and waistcoat before settling for the night.
‘No, nothing like that, we are quite safe.’ The words ended on a grunt of pain as they were jolted up again. ‘Damn, I bit my tongue.’ He wedged himself into a corner and pulled Thea across his lap, his arms safe and sure around her as the panic drained away.
‘The captain has altered course and we’re running across some very choppy waves, something to do with the set of the wind and the way the tide is running. Do you feel sick?’
‘I was asleep, and when I was thrown into the air I had no idea where I was or what was happening, so I was alarmed, but I don’t feel ill, which must be a miracle. This is like being in a butter churn pulled across cobbles.’ She clutched at his arms. ‘How will we ever sleep?’
‘Stay there a moment.’ Rhys began to rummage around in the dark, heaping up blankets by the sound of it. ‘If I lie down diagonally, I can wedge myself pretty well. You lie down in front of me.’
He reached for her hand and tugged and Thea half slid, half tumbled, across his body.
‘Ugh. Turn your back and try not to elbow me in the stomach again.’
‘Sorry.’ It was a very firm stomach. Thea gave herself a brisk mental shake. ‘Like this?’ He was warm and hard and, when his arms came around her to anchor her in place, she stopped sliding about. It did nothing for the up-and-down jolting.
‘Just like this.’ His voice in her ear trembled on the edge of a laugh.
‘What is so funny?’ she enquired tartly.
‘This is. I was imagining our eloping couple—the ones from the book you think we should write. Here they are, alone at last, and Neptune has decided to act as chaperon.’
‘Of course! He is on the seabed, poking up irritably with his trident. Here he goes...again. Ouch.’
‘Try to relax.’ Rhys ignored her snort of derision. ‘We’ll get used to it. Just let go. You need the sleep.’
‘Impossible! How can I sleep like this?’
‘Count dolphins jumping over rocks,’ Rhys murmured in her ear. ‘Sheep would get too wet.’
‘Idiot,’ she murmured. One, two, three...here comes a porpoise....
* * *
Rhys sighed and moved his mouth gently against the head of the woman in his arms. This was the way to wake up. Warm, rocking gently, arms full of soft, curvaceous femininity.
She smelled of roses, whoever she was. He must try to recall her name in a minute; it was ungentlemanly to forget in the morning. Not that he could recall the night before either, but he supposed it must have been good. His body was certainly awake and interested.
When he pulled her more tightly against his groin she snuggled back with an erotic little wriggle that inflamed an already insistent erection to aching point.
‘Mmm.’ Rhys nuzzled the silky fine hair and let his right hand stray lightly across her body. They were both dressed, after a fashion, although their bare feet had obviously made friends in the night. Perhaps she had pulled on her gown again afterwards for warmth, because under the fine wool he could feel uncorseted curves and the sweet weight of an unfettered breast. As his thumb moved across the nipple it hardened and he smiled.
His companion stirred, stretched, her feet sliding down against his. She yawned and he came completely awake. He was in the chaise, on the ship, heading for France and in his arms, pressed against his insistent erection, her breast cupped in his hand, was Lady Althea Curtiss.
Rhys bit back the word that sprang to his lips and went very still. Was she awake? Had she realised? Probably not or she’d be screaming the place down, or, given that this was Thea, applying that sharp elbow where it would do most harm. He let his hand fall away from her breast, lifted the other from her hip, arched his mid-section as far back as he could. If he tried to slide his arm from under her, she would probably wake.
Damn it. Thea, the innocent, respectable friend whom he had already shocked with that embrace. If his wretched wedding tackle would only take the hint and calm down, that would be a help; he was as hard as teak.
Rhys thought about Almack’s, tripe and onions, Latin verbs, tailors’ accounts. It didn’t work. His brain, apparently having lost all its blood in a mad southwards dash, was disobediently musing on just where Thea had acquired those curves from and when she had begun to smell of roses and how that mousey mane of hair could be so silky.
‘Rhys?’ His name was muffled in a yawn.
‘Yes. Roll off my arm, would you? I’ve got pins and needles.’
‘Sorry.’
Merciful relief. In the dim morning light Rhys grabbed for a blanket and hauled it across his lap as he sat up.
Thea sat up, too, stretching her arms in a way that made him moan as her bosom rose and f
ell. ‘Are you all right? Shall I rub it better?’
‘No! I mean, no, my arm is fine now.’ Rhys gave it a shake to demonstrate and grabbed for the door handle. ‘I’ll get out and let you get...get ready. Yes.’ He landed on the deck and bundled the blanket back into the chaise. Damn it, he sounded like a gauche seventeen-year-old. ‘I can see the shore clearly. We’ll be landing soon, I expect.’
‘Oh, good.’ Thea’s voice came faintly through the closed door. ‘I won’t be long.’
Hell’s teeth. Rhys tottered to the main mast, took a firm grip on a rope and dragged cold sea air down into his lungs. What have I agreed to? That isn’t little Thea in there, that is Lady Althea, all grown up...and out and... Stop it. He was, for Heaven’s sake, a sophisticated man with considerable sexual experience. He was a notorious flirt. His wits were normally perfectly capable of dealing with any female. So why couldn’t he cope with this one? It would be better when she was up and dressed and looking like Thea again in that drab dress with her cheerful, intelligent, blessedly ordinary face smiling at him. And her corset on, please, God.
* * *
Thea pulled on her stockings, tied her garters and searched for her shoes, all ordinary, every-morning tasks. Only this was not every morning. Today she had woken up plastered against the body of a virile, aroused man. Which was interesting, if ruinous for her peace of mind. She suspected that Rhys had no idea how awake she had been, or that she knew why he had bundled out of the carriage in such haste with a blanket clutched to his midriff.
After her first encounter with an overamorous rake at a ball during her first Season, she had resolved to discover exactly what physical love involved, if only to avoid unwanted advances.
Her researches had involved a fair amount of eavesdropping on her married acquaintances and discreet rummaging in the library, to say nothing of a survey of some Greek vases that had been pushed right to the back of a high shelf. And there was the Home Farm, of course. No country-bred girl could be completely ignorant, although one hoped one’s husband, if one did ever marry, had more...finesse than Hector, the stud bull. Or Anthony, she thought with a shudder.
