Georgana's Secret (Proper Romance)

by Arlem Hawks

  So he loved Georgana. What was he to do about that? Nothing. He couldn’t change their interactions now that his heart had made up its mind. That would have to wait until they got to shore in more than a month. He didn’t know if he could keep this strange sensation captive for so long.

  The breath expelled from his lungs. He hadn’t a clue how to love a lady. By the time of Dominic’s birth, his father had fallen out of love with the sweetheart of his youth, blinded by his new fortune and her low birth.

  Dominic leaned his head back against the mast. Creaking rumbled up through the wood’s grains and into his skull. His brother, nearly as distant as his father, had married after Dominic went to sea. And he did not consider the common escapades of seamen and officers as valid examples of how to love a woman.

  With a groan, he made for the shroud to drag his tired body back to his cabin. His limbs were loath to move again. Hand over hand he lowered himself down to the deck.

  He loved Georgana Woodall. His lips crept upward. Somehow it felt wonderful to finally think it. He couldn’t say what would happen, but for now he enjoyed the uncertain glow that flickered inside.

  At the entrance to the wardroom, Georgana straightened and cleared her mind. She had to guard herself against the two lieutenants sitting at the table before her. She didn’t know which she feared more just now, the glare or the grin.

  Both looked up when she entered. They sat on opposite ends of the table, Peyton studying charts and Jarvis studying his drink. Peyton’s face softened.

  Georgana swallowed. She touched her thumb and forefinger to where the brim of her cap should have been. “The captain sent me to inform you he will dine in the wardroom tomorrow evening for Trafalgar Night.”

  “To celebrate true heroes, unlike himself,” Jarvis muttered under his breath.

  Peyton’s hands tensed on the table, but he didn’t favor Jarvis with a response. “Does he wish to see the menu?”

  “He trusts your judgment,” she said. Peyton’s brow lifted at her answer.

  “I will write it out for him all the same.” He pulled a paper from under his maps. The corner had been torn off, the rip the inverse shape of the scrap she hid in her sea chest. She didn’t like to admit how many times she’d pulled the note out to gaze at it.

  She squirmed as his hand moved across the page. Even though he wrote slowly, the letters looked rushed. They matched their writer’s windswept hair and rumpled shirt. His cravat hung loose and untidy. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and no jacket or waistcoat was in sight.

  “You’ll excuse my state—I just climbed the shroud,” he said quietly. He’d caught her staring. Her face flamed.

  Peyton set down his pen and pushed back his chair. He looked as though he wanted to say something but closed his mouth and held out the list.

  Georgana grasped the paper, prepared to run from the room. But before she could take a step, the deck pitched, sending her stumbling to the side. Her shoe caught a fastening in the deck, and she went sprawling across the lieutenant’s lap. His arm flashed out to catch her. For a moment their wide eyes locked as he held her, her head cradled in the crook of his arm. His skin was warm against the back of her neck.

  He was holding her.

  She yelped and rolled to the floor. Her head bashed against the table on her way down and sparks flashed through her vision. She moaned, curling into a ball and holding her bruised crown. Heat crept up to her ears.

  “Clumsy oaf,” Jarvis said.

  “Are you all right, George?” Peyton reached to help her up.

  She pulled herself to hands and knees, blinking against the pain. Her throat tightened. She wanted to stay curled under the table. Maybe sink into the deck. She crawled out, brushing against his knee and past his outstretched hand.

  A steadying touch on her back sent shivers along her spine. Falling into his lap was not the way to distance herself. She scrambled away.

  “Are you hurt?” Peyton’s hand still hung in the air, extended toward her.

  “He’s fine,” Jarvis said.

  Georgana shook her head and held up the paper to block her face. “I’ll take this to the captain.” Then she ran, before any sudden movements threw her back into his arms.

  Chapter 24

  Even though Georgana had already eaten, the smell of the officers’ Trafalgar dinner wafting through the wardroom made her mouth water. Steam from salty beef, fresh rolls, and boiled potatoes rose from the officers’ plates. A great pudding graced the center of the table, its fruity gems glistening in the light of a dozen lanterns.

  She stood beside the door to Peyton’s cabin, in reach in case her father should need something. That put her in plain sight of the first lieutenant, sitting to the captain’s right. She should have stood on the other side. Staring at the back of his brown hair was easier than trying to avoid staring into his hazel eyes.

  The wardroom buzzed with conversation. There hadn’t been so big a gathering of officers since setting sail from Portsmouth in July. Several of the midshipmen joined the feast. Only two officers were absent—Jarvis, who had taken the watch, and Étienne. She imagined it uncomfortable for the Frenchman to celebrate the defeat of his homeland. He had excused himself, insisting he was needed in the sick bay.

  Peyton stayed curiously quiet most of the meal. He generally loved the mealtime banter. His face often lit up as he conversed with his fellow officers. Now he mostly stared down at his plate, cutting his meat with precision. Each time his eyes lifted, she tore her gaze away. If her father hadn’t insisted she come to assure him of her safety, she would have stayed behind in the main cabin. Just watching Peyton made her heart beat too fast for comfort.

  It wasn’t as though she could truly escape him on this ship. That wouldn’t come until England. Until then she needed to learn how to remain firm, despite her longing.

  The pudding was cut, and the aroma of sweet spices filled the wardroom. Georgana drank them in. The hasty puddings Cook had made for her and the rest of the crew had not smelled as rich.

  She shifted to ease the strain on her feet. This dinner had lasted longer than her father’s dinners with the lieutenants, and her hammock called to her from the deck above. Soon, she assured herself, as the last few officers finished their helpings of pudding. Soon she would escape his attention and guide her thoughts to safer harbors.

  Her father cleared his throat. “Tonight we commemorate the sacrifice of British sailors who did not shirk their duty.” Peyton’s head lowered. “Sailors and marines who stood between their country and the enemy, that their families might not taste the devastation now surging through Europe. We remember with gratitude their leader, our leader, who would not sit idly by when someone threatened those he loved.”

  A lump formed in Georgana’s throat. Papa had sacrificed and worried so much over her protection, but he would never be recognized for it.

  Peyton watched the captain with a peculiar look on his face, as though he saw something different from the others in the gathering.

  Papa lifted his glass, the liquid inside notably clearer than the others. The officers followed suit. Peyton’s glass looked as full as when he’d first sat down.

  “To the immortal memory of Admiral Lord Nelson and those who gave all for their king, their country, and their families,” the captain said.

  “To Lord Nelson!”

  The gathering drank deeply from their glasses, except Peyton who barely allowed his drink to wet his lips. As glasses returned to the table, he kept his in hand. His chest expanded, pulling his waistcoat tight across it.

  “Kind friends and companions, come, join me in rhyme.”

  Georgana jumped as the melody drifted from the lieutenant’s mouth. “Come, lift up your voices in chorus with mine.” Clear and strong, the words slid over the lilting notes with practiced ease. “Come, lift up your voices, no grief to refrain. For we may or might never all meet here again.”

  His voice stilled the room, as though he’d caught
all in a trance. She froze, back pressed against the door of his cabin. His voice was gentle, imploring. It made her heart ache with its bittersweet tones as he sang the chorus.

  “Here’s a health to the company, and one for my lass. Let us drink to good fortune, all out of one glass.

  Come, lift up your voices, no grief to refrain,

  For we may or might never all meet here again.”

  She recognized the tune. It was an Irish one the crew sang on occasion. She liked it better the way Peyton sang it, with sincerity rather than raucous laughter.

  Peyton’s gaze grew distant. “Here’s a health to the dear lass that I love so well. For style and for beauty, there’s none can excel.”

  What woman graced his memory? How she wished he could look at her with the admiration that shone in his features just now. She flinched at the pang that reverberated through her. This. This was why she needed to distance herself. Loving Lieutenant Peyton would only lead to disappointment.

  “There’s a smile on her countenance as she sits upon my knee.” Peyton’s lips twitched mischievously. “And there’s no one in this wide world as happy as me.”

  The officers joined him in the chorus, their voices rumbling across the deck. The sound might have stirred her soul, had her soul not been smarting from the thoughts she allowed through her mind. She needed to leave. It was close enough to the end of the dinner that her father shouldn’t worry about her being alone too long in the dark. She glanced once more at Peyton.

  “Here’s a health to the company.” His eyes locked on hers. “And one for my lass.” He nodded ever so slightly toward her, lifting his glass. Her heart leaped into her throat.

  She didn’t hear the rest of the chorus, even as she watched his grinning lips form the words. Heat drained from her face. She tried to step back, rattling the door with her movement.

  Run, her head screamed.

  Her feet obliged. So caught up in the song, the officers paid no notice to her flight. She flung herself up the ladder faster than she had at any other time during her sojourn at sea. From his post, the marine narrowed his eyes as she bolted past him into the main cabin and slammed the door.

  Faint moonlight from the windows fell on the table in the center of the shadowy room. She’d cleared it before they went to the wardroom, but now something sat in the pale light on its surface. Peyton’s voice filtered through the boards below her feet.

  “Our ship lies at harbor. She’s ready to dock. I wish her safe landing, without any shock.”

  Georgana’s shaking hands lifted the flask from the table. She pulled out the stopper. The sharp perfume of tangy limes wafted through the cabin. When had he brought this here?

  “And if ever I should meet you by land or by sea, I will always remember your kindness to me.”

  She brought the flask to her lips and sipped the brilliance of secluded lagoons and Caribbean sunsets. Had he figured out her secret? Surely her mind played tricks. Had she imagined the smile, the pointed nod? No one else seemed to see it.

  He couldn’t have figured it out. In three years, no one had. She held the flask, cooled from the chill of the captain’s quarters, to her brow. It brought minimal relief to her burning face.

  If he disclosed any of his suspicions to others in the crew . . . Georgana flinched. Her knees started to buckle as she staggered to her hammock. If word got out, she would be ruined. Her father could face a court-martial.

  Peyton wouldn’t do that, would he?

  She sat and swung her legs into the hammock with the flask still nestled in her hands. The hammock swished back and forth.

  “For we may or might never all meet here again.”

  In the wardroom, the last muted notes of the song fizzled out. She took another sip of the lime water. Her lovesick heart had pushed her to see things she longed to see. Yes, that had to be the answer. As brilliant as Peyton was about the sea, she didn’t think he knew very much about women.

  Except perhaps the mysterious woman he had alluded to before—the one he probably sang about tonight. Georgana flumped back. The tenderness in his voice as he sang the lines about the dear lass sent her heart in a downward spiral.

  She pushed herself up on one elbow, making the hammock swing. When he had sung those last words before she rushed out, he did not have a moonstruck look. Those eyes glittered with amusement. And stared directly at her.

  Blast that lieutenant.

  She dropped back to her pillow and curled up on one side, the flask of lime clutched in her arms. There was only one way to be certain how much he knew and calm her racing mind. Tomorrow, she had to confront him, but she would have to do so without giving her identity away, if he didn’t already know.

  Georgana closed her drooping eyes, tartness still clinging to her tongue. She didn’t know how she would ask. She only hoped tomorrow would bring a plainer view of the situation. As she dozed, her subconscious hummed Peyton’s song, swirling it about her head until it filled her dreams.

  For we may or might never all meet here again.

  Pounding in his temples woke Dominic. The blackness of his cabin told him he’d awoken far too early for his forenoon watch. He would have turned over and tried to sleep again, but images of last night’s Trafalgar commemoration bounded into his mind.

  He’d heard of men being fools in love, but he hadn’t expected to throw all care to the wind a mere day after realizing love was the cause of his jumbled emotions. She’d seen his acknowledgment, and she’d run.

  The pounding continued but not from his head. Dominic sat up. Drums.

  The screech of the boatswain’s whistle pierced the frantic beat. Shouts of “Ship!” rolled through the messdeck, dampened by the bulwark between the wardroom and the rest of the deck.

  Dominic jolted from his cot and fumbled for his sea chest in the dark. He could hear men breaking down the collapsible barriers already. He shoved two unfinished letters lower in the chest as he pulled out his coat and other effects. Though he had hoped to finish the messages before the next battle, he would have to pray he had the time to finish them later.

  He strapped the holster for his pistol across his chest, then covered it with his coat. His fingers brushed the patch Georgana had mended. Nearly over his heart.

  Where was she? He buckled on his cutlass, removed a folded page from his other coat, and slammed the lid of his trunk. A waft of lime swirled up from the little garland he had purchased for his mother. He shook his head, dismissing memories of the tropical sunset and slid the square of paper into his coat pocket. Bicorn tucked under his arm, he ran from the room.

  He nearly knocked over a wide-eyed Georgana on the gun deck. His hands caught her elbows to keep her upright. What was she doing here? She should already have gone below. His grip tightened around her.

  “You’re going to the powder room?” he asked.

  “Peyton!” someone shouted down the hatch from the upper deck.

  “I need to speak with you after,” she said, fingers digging into the sleeves of his coat.

  “Yes.” He pulled himself away before he could kiss her furrowed brow. Not now. He needed his wits.

  Dominic pulled on his hat upon reaching the main level and strode for the quarterdeck on Moyle’s heels. The captain barked orders. Midshipmen scattered over the deck toward their assignments.

  “Whom do we face, sir?” Dominic asked. “Is it the American merchant again?” He blinked. The barest hint of morning light from behind him caught the sheets of not one but two vessels bearing down on them. The stiff wind filled their sails. Around the deck of the Deborah, men shouted and pulled at lines.

  “Have them wet the sails,” Captain Woodall said, raising the telescope. “I want to outrun them as long as we can. Get some light before we do battle.”

  Dominic relayed the orders, then returned to the captain’s side. “How did they catch us in the dark?”

  The captain shrugged. “Last night we probably had enough lanterns on deck to alert any ship wit
hin thirty miles.”

  The risk of celebrating at sea.

  “They’ll come along either side,” Captain Woodall said. “Prepare the crew for an all-out attack.”

  “Yes, sir.” Surrounded. Dominic fought to keep his hand from tugging at his stock. He couldn’t let the crew see anything but confidence. The Deborah outgunned the privateers, but in the chaos of firing guns from both port and starboard sides, anything could happen.

  The captain grabbed his arm before he left. “Where is George?” The strain in his voice echoed Dominic’s own fears.

  “I sent him to the powder room.”

  They both knew the order wouldn’t necessarily keep her there. But with both of them needed on the quarterdeck, it was the best they could do. How strange, to care so much for a person Captain Woodall also held dear. Dominic had never experienced the camaraderie of protecting someone else. He’d always been on his own.

  “He’ll be fine,” Dominic said. He clapped the captain’s arm. “We’re in far more danger up here than he will be.”

  Captain Woodall nodded. “Carry on.”

  Chapter 25

  Georgana didn’t stay in the powder room long. With almost sixty men still down with the sickness, how could she? A few were trying to fight through their malady, but most were safely deposited in the cockpit. The help of every healthy person was needed.

  Very little light touched the gun deck, only enough to see faceless shapes. Lanterns were forbidden. One overturned candle in the chaos of battle, and the whole ship could go up in flames.

  “No more powder,” came the order when Georgana deposited her load. Gun crews on both sides of the ship crouched in readiness. She’d never experienced a battle on both sides. Her dry mouth made it difficult to swallow.

  She followed the other powder monkeys to their stations near the center of the gun deck. No one spoke. She met Fitz’s eyes, barely visible in the twilight. For all his earlier bravado, she could feel his terror.