A Breath of Scandal: The Reckless Brides (13 page)

Antigone’s heart twisted up in her chest, wringing the air from her lungs. From comfortably uncomfortable intimacy to unrequited jealousy in one untidy leap. Lord help her, but she had a lot to learn about herself in one evening.

“So it is, my sweet,” Jellicoe answered the barmaid with all the amiable, unforced charm Antigone was coming to expect from him. “I’ll have a pint of your best bitter.” He patted the barmaid’s broad asset comfortably. “And my friend will have cider.”

He was somehow just the sort of man that could get away with such a gesture without getting his teeth slapped out of his head. At least the barmaid seemed not to mind. In fact, she seemed to put a little extra swing into her hips as she sashayed her way back to the bar.

Antigone’s irrational spurt of jealousy would have been fed by his seeming to flirt with the woman, but for the fact that he had kept his eyes steady on her while he ordered, and not on the barmaid.

And the fact that Jellicoe winked at her as he ordered her the cider. It made her ready to forgive him, that wink. It made her go all jumbly inside.

“I like cider.”

“Good, I thought you might. And it will mix better with that cognac you already have sloshing around in your belly.”

There were a lot of things sloshing around in her belly. Like rabid curiosity. “So tell me the story of the woman you lived with, and you didn’t even know.”

He sat back and drew one elbow over the back of his chair, regarding her with those improbably blue, impossibly roguish, smiling eyes. “Too long a story and not really mine to tell. But you do remind me of her.”

“Do I?” The question was out of her mouth before she could stop herself. Evidently strange wanting-to-impress-him sort of hope was part of that belly wash. “Was she your lady love?”

“No.” He didn’t seem to take any offense at so personal a question. His eyes remained clear and bright and smiling as he regarded her. “She was my friend. She still is.”

Antigone had never heard of such a thing—of men living with women they weren’t married to, who were still—
still
—their friends. It seemed impossible. But she was learning that a lot of the things she had formerly thought impossible were not in the least bit so. The fact that she was out, in a tavern, with a man such as Jellicoe, was proof.

What an interesting man, and a good friend, he was proving to be. “So tell me about the navy.”

He nodded and smiled, as if he had a private joke no one else had heard. “What do you want to know?”

“What did you do in the navy?”

“Up until about six months ago I was the first lieutenant on His Majesty’s frigate
Audacious,
under Captain Colyear, whereupon I was promoted and given command of the sloop
Ardent.
Best six months of my life, commanding that vessel. Until their lordships of the Admiralty saw fit to have the ship recalled, the crew dismissed, and the officers put ashore on half-pay for the peace. But it’s nothing more than they have done to half the ships in the fleet. Retrenching, the Admiralty calls it, now that we’ve served our purpose and Napoleon is safely on Elba.”

“Aren’t you happy that the war is over?” The entire country had been in paroxysms of joy for months.

“Not really.” He tipped his head over a little, as if he hadn’t thought of it before and was knocking the thought out of his ear. “It’s a shame, from my point of view, but there you have it. I don’t make the bloody wars, I just fight them. When they let me, that is. But I was good at it, and I like having a profession, so I spent the better part of my first week ashore—last week, in fact—unprofitably haunting the bloody waiting room at the Admiralty’s Levee Day in London, seeking the favor of a command like so many others of my low rank.”

“Low? I thought you were a commander?”

“That I am. But what chance has a lowly commander, only recently promoted, at getting a place when there are experienced post captains aplenty without vessels? It’s a damnable thing for a king’s officer to have to go abegging, but there I sat, hat in hand, for hours with no result, until I was ready to choke on my pride. It’s enough,” he finished as the barmaid laid down their tankards, “to drive an ambitious man to drink.”

“Do you miss it?”

His eyes, so blue and clear, came to hers again. “Like a dead friend. Only this friend I have great hopes of reviving.”

The quiet conviction in his low voice stopped her jabbering questions and put an end to the uncomfortable twinge of envy she had felt for his life, his purpose. Though their lives were entirely different, he was almost as trapped as she.

And she had never thought a man could miss a thing—his profession—in the same way he missed a person. Like the way she missed her papa.

And oh, how she missed him. He had been as essential to her happiness as the air that kept her breathing. As necessary as nourishment. For all his scholarly obliviousness, Papa had never objected when she rode her horse too fast. He never would have betrothed her to Lord Aldridge. And he would have applauded her dispatch of Mr. Stubbs-Haye.

“Exceptional application of force, my Antigone,” he might have said, before he started scribbling out equations comparing her relative mass vis-à-vis Mr. Stubbs-Haye’s, and the potential velocity of her arm. Papa had such a wonderful way of making everything seem like such interesting, logical fun.

God, she missed that. She missed him so badly it hurt, deep down inside. So she supposed Jellicoe got to miss the navy.

But they both needed a distraction. “Will you tell me more about your life at sea? It seems as if it would be terribly exciting, especially as compared to my life.”

“I don’t know if life at sea would be an interesting or suitable topic for a young
person’
s ears.”

Clearly, he meant a young
lady’
s ears. “Nonsense!” she countered. “I’m not squeamish, you know, but you may leave off all discussion of hardship, deprivation, and disease, or the immense danger of facing down enemy fire, if you like. Or, alternatively, you may feel free to discuss the stifling smell of several hundred men crammed into one ship. However you choose.”

Jellicoe didn’t answer, only stared at her with that intensely amused glint in his eye. Finally, he said, “God’s balls, Preston, you amaze me. You continue to amaze me.”

“That can hardly be a good thing.”

“It is a very interesting thing,” he acknowledged. “When I am in your company, I expect I shall never be bored.”

It was as warm a compliment as she could hope to hear. So to cool her flaming cheeks, she took a sip of the crisp, decidedly alcoholic cider, and looked around the taproom. Most of the custom was town men, with a smattering of travelers with their heavy cloaks, and a great many local country men, smoking their pipes, telling uproarious jokes, and playing dominoes close to the fire.

Across the room a dexterous fellow was juggling plates to the amusement of the patrons, tossing them up into the air one right after another, and catching them before they could come crashing down. Every time it looked as if he were on the verge of dropping them all, he added another one. It was marvelous.

Jellicoe watched her gaze. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s charming,” she answered cheerfully. And she meant it. She was having a marvelous time. “I’ve always wanted to know what people do in a place like this.”

“Same as people anywhere do—as they please.”

Ah. That was the difference between them, put into a tiny nutshell. Yes, men—especially young bucks like William Jellicoe and his brother—could always do just as they pleased, while she was meant to do as she as told. She felt an uncomfortable shock of real envy. He may not have his ship or his career, but he had so many other choices that were kept well out of her short reach.

But there was no sense in wishing any further for what could not be—not when she could take advantage of what was, for the moment, laid out in front of her—and no profit in being envious of the one who was so kindly laying it out for her.

Yet Jellicoe’s laughing eyes saw more than she thought. “Surely you are not wishing you were one of them? Would you really want to trade your life for another’s?”

“You will think me nonsensical. And ungrateful for the comforts I have been given.”

“You seem serious-minded enough about the things that matter. You certainly have more interesting and intelligent conversation than any ten other young ladi—” He shot a quick glance around before he smiled, and amended, “
People
I know.”

“And do you actually know ten other young
persons
?” she teased to leaven his grave regard. “With whom to hide in libraries during balls?”

“As a matter of fact I do.” He smiled back with his wonderful lopsided grin, and Antigone felt her good sense slip sideways. “I make it a point to hide and flirt and drink strong liquor with at least ten young persons at every ball.”

She laughed. It was a big, indecorous, openmouthed hoot of laughter, but after her evening, with its strange ups and downs, it felt truly wonderful to be laughing at all. By his own admission, Jellicoe had flirted with her. It made her want to flirt back. “I very much hope you do, Commander! And do you keep a flask secreted about your person in case your host can’t oblige you?”

“I do not, but I will take your advice and get one straightaway. What about you? Do you have a flask hidden away in your large, moth-eaten pockets?”

“Alas, no. I don’t even have a flask and my mother doesn’t keep liquor in the house.”

“And what about your father?”

His question was unexpected, but she had the answer readily enough. “He died. Three months ago last Tuesday.” It shouldn’t hurt to say it anymore. But it did.

“Ah. That would explain the black ribbons.” He gave her a tight, frowning smile. “On your dress, earlier. I thought they were just for fashion. My condolences. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. So am I. More than I can say.”

“Hmm,” he answered meditatively as he slid his elbows onto the table. “Reason enough for any man to start drinking. Is that what started you off?”

“Oh, Dr. Johnson’s book seemed to praise it highly, and the gentlemen at every social event—every ball or evening dinner, even in Wealdgate—always seemed to speak so highly of it,” she explained. “Men are always giving each other a bored, tortured look and saying, ‘God, I need a drink.’ And I suppose I felt bored and tortured, and thought it might just be what I needed to get me through a thoroughly tedious night.”

His smile seemed to walk—no, it
swam
—a sort of an elegant swooping dive to the other side of his face. “And was it?”

“Too hard to say. I was distracted from the liquor by the company. But I did like the way it made me feel—light and warm inside, instead of cold.”

“I know what you mean. I am myself rather fond of a good strong drink, as you may have noticed tonight. And I suppose it is rather hypocritical of us men to try and keep the liquor all to ourselves, to keep it away from the
people
.” He rubbed his finger back and forth on a nick in the table. “But promise me you won’t…” He trailed off, evidently having thought better of his request. He let another moment pass by while he contemplated the rough scratches in the table. “Just promise me not to become overfond of drink. You’re far too nice a young
person
to become a drunkard.”

Antigone had enough sense of propriety to feel her face flush at his words. “I don’t think it’s possible, as I’m never in the presence of liquor long enough to have more than one small drink. Well, tonight makes two, but you needn’t worry on my account.”

“Good,” was all he said, but he continued to look grave and thoughtful, and somehow forceful, his forehead creased with a worried frown which contrasted with the constant laughter in his clear blue eyes.

She supposed that was his air of authority, that thing that kept him divided from the other jolly wastrels in the ballrooms. It was simply there, a part of him, settling upon him as easily and casually as a cloak.

But then, as if he knew he had been too thoughtful, he made a point of returning to his jolly, devil-may-care self. He stretched his hands out over his head and tipped back his chair. “So what’s next on your agenda? Since you’ve promised not to be a drunk, shall we take in an opium den or two?”

“Hoy there, watch yourself.” A scarlet-coated lieutenant shoved Jellicoe’s arm back down. “You’ve spilled my beer, you poxy bastard.”

Jellicoe stilled. And then smiled. And winked at her. All at once. “I hope you’re ready for a real fight.”

“What?” Antigone could feel the breath shorten and tighten in her chest. Panic, that’s what that was, clawing its way up her throat. He must be joking. Was he really going to start a fight over one drunken comment?

The odds of them finding themselves two alone against the rest of the patrons were enormous. Antigone cast a quick gaze around the room. She didn’t recognize anyone on whom they might depend. Too many strangers traveling up or down the country on the London road.

But perhaps Jellicoe was only teasing, because he didn’t wait for her response. He was rising out of his chair slowly, all but growing in place like a giant’s beanstalk, until he towered over the man. “Why, I do beg your pardon, kind sir. What a clumsy, big, oaken oaf I am.”

His voice was serene and happy and assured, and all the more lethal for its pleasant calmness.

Around them, the place grew quiet in ripples, echoing out from where Jellicoe stood. Most people watched the lieutenant, whose face had gone the same brilliant color as his tunic. He clung stubbornly to his ire like an overmatched terrier, although his bark was a little subdued. “You ought to watch what you’re doing,” he groused.

“I most assuredly should. But it never does work.” Jellicoe gave the poor man one of his blindingly charming smiles. “Why don’t I just stand you to another drink instead?” He flipped a golden coin to the barmaid, which sailed right over the man’s head.

The lieutenant was still trying to decide whether to be insulted or not, when a large, weather-beaten fellow in a short blue coat stepped solidly into the space that had miraculously cleared around Jellicoe.