A Lady's Guide to Skirting Scandal (2 page)

It was a shame, really, that this man was not a duke. Or at the very least, a marquess. Had he been one of those things, she would have pursued him. Would have gifted him her favor. Would have let him kiss her, for certain. Maybe even—

“My lady?” Mr. Shaw was looking at her expectantly.

Viola blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I asked if you were feeling all right. You looked a little flushed suddenly.”

“I’m quite fine.”

He nodded, looking unconvinced. “I was afraid the subject matter might have been distressing. My apologies. I quite forgot myself.”

What distressing thing had they been speaking of? Blowfly larvae? Open wounds? Viola almost snorted. Clearly Mr. Shaw had forgotten she had a brother. A brother who had taken great pleasure in tormenting her throughout her childhood with all manner of unpleasant creatures. Not that it had truly bothered her that much—but she had taken an equal amount of pleasure in pretending otherwise just to watch him suffer the consequences from a wrathful parent.

“When we were children, my brother used to put frogs and worms down the front of my dress, Mr. Shaw. Repeatedly. Along with handfuls of pond scum and muck. A tiny larva is of far less consideration.” She surprised herself with that blunt confession. That sort of vulgar admission would be social suicide in a ballroom, a reminder that she had not been born with a title. That she had common roots. That her branch of the family had inherited an earldom quite by accident.

But she wasn’t in a ballroom, flirting with and enthralling a captive audience of titled gentlemen. She was sitting on her arse, on an insufferable ship, in the company of an untitled man who would rather talk about blowflies than her charming comportment or her carefully cultivated appearance.

Mr. Shaw stared at her and then chuckled, the corners of his eyes wrinkling in exactly the way she imagined. Thoughts of titles fled. His smile made her stomach do strange flip-flops.

“You surprise me, my lady,” he said, his face still wreathed in mirth. “I had been led to believe your constitution was of a more delicate nature. I was clearly in the wrong.”

He said it as though it was a compliment. As though her familiarity with pond scum was akin to her familiarity with a perfectly executed waltz. Yet, somehow, Viola found herself smiling back at him. God almighty, but Bart and the Post would have fainted by now if they had been privy to this conversation.

Though what did it matter, really, if she spoke in this manner to this man? After they arrived in New York, Viola would never see him again. There was no need to remember the rules of comportment that she had so diligently obeyed since the mantle of Boden had descended upon their family. Mr. Shaw would certainly not be present in the social circles she would occupy, assuming this New York even had something that resembled nobility. He would not spread gossip to anyone who mattered about her descent into a conversation that was surely beneath her standing as the sister of an earl. And it was better than spending another hour of her life caught in the grips of intolerable boredom.

“There are a great many things to be squeamish about in life, Mr. Shaw.” Like committing an unpardonable faux pas when being introduced to the patronesses of Almack’s. Or wearing something that was a season out of style. Or being dumped on the shore of a place called New York, a thousand miles from civilization. “Believe me, maggots are the least of my concerns.”

Mr. Shaw was still staring at her, a strange expression on his face now. “Would you like to see them?”

“See what?”

Abruptly he stood and held out his hand. “Come with me.”

Viola blinked up at him. “To where?” Where could he take her? There was nowhere to go. They were a tiny blip tossed about in the Atlantic.

“To my surgery.”

Viola frowned. Why on earth would he want her to see his surgery? What could possibly be of interest there? In the next breath, Viola wondered why she was wondering. Really, it wasn’t as if she had a planned excursion to the shops of Bond Street to be followed by a luncheon that would conflict. She had nowhere to go. Absolutely nothing to do.

“Very well.” She put her hand in his, and instantly it was encompassed by a steady warmth, insulated against the sharp wind. A shiver that had nothing to do with the breeze tingled through her.

She allowed him to help her to her feet, and he released her hand. She instantly mourned the loss of his touch.

“Follow me,” he said.

Out of habit, Viola glanced around. Whatever crew were on deck were oblivious of her, focused on their duties. Bart and the Post were still nowhere in sight. No doubt they would forbid her from exploring Mr. Shaw’s surgery in the absence of a sound excuse. Something like having one’s head chopped off. Or contracting the black death.

Yet the idea of defying Bart and the Post was motive enough to follow Mr. Shaw. And the impressive figure that the surgeon cut as he made his way across the decks certainly offered additional incentive. Why had she never noticed the feline grace with which he moved, the easy strength that was evident with every stride? The buckskin breeches he wore certainly left very little to the imagination, and the skirt of his coat undoubtedly hid a very fine—

“My lady?” Mr. Shaw had stopped and was waiting for her.

Viola bit her lip, feeling more lighthearted than she had in almost a month. “Coming, Mr. Shaw.”

T
his probably wasn’t a good idea, having the Earl of Boden’s sister down here
, Nate thought to himself.

Even if they were only looking at blowfly larvae.

When Nate had started his search for passage to the Americas, Heath Hextall, Earl of Boden, had come highly recommended to him by a former cavalryman he’d known from his days serving His Majesty’s military. The earl was honest, Jamie Montcrief had said, and the ships Boden owned were in good repair and were manned by reliable crews that served scrupulous captains.

Nate hadn’t expected the generous terms the earl had offered him, though he’d jumped at the chance to save his coin, money that would be badly needed when he arrived in New York. And so far, the first part of his responsibilities as the resident shipboard surgeon had been simple—the matters that he’d been required to deal with trifling. An abscessed tooth that required removal. A cut that required cleaning and suturing. A nasty splinter that had penetrated under a nail bed and needed to be teased out. All very straightforward.

It was the second part of his responsibilities aboard this packet heading to New York that was a little more fuzzy. The earl had asked Nate to keep an eye on Lady Viola. She was impulsive, her brother had warned. Reckless, he had said. Socially ambitious, he had muttered under his breath, and likely to drag the Hextall name through the mud beyond any hope of redemption should she be left to her own devices. She was in need of constant and careful supervision.

Nate had nodded, as if he knew what any of that meant or had the faintest clue as to what Viola had done that warranted such an estimation. The chaperones that Boden had hired to accompany Lady Viola on this voyage probably knew, though Nate had never asked them. It smacked of petty gossip, and if there was one thing Nate abhorred, it was rumor. That type of circular talk that had been rife among the military ranks, sending doubt, fear, suspicion, and false hope through entire companies of men faster than an epidemic of typhus could travel. Nathaniel Shaw prided himself on making his own judgments—forming his own opinions once he’d satisfied himself with enough fact. It was what made him a good surgeon.

Though he wasn’t sure if it made him a good candidate to keep an eye on Lady Viola. When they’d agreed upon the terms of his passage, the earl had failed to mention how young his sister was. Or how beautiful, what with her quick smile and lush, dark hair. Or how much mischief and life shone from her pretty blue eyes when she thought she had escaped from under the dour supervision of Miss Yates and Miss Woodward. She struck him as a woman who would be easy to like. So he’d been careful to maintain his distance and minimize any interactions, content to let the two chaperones handle their charge.

For the first few weeks of their journey, Miss Yates and Miss Woodward had watched Lady Viola like a hawk, as if they expected her to suddenly strip naked and start winding May Day ribbons up the nearest mast. It had only been in the last week that they’d relaxed—no doubt worn down by the monotony of the voyage—and had been willing to leave Lady Viola unattended for short periods of time.

Like now. Like the moment when she had sought him out.

He stood by the door, watching her circle the surgery.

The cabin allotted to the surgery was relatively large, situated at the very stern of the ship, just below the weather deck. Along the bulkheads, cupboards with latched doors were mounted, polished wooden counters gleaming in the light. A huge wooden table was bolted to the floor in the center of the space. Lanterns were set onto hooks hanging overhead, and a set of shiny saws and knives was mounted above the counters with sturdy-looking brackets.

It was these instruments Lady Viola was examining at the moment.

“What are these for?” she asked.

“For removing limbs.”

“Good heavens.” She touched the tip of her fingers to the handle of one of his saws as if imagining what it felt like to cut through flesh and bone. “Is it very hard to remove a limb?”

Nate was really starting to second-guess the wisdom of his judgment. When Lady Viola had plunked herself down like a child on that deck and made it plain that she wouldn’t be leaving until she’d gotten the conversation she’d come for, he’d purposefully chosen a distasteful topic upon which to expound. The most unsuitable, unladylike matter he could think of. He thought it would be the easiest way to remove her from his presence without being overtly rude.

But then she’d surprised him. Shocked him, actually, with her easy acceptance of a subject that most had little interest in discussing. He didn’t really know why he’d invited her down here. Perhaps to test her. Perhaps to assess just exactly how honest she’d been when she declared that she wasn’t squeamish. For what interest did a lady have in blowflies? Or knives and bone saws?

“Lady Viola, perhaps we should—”

She waved a hand, as if dismissing his reluctance. She’d moved on to a glass dome with a heavy wooden base, fastened to the counter with leather straps to prevent it from sliding. Within its confines, adult flies buzzed, their green bodies glinting like tiny emeralds. A handful of spoiled beef sat at the bottom.

“They’re kind of pretty, aren’t they? The color?” she said, bending to peer through the glass.

Her gown stretched over her back and hips, the fabric hugging the graceful length of her spine and draping over a deliciously rounded backside. He had a sudden urge to step up behind her, taste the skin at the nape of her neck with his tongue, run his fingers down the column of her back, cage her hips, and press himself against her feminine softness. He shifted uncomfortably and looked away. Perhaps the sun really was detrimental to one’s health. It certainly seemed to be detrimental to one’s sanity.

Or perhaps it had just been much too long since he had taken a woman to his bed.

“I think we should return above,” Nate suggested.

“Not yet.”

“But—”

“This is the most interesting thing I’ve done in a month,” she said unhappily. “Don’t make me go back. Not yet.”

Nate hesitated.

“Please.”

It was the
please
that made him capitulate. “Fine.”

“Thank you.” She gave him a wide smile, and he felt a little thrill shoot through his gut. “Did you always want to be a surgeon?” she asked. She’d moved on from the flies and was examining the labels on each of the cupboards.

“Yes,” Nate replied. This was a safe topic.

“Is that what you are going to do in New York?”

“Yes. Until I can gather what I need to head west.”

“West?” She turned to look at him, untying the ribbons that held her bonnet in place. “What is there that is west?”

“Missouri Territory.”

“I’m not familiar with that place.”

Neither was he, really, except from what he had read. All he had was a small map he obsessively examined almost every day, the edges curled and softened from regular handling, and a booklet published by a US army private documenting an account of two men named Lewis and Clark who had explored parts of the territory. “It has only recently been explored and is still largely uncharted. There is opportunity to the west,” he clarified.

“Opportunity?” She wrinkled her nose and pulled her bonnet from her head, smoothing back dark tendrils of hair that the wind had yanked loose. His fingers itched to do that for her. “What kind of opportunity?”

Nate stared at her. “The kind of opportunity that is not available in England for a man who possesses neither land nor a title.”

“Of course.” A small crease had formed between her brows.

“I have drifted my entire life,” he said, not really sure why he was explaining himself to her. “But I’ve always dreamed of owning my own land. Something permanent. Something I can shape and pass on to my children one day.”

“You’re married.” There was surprise in her statement.

“No.” Nate frowned.

“Then you’re not planning on marrying her?”

“What?” Now he was confused.

“You said you wanted to pass something along to your children. Surely they have a mother?”

“I don’t have children. Yet. I don’t have a wife. Yet.”

“Oh.” Viola looked pleased, and for some absurd reason, that pleased
him
. “But you want to get married?”

Why were they even talking about this? “Yes, I suppose,” he hedged. “Eventually.”

Viola nodded as though that cleared up a puzzle for her. “Well, that’s good. Men should be married. I suppose you’ll acquire a wife in New York?”

She made it sound as though he would pick one up at the local emporium. Along with a pound of horseshoe nails and a twist of tobacco. “Perhaps.”

“And are there very many women in New York who are looking for men to take them west to this Missouri?” She looked faintly doubtful.

Nate could feel his eyebrows bunching together. When she put it like that, he rather doubted it too. “I don’t presume to know.”

“
Hmph.
How will you get there? To Missouri?”

“By horse, most likely.”

“Is Missouri far? From New York?”

Nathaniel blinked. “Have you not looked at a map of where you are going?”

“No. I don’t plan on staying for an extended period of time.”

He gave her a long look before pushing past her to collect a dog-eared book that lay on the counter. He opened it, unfolding the map and smoothing it flat. “Come here.”

Lady Viola joined him at the counter, peering around his shoulder.

“This is where we are going,” he said, pointing to the tiny island that sat cradled in a mass of inlets and rivers along the coast. “And this is where I will go once I get there.” His finger traveled west over the familiar lines to trace the boundaries that encompassed the territory. “The whole of England would fit within here many times over,” he said.

She leaned forward, the length of her side pressing against him, and he could feel the warmth of her. For some perverse reason, he stayed exactly where he was.

“And are there no cities? Towns? Coaching roads?” She was staring at the empty space within the lines.

“Not yet.”

“Good heavens. How very…”

“Exciting.”

“I was going to say intimidating. Really, Mr. Shaw, I do think you’re going to have a hard time finding a wife in New York. For what sort of woman would want to go somewhere like that?”

“A daring one,” he responded without thinking. “One who craves adventure and isn’t afraid of the unknown.”

“
Hmph.
” She folded the map back and carefully closed the book. “What on earth will you do once you get there?”

“What I have done my entire life. There is always a need for a surgeon, Lady Viola.” He turned his body slightly, so that his hip rested against the edge of the counter. “No matter where I go.”

“I suppose you’re quite a good surgeon,” she said, her eyes flicking to the saws and the flies and the cupboards behind him.

“Yes,” he said honestly. “I am. It gives me purpose, and it gives me pride.”

“I could never do anything like that,” she murmured.

Nate thought of her casual dismissal of blowflies, the unhesitating way she examined his saws, and the straightforward, unswerving way she met his gaze. “You’re wrong. I think you would be good at it, in fact.”

Her mouth twisted slightly, doubt etched across her features.

“What will you do, my lady? In New York.”

“Serve my penance,” she muttered.

“Your penance?” That wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. “Penance for what?”

A faint stain of pink climbed into her cheeks. “It doesn’t matter. I will endure the charms of New York and return to London in the spring.”

“Why not stay for a year or two? Give New York a chance? What’s in London you need to return to in such a hurry?”

“A duke.”

“A duke?” Nate repeated.

She nodded.

He waited for her to expound, but she didn’t. “And this duke is a person?”

“Of course he’s a person,” she said. “What else is there?”

“Well, one of the sergeants I served had a chestnut gelding he called Duke. And there was a rifleman I extracted a bullet from who had a one-eyed mongrel dog he called Duke. And—”

“My duke is not a mongrel,” she said peevishly. “He will be my husband. And he will have two eyes.”

“You’re betrothed.” Something he didn’t want to name sank unpleasantly in his gut.

“Not yet. But I will be. Just as soon as I can get back to London.”

“May I ask which duke it is that you are planning to marry?” He wasn’t sure why he wanted to know. It wasn’t like he knew very many dukes. A couple who had some military connections. There was the Earl of Boden’s friend, the Duke of Worth, whom Nate had met briefly in the earl’s offices at the London Docks. But that was about the extent of his familiarity with dukes of the two-legged variety.

“I’m not sure yet,” Lady Viola admitted.

“What?”

“I haven’t decided.”

Now she was the one who sounded as though she planned to pick up a husband at the local emporium. Along with a yard of silk ribbon and a partridge in a pear tree.

“I see. And what will you do once you’ve married this as-yet-to-be-identified duke?”

“Do? I won’t need to do anything. I will be a duchess.” She sounded extremely pleased with the way the word
duchess
rolled from her lips.

Nate folded his arms. This woman was a walking contradiction. One minute she was professing an ease with pond scum and the next she sounded just like a hundred other lofty aristocrats who lacked a real understanding of how the world worked for anyone not of their class. Suddenly Lord Boden’s enigmatic use of the term
socially ambitious
when he was describing his sister became a whole lot less enigmatic.

Nate found himself inexplicably disappointed. He had thought for a moment that Viola might be different. Though he wasn’t going to let her off that easily.

“But what, Lady Viola, will be your purpose? When you go to bed each night, what will you have accomplished each day that you will be proud of?”

Viola was frowning now. “I expect I will be quite busy as a duchess,” she said primly.