A Lady's Guide to Skirting Scandal (8 page)

“I want you with me, Viola Hextall,” Nate whispered. “And I would have you as my wife, if you would have me as your husband.”

Viola squeezed her eyes shut, even as her heart stuttered and the air left her lungs. “You’re asking me to marry you?” She slowly opened her eyes.

He was studying her. “Yes.”

“But—”

He pressed his fingers to her lips. “Just think about it. But whatever you decide, decide for yourself. Not for me, not for anyone but yourself.”

Wordlessly, Viola nodded.

“Good.” He kissed her, wrapping his arms around her, and pulling her on top of him.

“What are you doing?”

He smiled at her, his eyes darkening with desire as his hands circled her hips. “Teaching you something else.”

H
e was gone when she woke.

Viola buried her face in the pillow where the scent of him lingered, stretching and feeling her body protest in places she hadn’t even known existed until last night. She examined her conscience for regret but found nothing. Nothing except that relentless, novel emotion that made her weepy and joyous all at once.

She thought she could do this. Thought she could be with this man and not give him her heart. She thought she could weather Nathaniel Shaw, but he had taken her soul apart and left nothing but pieces of truth and honesty and…love. And she couldn’t even bring herself to imagine what would happen at the end of this voyage when he stepped off this ship destined for his forever and she had to watch him go.

Viola realized her eyes had blurred again, and frowned. She dressed quickly, hearing the sound of industrious activity above her. Well past dawn then. She went to the door, not sure if it would still be locked from the outside, but it swung open easily. Apparently Bart and the Post had decided that her sentence for her behavior yesterday had been served sufficiently. She started toward the galley, her stomach growling, but that last thought stopped her cold. Retracing her steps, she headed down the passage, directly toward the surgery.

Nate was nowhere to be seen, but Robbie was still there, propped up on a cot. His hand was still swaddled in bandages, tethered in a sling that crossed his chest, but his color was good, at least as far as she could tell, and he looked to be sleeping peacefully. She turned to leave.

“I thought I dreamt you,” Robbie said from where he lay.

Viola turned back into the surgery. She took a tentative step in.

“But you’re real.”

Viola laughed out loud. “I’m afraid I’m very much real. How are you feeling?”

“Ach, I’ll live.” Robbie smiled at her. “You were the one askin’ about me brother yesterday. And his bairns.”

“Yes.”

“An’ stitching me hand.”

Viola bit her lip.

“Mr. Shaw showed me. Explained to me what he’d done. What ye did.”

She wasn’t sure what to say. Was he angry?

“I’m glad you were there. Ye’ve a right fair hand.”

His words sent a rush of emotion through her that eclipsed anything she had ever felt when paid a compliment.

“Ne’er seen a fine lady in a surgery afore, though.”

“I wasn’t really supposed to be there,” she confessed. “And I certainly heard no end of the impropriety of being in a room with a half-naked man from my chaperones.”

Robbie made a rude noise and glanced down at his bare chest. “But a fully dressed one who’d make ye his in a heartbeat is acceptable?”

Viola stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”

Robbie snorted again. “Your Mr. Shaw.”

“Is certainly not—”

“The man’s face changes when he talks of ye. His voice, his manner. I seen me brother in love. I know the signs.” He nodded knowingly, looking pleased with himself. “It’s good he has such a fine partner.”

Viola swallowed. The nameless emotion that had rooted into her chest was creeping into her throat and behind her eyes. Again. What was wrong with her?

“Mr. Shaw is an excellent surgeon,” she said, and the inanity of such a statement was not lost on her. Of course he was an excellent surgeon. The two people in the cabin had seen that firsthand.

Robbie shifted, wincing slightly as he moved his arm. “He is indeed. I owe him. Couldn’t imagine not being able to sail.”

“You’ve always wanted to be at sea?” Viola asked, grasping the change in topic like a lifeline thrown to a drowning soul.

“Always. Since the time I was wee, and me uncle gave me a toy boat. Though me da was determined I’d farm like me brother.”

“But you went to sea anyway?”

“What good is being miserable for yer whole life to do what someone else wants ye to do? I’d never had a skill with the land—that’s me brother’s gift. This here”—he gestured to the light streaming in from the sky over the open sea—“is my gift. This is what makes me happy. I’ve never regretted me choice.”

Unhappiness is the same as regret
, she heard Nate say in her mind. Viola suddenly wondered if it really were that easy. When loss didn’t have to be a loss at all, had you only had the courage or the wisdom to change the course of things.

Her eye fell on the slim volume that Nate had loaned her, detailing the adventures of two men who had ignored those who preached failure, and set off into the unknown. She thought of what waited for her in New York—a predictable parade of what passed as society, filled with people who would judge her on the cut of her dress and the manner in which she held her dinner fork. She thought of the map inside the sleeve of that book, and the empty slate that just might offer endless possibilities.

She had tried to be the perfect daughter of a soapmaker. She had tried to be the perfect sister of an earl. She had tried so hard to be a perfect part of an imperfect society that she had turned herself into a person she no longer recognized. Perhaps, just this once, she would try being Viola Hextall.

“I have to go,” she said abruptly.

Robbie was watching her from beneath drowsy eyelids. “You want me to tell yer Mr. Shaw ye were here?”

“No need,” Viola said. “I’ll tell him myself.”

T
he Anatomy of the Human Body
was sitting neatly in the center of the surgery table.

Nate picked it up, noting that there was a new sheet of paper tucked into the book, just inside the front cover. He opened it, finding Viola’s neat handwriting covering the entire page. He’d stayed away from her all day, not an easy task on a ship, and not an easy task when all he wanted to do was to find her, sweep her into his arms, and kiss her witless again. Take her back to his bed and teach her everything he knew about making love and then let her teach him things he didn’t.

But he’d wanted her to have the time and space to examine whatever she might be feeling after last night. To examine his offer.

He wanted her with him, of that he had no doubt. What he doubted was whether she would be able and ready to abandon her world. But he’d meant what he’d said. That whatever her decision, it had to be hers.

Though he didn’t know if he would survive leaving her behind.

He lifted the paper up to the dying light from outside. Robbie had been well enough to ask to join his crewmates for their dinner, and Nate had happily agreed, knowing that food and good spirits went a long way in helping the body recover. And now he was glad for the privacy. He was almost afraid to read the paper he held, and he realized with no little consternation that his hands were shaking. Which was ridiculous. He was a grown man. He cleared his throat, set his jaw, and read the first line.

Nate felt his mouth go dry.

1. How to set a bone properly.
   
2. How to ride astride. (You’ll find I am an excellent rider in the sidesaddle fashion, but such seems unrealistic after having read Lewis and Clark’s account of the terrain.)
   
3. How to treat a fever.
   
4. How you did that thing last night with your—
   

“Will it be possible?”

Nate jerked and spun toward the door to find Viola standing there, watching him. Her long black hair had been pulled back but the wind above decks had had its way with it, and now it framed her face in gorgeous disarray. Her cheeks were flushed, her blue eyes wide. His heart missed a beat.

“Will what be possible?” he asked faintly. Dear God, did this list mean that—

“Everything on that list. Will you be able to teach me all of those things?”

Nate found that words had deserted him.

“Have you changed your mind?” Her words were barely audible.

“No!” It burst from him with horror, joy hard on its heels. He dropped the paper and strode over to her, gathering her in his arms the way he’d fantasized about all day. “God, no.” He felt her arms go about his waist, and never had anything felt more perfect. He bent his head and caught her lips with his. “I think I’m quite in love with you.”

“Love makes people do crazy things, does it not?” she asked, her voice muffled where her head was pressed into his shoulder.

He closed his eyes briefly, a happiness like no other flooding through him. “I will teach you anything you want to know. You have but to ask,” he said against her ear.

Viola drew back slightly, that wicked, mischievous smile he so adored on her lips. “Good,” she said. “I thought we could start with number four tonight.”

Nate shoved the surgery door shut with his foot. “Let’s start with number four right now.”

Viola laughed, a beautiful sound, and he picked her up, depositing her on the surgery table. He glanced at the anatomy text as he moved to push it out of the way. He stopped, his eyes going to the tiny square he had drawn in the corner.

“You chose the people who matter,” he said quietly.

“Yes.”

Nate let his hand linger on the two names entwined within the borders, thinking that they looked very fine together indeed.

Nathaniel Shaw and Viola Hextall.

B
eing dead was not without its drawbacks.

The tavern was one of them. More hovel than hostelry, it was plunked capriciously in a tiny hamlet, somewhere near nowhere. Her mere presence in this dismal place proved time was running out and desperation was beginning to eclipse good sense.

Gisele shuffled along the filthy wall of the taproom, wrinkling her nose against the overripe scent of unwashed bodies and spilled ale. She sidestepped neatly, avoiding the leering gaze and groping fingers of more than one man, and slipped into the gathering darkness outside. She took a deep breath, trying to maintain a sense of purpose and hope. The carefully crafted demise of Gisele Whitby four years earlier had granted her the freedom and the safety to reclaim her life. True, it had also driven her to the fringes of society, but until very recently, forced anonymity had been a benediction. Now it was proving to be an unwanted complication.

“What are you doing out here?” The voice came from beside her, and she sighed, not turning toward her friend.

“This is impossible. We’ll not find him here.”

Sebastien gazed at the sparrows quarreling along the edge of the thatch in the evening air. “I agree. We need a male without feathers. And they are all inside.”

Gisele rolled her eyes. “Have you been inside? There is not a single one in there who would stand a chance at passing for a gentleman.”

Sebastien brushed nonexistent dust off his sleeve. “Perhaps we haven’t seen everyone who—”

“Please,” she grumbled. “Half of those drunkards have a dubious command of the English language. And the other half have no command over any type of language at all.” She stalked toward the stables in agitation.

Sebastien hurried across the yard after her.

“The man we need has to be clever and witty and charming and courageous and… convincingly noble.” She spit the last word as if it were refuse.

“He does not exactly need to replace—”

“Yes, he does,” Gisele argued, suddenly feeling very tired. “He has to be all of those things. Or at least some of those and willing to learn the rest. Or very, very desperate and willing to learn them all.” She stopped, defeated, eyeing a ragged heap of humanity leaning against the front of the stable, asleep or stewed or both. “And we will not find all that here, in the middle of God knows where.”

“We’ll find someone,” Sebastien repeated stubbornly, his dark brows knit.

“And if we can’t?”

“Then we’ll find a way. We’ll find another way. There will—”

Whatever the slight man was going to say next was drowned out by the sound of an approaching carriage. Gisele sighed loudly and stepped back into the shadows of the stable wall out of habit.

The vehicle stopped, and the driver and groom jumped down. The driver immediately went to unharness the sweat-soaked horses, though the groom disappeared inside the tavern without a backward glance, earning a muttered curse from the driver. Inside the carriage Gisele could hear the muffled tones of an argument. Presently the carriage door snapped open and a rotund man disembarked, stepping just to the side and lighting a cheroot. A well-dressed woman leaned out of the carriage door behind him to continue their squabble, shouting to be heard over the driver, who was leading the first horse away and calling for a fresh team.

Gisele watched the scene with growing impatience. She was preoccupied with her own problems and annoyed to be trapped out by the stables where there was no chance of finding any solution. Still, the carriage was expensive and it bore a coat of arms, and she would take no chances of being recognized, no matter how remote this tavern might be.

She was still plotting when the driver returned to fetch the second horse from its traces. As he reached for the bridle, the door to the tavern exploded outward with enough force to knock the wood clear off its hinges and send a report echoing through the yard like a gunshot. The gelding spooked and bolted forward, and the carriage lurched precariously behind it. The man standing with his cheroot was knocked sideways, his expensive hat landing somewhere in the dust. From the open carriage doorway, the woman began screaming hysterically, spurring the frightened horse on.

“Good heavens,” gasped Sebastien, observing the unfolding drama with interest.

Gisele stood frozen as the unidentifiable lump she had previously spied leaning against the stable morphed into the form of a man. In three quick strides, the man launched himself onto the back of the panicked horse. With long arms he reached down the length of the horse’s neck and easily grabbed the side of the bridle, pulling the animal’s head to its shoulder with firm authority. The horse and carriage immediately slowed and then stopped, though the lady’s screaming continued.

Sliding down from the blowing horse, the man gave the animal a careful once-over that Gisele didn’t miss and handed the reins back to the horrified driver. The ragged-looking man then approached the woman still shrieking in the carriage and stood before her, waiting patiently for her to stop the wailing that was beginning to sound forced. He reached up a hand to help her down, and she abandoned her howling only to recoil in disgust.

“My lady?” he queried politely. “Are you all right? May I offer you my assistance?”

“Don’t touch me!” the woman screeched, her chins jiggling. “You filthy creature. You could have killed me!”

By this time a number of people had caught up to the carriage, and Gisele pressed a little farther back into the shadows of the stable wall. The woman’s husband, out of breath and red-faced, elbowed past the stranger and demanded a step be brought for his wife. Her rescuer simply inclined his head and retreated in the direction of the tavern, shoving his hands into the pockets of what passed for a coat. He ducked around the broken door and disappeared inside. He didn’t look back.

Gisele held up a hand in warning.

“He’s perfect,” Sebastien breathed anyway, ignoring her.

Gisele crossed her arms across her chest, unwilling to let the seed of hope blossom.

“You saw what just happened. He just saved that wretched woman’s life. You said courageous, clever, and charming. That was the epitome of all three.” Sebastien was looking at her earnestly.

“Or alternatively, stupid, lucky, and drunk.”

It was Sebastien’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Fine.” Gisele gave in, allowing hope a tiny foothold. “Do what you do best. Find out who he is and why he is here.”

“What are you going to do?”

Gisele grimaced. “I will return to yonder establishment and observe your newfound hero in his cups. If he doesn’t rape and pillage anything in the next half hour and can demonstrate at least a tenth the intellect of an average hunting hound, we’ll go from there.”

Sebastien grinned in triumph. “I’ve got a good feeling about him, Gisele. I promise you won’t regret this.” Then he turned and disappeared.

I am already regretting it
, Gisele thought dourly twenty minutes later, though the lack of a front door had improved the quality of the air in the taproom, if not the quality of its ale. She managed a convincing swallow and replaced her drink on the uneven tabletop with distaste. Fingering the hilt of the knife she was displaying as a warning on the surface before her, she idly considered what manner of filth kept the bottom of her shoes stuck so firmly to the tavern floor. Sebastien had yet to reappear, and Gisele wondered how much longer she would be forced to wait. Her eyes drifted back to the stranger she’d been studying, who was still hunched over his drink at the far end of the room.

She thought he might be quite handsome if one could see past the disheveled beard and the appalling tatters currently passing for clothes. Broad shoulders, thick arms—he was very likely a former soldier, one of many who had found themselves out of work and out of sorts with the surrender of the little French madman. She narrowed her eyes. Strength in a man was always an asset, so she supposed she must count that in his favor. And from the way his knees rammed the underside of the table, he must be decently tall. Also an advantage, as nothing caught a woman’s attention in a crowded room like a tall, confident man. Beyond that, however, his brown hair, brown eyes, and penchant for ale were the only qualities easily determined from a distance.

It was the latter—the utter state of intoxication he was rapidly working toward—that most piqued Gisele’s interest. It suggested hopelessness. Defeat. Dejection. Desperation. All of which might make him the ideal candidate.

Or they might just mark him as a common drunkard.

And she’d had plenty of unpleasant experience with those. Unfortunately, this man was by far the best prospect she and Sebastien had seen in weeks, and she was well aware of the time slipping past. She watched as the stranger dribbled ale down his beard as he tried to drain his pot. Her lip curled in disgust.

“What do you think?” Her thoughts were interrupted by Sebastien as he slid next to her on the bench. He jerked his chin in the direction of their quarry.

She scowled. “The man’s been sitting in a corner drinking himself into a stupor since I sat down. He hasn’t passed out yet, so I guess that’s promising.” She caught sight of her friend’s glare and sighed. “Please, tell me what I
should
think. What did you find out?”

Sebastien sniffed and adjusted his collar. “James Montcrief. Son of a duke—”

“What?” Gisele gasped in alarm. She involuntarily shrank against the table.

Sebastien gave her a long-suffering look. “Do you think we’d still be here if I thought you might be recognized?”

Gisele bit her lip guiltily and straightened. “No. Sorry.”

“May I go on?”

“Please.”

“The duchy is… Reddyck, I believe? I’ve never heard of it, but I am assured it is real, and the bulk of its lands lie somewhere near the northern border. Small, but supports itself adequately.”

Gisele let her eyes slide down the disheveled stranger. “Tell me he isn’t the heir apparent.”

“Even better. A bastard, so no chance of ever turning into anything quite as odious.”

Giselle frowned. “Acknowledged?”

“The late duke was happy to claim him. Unfortunately, the current duke—a brother of some fashion—is not nearly so benevolent. According to current family history, James Montcrief doesn’t exist.”

Giselle studied the man uncertainly, considering the benefits and risks of that information. Someone with knowledge of the peerage and its habits and idiosyncrasies could be helpful.
If
he could remain sober enough to keep his wits.

“He hasn’t groped the serving wenches yet,” Sebastien offered.

“Says who?”

“The serving wenches.”

“
Hmphh
.” That might bode well. Or not. “Married? Children?”

“No and no. At least no children anyone is aware of.”

“Good.” They would have been a difficult complication. “Money?”

“Spent the morning cleaning stalls and repairing the roof to pay for his drink last night. Did the same the night before and the night before and—”

“In other words, none.” Now that was promising. “Army?”

“Cavalry.” Sebastien turned his attention from his sleeve to his carefully groomed moustache. “And supposedly quite the hero.”

She snorted. “Aren’t they all. Who says he’s a hero?”

“The stableboys.”

“They probably had him confused with his horse.”

“His horse was shot out from under him at Waterloo.”

“Exactly.”

Her friend
tsk
ed. “The man survived, Gisele. He must know how to fight.”

“Or run.”

Sebastien’s eyes rolled in exasperation. “That’s what I love most about you. Your brimming optimism.”

Giselle shrugged. “Heroes shouldn’t drink themselves into oblivion. Multiple nights in a row.”

Sebastien leaned close to her ear. “Listen carefully. In the past twenty minutes, I have applied my abundant charm to the chambermaids and the barmaids and the milkmaids and one very enchanting footman, and thanks to my masterful skill and caution, we now possess a wealth of information about our new friend here. The very least
you
can do is spend half that amount of time discovering if this man is really as decent as I believe him to be.” He paused for breath. “He’s the best option we’ve got.”

She pressed her lips together as she pushed herself up off the bench. “Very well. As we discussed?”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“No,” she replied unhappily.

“Then let’s not waste any more time. We need help from some quarter, and that man is the best chance we have of getting it.” Without missing a beat, he reached over and deftly plucked at the laces to Gisele’s simple bodice. The top fell open to reveal an alarming amount of cleavage. “Nice. Almost makes me wish I were so inclined.”

“Do shut up.” Gisele tried to pull the laces back together but had her hand swatted away. “I look like a whore,” she protested.

Sebastien tipped his head, then leaned forward again and pulled the tattered ribbon from her braid. Her hair slithered out of its confines to tumble over her shoulders. “But a very pretty one. It’s perfect.” He stood up, straightening his own jacket. “Trust me. He’s going to surprise you.”

She heaved one last sigh. “How drunk do you suppose he is?”

“Slurring his
s
’s. But sentence structure is still good. I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

“Better make it twenty,” Gisele said slowly. “It will reduce the chances of you ending up on the wrong end of a cavalryman’s fists.”

Sebastien’s dark eyes slid back to the man in the corner in speculation. “You think?”

Giselle stood to join the shorter man. “You’re the one who told me he’s a hero. Let’s find out.”

Jamie Montcrief, known in another life as James Edward Anthony Montcrief, cavalry captain in the King’s Dragoon Guards of the British army and bastard son to the ninth Duke of Reddyck, stared deeply into the bottom of his ale pot and wondered fuzzily how it had come to be empty so quickly. He was sure he had just ordered a fresh drink. Perhaps the girl had spilled it on the way over and he hadn’t noticed. That happened a lot these days. Not noticing things. Which was fine. In fact, it was better than fine.