Between the Duke and the Deep Blue Sea (33 page)
Read Between the Duke and the Deep Blue Sea Online
Authors: Sophia Nash
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General
“Are you going to growl now?”
His eyes narrowed.
“Look, the storm is waning. There’s no need to go out there.” And, indeed, it was true. Even the howl of the wind seemed muted.
He released her abruptly, but the wildness in his eyes did not disappear.
“You’ve a cut on your forehead.”
He refused a reply.
She continued her tried and true methods of speaking calmly in the face of insanity. “I’m freezing.” She reached for her two blankets and offered him one. “You must be too.”
He muttered something incomprehensible and didn’t take the blanket. She set both back down.
“Oh pish. Do tell me what’s going on, Lord . . . ?”
“Grace . . .” He barely paid her any attention.
“Lord Grace? Hmmm, I’ve never heard of a Lord—”
“No,” he sighed, “Duke.”
Ah. That explained it. All dukes were insane. Too much power. Too much deference. She raised an inquiring eyebrow. Too much inbreeding.
“For Christsakes . . . I’m Norwich.”
“I see. Are we sure?”
He sighed heavily. “Roman Montagu,
not
at your service.”
She smiled inwardly. “Really? How lovely. I didn’t know we had such refined company on board.”
Again he muttered.
“Would you be kind enough to speak louder, Your Grace? I guess I must be becoming a bit hard of hearing in my advanced years.”
When he didn’t refute her, it irked her, which annoyed her even further.
“I said,” he enunciated clearly, “I didn’t know such refined company would be aboard either.”
“I’m merely a countess, Your Grace. I’m—”
He interrupted. “I was talking about me.”
She frowned. “Of course you were.” She lowered her voice. “It’s what dukes do best.”
“I beg your pardon,” he replied. “What did you say?”
“I see old age has affected you, too, sir,” she said sourly. She would not kowtow to him. He hadn’t even thanked her for saving his life. That reminded her. “I saved your life.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’ll enunciate better, Your Grace. I. Saved. Your. Life.”
“What is your name, madam?”
“Esme March, Countess of Derby,” she dipped the smallest curtsey possible, “at your service even if you aren’t at mine. May I see to that gash?”
“No.”
She raised her eyebrows. “It’s the least you could do since I saved your life.”
He rolled his eyes. “Look, I’ll tell every last sodding person in London you saved my life if you give me the key.” His voice rose with each syllable.
She smiled and hoped it didn’t appear sincere. “But the winds have died. So, why are you acting so oddly and what is so bloody important to you out there?” She was proud of herself for swearing. She so rarely had an opportunity to try it unless she was in private. And as Lionel had used to say, blaspheme was much more fun with two.
He stared at her and those strange eyes of his bored into hers with an intensity she felt down to her toes.
“Ships sink.” He shrugged his shoulders. “If you can swim, you are far less likely to drown if you’re on deck. You won’t be able to open that door”—he nodded to her—“with the weight of water pushing against it.”
His words made a small amount of sense, and so she locked away the schoolmarmish tone from her words. “Of course. But I really don’t think we have anything to worry about now. Don’t you agree? The Drake is new and well built—such fine craftsmanship.”
He closed those unnerving eyes of his. “The Drake? This ship is named The Drake?” He almost seemed to moan.
He might be a handsome devil with that oddly ancient noble mien, but his wits were obviously scrambled. Right. She walked to the secured water jug, poured a good portion in a bowl and dipped a piece of linen in it. Crossing the space, she faced him. “May I?”
He didn’t move. She wiped his face with clean water and dabbed at the cut on the upper edge of his forehead. She almost recoiled when she noticed a very familiar licorice scent almost oozing from his being. Absinthe. One of her beloved deceased husband’s poisons of choice. She held her breath and forced herself to say not a word lest she lose her grip on common civility.
When she was done, she dropped the linen and he stepped on it so she could upend the bowl over his head to sluice the salt from his face and clothes. Silently, she repeated the steps to cleanse herself. After scrubbing her face dry, she offered him a new scrap of linen too.
“Are you ever going to tell me what was going on out there?” she finally asked quietly.
“I was preparing to die, madam. You must be one of the few in England who hasn’t heard of the Norwich Curse.”
“Oh . . .” She widened her eyes. “
The Duke of Duck Curse
. Of course.”
He pokered up. “We prefer the other reference.”
The vessel immediately dipped ominously and both stumbled sideways. His eyes glazed over as his face paled. He looked ready to lose his bearing again and so she dragged him to the sole bunk in her cabin to urge him to sit.
And suddenly, she remembered. Remembered hearing what had happened to him all those years ago. He had every right to be terrified, especially since he obviously had not an idea why he was on the ship. If she had to wager on it, she would guess it had something to do with the Royal Entourage, the infamous rapscallion band of dukes who walked hand in glove with the Prince Regent, and of which he was a member. Yes, Norwich had very likely rubbed along with Lionel at some point during her husband’s high-flown days. Several of these gentlemen had even drunk Lionel under the table, and probably helped him stumble into an early grave if she was to hazard a guess.
But none of that mattered right now. No, this gentleman needed help. And while she had always given comfort freely to all those who required aid in the past, she had sworn that when Lionel died, it would be the last time she would put herself in that position. It was just too heartbreaking. And this man, no matter how high his title, was on the road to ruination if she had to wager her eye teeth.
Well.
The black despair she spied in his face broke her. She sat on the bunk beside him.
SOPHIA NASH was born in Switzerland and raised in France and the United States, but says her heart resides in Regency England. Her ancestor, an infamous French admiral who traded epic cannon fire with the British Royal Navy, is surely turning in his grave.
Before pursuing her long-held dream of writing, Sophia was an award-winning television producer for a CBS affiliate, a congressional speechwriter, and a nonprofit CEO. She lives in the Washington, D.C., suburbs with her husband and two children.
Sophia’s novels have won twelve national awards, including the prestigious RITA
®
Award, and two spots on Booklist’s “Top Ten Romances of the Year.” Readers may contact her via her website:
www.sophianash.com
.
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Between the Duke and the Deep Blue Sea
Secrets of a Scandalous Bride
Love with the Perfect Scoundrel
The Kiss
A Dangerous Beauty
Coming Soon
The Art of Duke Hunting
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from
The Art of Duke Hunting
copyright © 2012 by Sophia Nash
BETWEEN THE DUKE AND THE DEEP BLUE SEA
. Copyright © 2012 by Sophia Nash. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition MARCH 2012 ISBN: 9780062096470
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062022325
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