Miles Before I Sleep (20 page)

While augmenting the first sleeve, she would contemplate the positive aspects of rejecting the marquess. While she altered the other sleeve, she would contemplate the negative aspects. Likewise, as she shortened the sleeves of the second dress, she would contemplate the pros and cons of entering a courtship with him.

As she finished ripping the seam, releasing the lace from her nightgown, a knock sounded at her door. Before she opened it, she knew it was Miles.

“When I returned to the saloon, you were gone, but you had not yet returned to your room. We must have taken different routes. Are you in for the night or would you like to return to the saloon?”

“I have sent Ruth below. I did not return directly to my cabin because I took a turn about the deck with someone.”

“Someone? A suitor? Would you like to discuss him with me?”

“No, Mr. Huntington, I would not. Good night.” She closed the door and returned to her task.

Should she reject the marquess? All of his talk of punishment and spankings did indeed frighten her. Other than having her knuckles hit with a ruler, she had never been subjected to corporal punishment. Her mother scolded and lectured endlessly, but never raised a hand to her. How odd that Lord Ironwood made no secret that she should expect him to strike her on the bottom.

Some children endured spankings. How bad could it be? Still it struck her as peculiar.

On the other hand, as she threaded her needle and began sewing lace to the second sleeve, she would always wonder why she dismissed her chance of landing a marquess without giving the man a chance. He was tall and reasonably handsome, though not as tall or handsome as Miles. He had a swagger and an air of confidence she found appealing.

When the first dress was complete, she carefully measured and cut five inches from the sleeves of the other dress.

Before she hemmed the sleeve, she examined the bruise on her wrist. She found she did not mind the mark. It was temporary after all and it had not been unbearable. He called it a love bite. The teeth marks were gone, but he’d left a strange looking bruise. It was definitely not a regular bruise. She supposed anyone who had seen one like it before would recognize it for what it was. It would be embarrassing to have others know she allowed a man she just met to take such liberties—not that she had understood what he planned to do beforehand.

As she began hemming the first sleeve, she tried to focus on the negative aspects of accepting his suit.

She’d be the worst kind of fool to reject him without getting to know him better, but she couldn’t shake the unease she felt when he spoke of punishment. If she allowed his suit to go further, she would have to gird her courage and ask him exactly how far his punishments would go. She had to know up front that he would not be a man who would punch her. She had been raised to sacrifice for the sake of her family. Surely, he would be reasonable in his request. She would just do as instructed and she would never be punished. It seemed simple enough in theory. Would her father allow it?

As she turned to the final sleeve, she allowed herself to think of all the positive points of allowing his suit.

He was a marquess. Her mother would be thrilled. Andrea had never truly believed she would marry higher than a baron. She would be a marchioness. Her eldest son would inherit the title.

Moreover, Lord Ironwood liked her just the way she was. Miles was always trying to make her someone she wasn’t—trying to prove he knew her better than she knew herself.

Andrea felt the tears well up in her eyes. Why could Miles not want her the way she wanted him? She would marry him if only he asked. He would never say he would spank her if she turned her face to the sun. He would tell her to take off her bonnets and cast away her parasols. But he was not going to ask. He had made that abundantly clear.

25

Andrea overslept breakfast. She could not stop her thoughts the night before until exhaustion finally engulfed her shortly before sunrise. Had it not been for Ruth’s overzealous concern, she might have overslept lunch.

She cast one hesitant glance at the two dresses. Ultimately, it had been Miles’s rejection that made her put on the one with the shortened sleeves. She felt less than confident in her choice. Repeatedly, she told herself the decision meant little more than opening herself up to getting to know the marquess better. It in no way bound her to him. She could still end his suit with a few words.

Andrea left her room for the dining room earlier than the time Miles usually came to collect her. She doubted the marquess would want to see her on the arm of another man when she wore the shortened sleeves to show she accepted his suit.

Ruth gave a small curtsy as she left Andrea at the wide doorway of the dining room. The maître d’ glanced around for Miles, but not spying him, he seated her in her usual seat at the owner’s table. The plush dining room was half-full already, but no one else sat at the owner’s table. Poised upright in her chair, she perused the menu, acutely aware of her own discomfiture at being alone when Miles walked into the room.

“You didn’t wait for me to escort you?”

“Ruth accompanied me.” She spared a short glance at him before fixing her eyes on the menu again. “I’m just hungry since I overslept breakfast.”

~*~

Miles lifted his own menu and eyed her out of the corner of his eye. Her back did not touch the chair and she wore a placid expression.

He glanced at the menu long enough to see the first item before setting it down. “Are you having trouble deciding today?”

“Do you suppose it would be possible to get a bowl of tomato bisque and a ham sandwich?”

A smile hinted at his lips. He had spared no expense to insure the ship’s fare would be rich and exotic, but she wanted a simple sandwich and a bowl of soup.

“I own the ship. As long as we have it aboard, you’re welcome to it.” Miles called Phillip over and told him what they wanted. “You prefer simple cuisine?” he asked her after Phillip departed for the galley.

Andrea clasped her hands in her lap with her head held high, she nodded slightly. “I do. I prefer to only eat rich foods for special occasions.”

“Any time there is nothing to your liking on the menu, I’m sure I can make other arrangements.”

Andrea’s eyes came up to meet his. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

Miles noticed her eyes drift to and lock on someone who had just entered. He tried to be subtle as he turned. The man, all six feet of him, focused on her. The intensity of his predatory stare alarmed Miles. He did not smile at her or even acknowledge her, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Andrea’s head lower in a slight bow.

The slightest hint of a smile touched the man’s eyes, but before Andrea raised her head to see the subtle change, he turned away and moved his attention to the people already seated at his assigned table.

When Andrea raised her eyes again and found he had turned away, her guard dropped momentarily, and Miles saw the hurt that flitted across her face. The man was not sitting facing her directly, but he pointedly ignored her.

“He’s the man you walked with last night?” Miles asked.

She nodded.

“Would you like me to invite him to dine with us?”

“No. We’re meeting in the saloon this evening.”

Miles felt the frown of disapproval pulling his expression southward. He instantly disliked the man.

“What’s his name?”

“Clive Treymaine, Marquess of Ironwood.”

“All that?” Miles raised his voice into a falsetto. “Oh, Clive Treymaine, Marquess of Ironwood, you look so handsome tonight.”

“Shh, he’ll hear you,” she said looking about, the color staining her cheeks.

“By the time you finish his name, you’ll forget what you wanted to say.”

“I call him Lord Ironwood or my lord—he likes the way I say my lord.”

“Indeed?” Miles tried unsuccessfully to keep the sarcasm out of his tone. “But he hasn’t given….”

Miles was interrupted by Phillip bringing their soup. He waited until Phillip left before he continued. “He hasn’t given you permission to call him Clive?”

“The nobility are much more formal than you Americans. I think the English in general are more formal. My mother would have an apoplectic fit if she heard you calling me Andi. I have never even gave you permission to call me Andrea, but I’ve tried to make allowances for your colonial attitudes.”

Miles laughed loudly, then suppressing a smile, he picked up his spoon and tasted his soup. “Oh, Andi, you don’t know how much I love to see you put me in my place.”

Andrea waited until she swallowed her soup before responding. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“I hope I get to see the day when you get really angry.”

Her face shifted to a well-practiced pleasant expression with which Miles was all too familiar.

“A young lady never loses her temper.”

He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as they continued consuming their soup.

Phillip returned a few minutes later with the rest of their meal. Andrea looked at her sandwich with some concern.

“Is something wrong with your food?” Miles asked.

“I thought it would only be bread and ham. I am not sure I can get my mouth around this in a genteel manner. Even with a fork and knife, I don’t think I can manage.”

“Do you want me to send it back to the kitchen and have Phillip bring you out one without anything else on it?”

Andrea seemed to consider it. “No, I don’t want to make your chef angry. As it is, he was probably insulted that I would choose a sandwich over what he had prepared. I’ll just remove some of it.”

Andrea used her fork and knife to remove the top piece of the roll. Never touching anything with her fingers, she removed one of the two lettuce leaves, one of the tomatoes and all of the onions.

“Miles, what is that?” she asked, pointing with her knife.

He looked at the yellowy-green moons sitting on the ham and pulled Phillip over. “What is that?”

Phillip smiled. “Alligator pear,” he said.

“Alligator? What part of an alligator is its pear?” Andrea asked, cocking her head to one side.

“It’s an avocado,” Miles explained, and nodded his dismissal to Phillip. “It’s called that because it’s the shape of a pear, but the skin has a rough texture.”

With wide eyes, she looked back-and-forth between Miles and her plate. “What does it taste like?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

She sliced off the end of one of the wedges and examined it on the end of her fork.

“Shall I try it for you?” Miles asked.

She turned the fork toward him and he quickly ate the morsel off the end. His brows lowered as he tried to think of how to describe it. “It’s very mild, creamy, a bit like butter and slightly nutty. It’s good.”

As she listened to his description, she continued to hold her fork poised towards him. Miles suddenly saw the bruise inside her wrist. He reached for her arm with both hands, removed the fork, and turned her wrist over so the light struck it better. Miles knew immediately what it was. He stroked his thumb over it.

“He won’t even allow you to call him by his first name, and yet you let him mark you like you’re his possession. Do you know who marks their territory like that? Dogs.” Miles suddenly stood up and threw his napkin on his plate of food. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss James, I’ve lost my appetite.”

As he left, Miles glanced at the man in question. Clive Treymaine, Marquess of Ironwood greeted Miles with a smirk. With a raised aristocratic eyebrow, he nodded to Miles in challenge.

Andrea only saw Miles’s retreating back. With as much dignity as she could muster, Andrea rose to her feet and walked to the maître d’s podium near the door. “Please have someone fetch my maid,” she said. “Better yet, tell her I’ve gone to my stateroom and I won’t need her until this evening.”

26

Andrea sat patiently waiting for Miles to come to escort her to dinner, her explanation of how she came to wear the marquess’s love bite, well thought out and rehearsed in her mind. She wore a lavender gown made of Asian silk. Andrea rolled up the right sleeve one turn to make sure her wrist was exposed. He had not given her a chance to explain that she did not realize the marquess meant to leave a mark on her or that he would not allow her to cover it up if she wished to see him again.

“Shall I go see if he’s been delayed?” Ruth asked, when she heard the ship’s bell ringing out the dinner hour. Andrea nodded and Ruth stepped out to speak to the guards to see if they knew why Miles hadn’t come for her yet.

“Oh, miss. He has given you the cut-direct. He has gone to dinner without you,” she said after closing the door so the guards could not hear.

Andrea drew her shoulders back and lifted her head. “Ruth, stop being dramatic. At luncheon, we went without him, so now he knows we can make it there on our own. Shall we?”

“Yes, miss,” Ruth said bobbing a small pregnant curtsy.

Andrea dismissed Ruth at the doorway to the dining room. As she stepped in, her gaze immediately went to Miles at his table. He laughed jovially with a man sitting in
her
seat. She suddenly realized every seat at his table was filled.

The cut-direct.

The maître d’ escorted her to a small corner table where an elderly couple and their middle-aged spinster daughter were seated.

They were kind and friendly to her, but she struggled to make any conversation other than short answers to their questions. At least she had her back to the rest of the room so she did not have to see the looks people gave her. She could only imagine the looks of triumph on the Pike women’s faces after he had stormed out at the noon meal and had now placed her in the corner.

When the meal was over, Andrea could not have said what she ate or if she liked it. Nor could she remember a word spoken by anyone at the table.

The family did not believe in lingering after their meal—she supposed a family that had been together so long, had already said everything there was to say to each other, and she barely added to the conversation. She hoped Miles would leave first, but he did not. Her only choice seemed to be sitting alone at the table or march past Miles again so he could revel in his snub.

Andrea refused to let him have the satisfaction. As she followed the family out, she stopped at Miles’s side. “Mr. Huntington,” she said, drawing his attention. “I just want to thank you for allowing me the opportunity to meet that lovely family.”

She held out her hand to him as if to shake his hand, her wrist and the love bite clearly visible and nearly in front of his face since he was still sitting. He pushed back his chair and took her hand as he rose to his feet. His left hand reached for her wrist and as he released her hand, he slid his left hand along the sleeve unrolling the hem so it would cover the mark. “It was my pleasure, Miss James.”

Miles sat back down and turned to the person sitting on his other side effectively giving her his back.

~*~

As Andrea waited in the corridor for Ruth to be summoned, Lord Ironwood joined her. He was well turned out in a gray frock coat with a burgundy waistcoat.

“I shall join you in the main saloon after I’ve had a cigar and brandy in the men’s saloon. It would please me to find you playing the piano forte when I arrive.”

“Then it would be for your pleasure only. As I said before, I do not play well.”

His irritation showed clearly on his face. “I told you I require someone obedient. You will do as you’re told.”

“Do you wish to see me humiliated, my lord?”

He sucked a quick breath in through his teeth as he closed his eyes. A leisurely grin curled his lips and his eyes were full of desire when he opened them. “No, I would not like to see you publicly humiliated. I give you a reprieve, but someday you
will
play for me. Have a glass of sherry while you wait.”

“Yes, my lord.”

His heels clicked as he gave a stiff bow. “Until then,” he murmured before striding away.

~*~

Andrea felt no need to rush to the saloon to wait upon Lord Ironwood’s arrival. She returned to her stateroom, checked her hair and brushed her teeth in case the marquess should try to kiss her. When she could think of nothing else to do to stall her arrival, she slowly made her way to the main saloon with Ruth. Andrea wished she could keep Ruth by her side, even if they did not speak. If her chaperone were an elderly aunt, she could sit with her, but Ruth was only a hired maid, and society followed strict rules to keep the working classes in their place.

Andrea had no particular desire to drink a glass of sherry, but she had already been willful about the piano and did not want to displease Lord Ironwood again.

Andrea occupied her time by mentally counting off two-minute increments and taking a sip. It seemed as good a way to spend her time as any. Miles would never have intentionally left her alone like that. He understood how uncomfortable she felt—especially after Clyde Sully’s attack—and he would have allowed her to wait in her cabin. She supposed Lord Ironwood just didn’t know her well enough yet.

Staring at her empty glass, Andrea began to wonder if she had taken too much time in her stateroom and missed Lord Ironwood’s arrival. She decided to have another glass. They were quite small and if he was not there by the time she finished it, she would return to her room. Miles had been right about sipping it versus taking it medicinally. The flush she felt this time had been much less severe. But because she had eaten so little all day, by the time she consumed half of the second copita, she could feel the effects fairly strongly.

Andrea was unaware Lord Ironwood had arrived until he stood by her side. Perhaps that was because her eyes were having a bit of trouble finding their focus—much like when she tried to force herself to stay awake.  She sat still as a stone, a pleasant expression on her face pretending she immensely enjoyed the music—all the while counting off the seconds until she could take her final sip and return to her cabin.

He handed her another glass of sherry. “I thought you might enjoy a second glass before we stepped out into the cool night air.”

“No, thank you, my lord, I’ve already had a second glass while I waited.”

“I specifically told you to have one glass.”

Andrea took exception to his heated tone and leveled her gaze at him. “If you had joined me earlier, I would not have had the second one. I do not like being alone in a room full of strangers.”

“You’re supposed to mingle, my dear, make friends,” he said with a flourish of his hand.

Andrea bit the inside of her lip as she dropped her eyes. “My lord, had I had my season, I’m sure I would’ve learned to socialize. My experience has limited me to coming down to say good night at my mother’s soirées.” Her eyes lifted to his. “I was well rehearsed beforehand. Shall I show you how well I can bid you adieu?” She leveled her gaze at him, lifting an eyebrow and waited to see how he would react to her subtle threat to leave.

Lord Ironwood slowly rubbed his clean-shaven jaw with his fingertips as he eyed Andrea. “I brought you another glass, drink it and we shall take our stroll. I had not known you could be so willful, but I know the perfect way to rid you of such behavior.”

Andrea lifted the glass to her lips and swallowed a mouthful. “My lord?”

A wicked grin emerged, but rather than address the question in her tone, he changed the subject. “Mr. Huntington did not like seeing my bite mark on your wrist.”

“No, my lord, he did not.”

“I have to admit, that’s not the kind of marks I usually leave on a woman’s wrists.”

“My lord?”

She did not understand the enigmatic smile he cast at her. “So young, so naïve. You have no idea about what I am referring. Drink the rest of it, so we can go.”

Andrea took one more sip. “I’ve really had quite enough. I’m not used to spirits.”

“For heaven’s sake, Miss James, there’s only a swallow left. For once, just do as you’re asked without tiring me out with your complaints.”

As Andrea picked up the glass, she thought about throwing it in his face, but he was a marquess and her mother would certainly never forgive her for ruining any opportunity to land a man of such a high rank.

As politely as she could, without looking like an inebriate throwing back a drink, she tilted up the glass until the contents had emptied into her mouth. Lord Ironwood took the small sherry glass from her and set it on a nearby table.

“Shall we?”

Rising to her full height, Andrea’s eyes grew wide as she realized she was unsteady on her feet.

“My lord, I believe I shall need your arm to get out of here.”

She squinted her eyes toward the corner where her maid had waited the night before. Her focus had trouble settling on Ruth, but she supposed it did not signify as long as Ruth’s eyes were working.

He held out his arm stiffly to the side until she took it. Wordlessly, he led her out of the room.

“We should wait for Ruth.”

“She’ll catch up. She’s only a little ways behind,” he said not slowing his pace.

“My lord, she is to have a baby soon. We really should not tax her.”

With a huff, he shortened his gait. “I don’t know why you would worry about her. These peasants can work up until the time to push it out, then be back to work in an hour.”

Had she not been impaired, she might have thought to question his assertion, but Andrea took it at face value. “I wonder what makes them different.”

Andrea speculated as to which side of the fence she would fall on with her inferior blood. She might have to feign her lay-in so no one would know.

“Come here, I want to try something.”

He took her near the railing but not touching it, and pulled his arm from her grasp. “Miss James, you know how fascinated I am by how still you can be. I want to see if you can stand still when you’ve been drinking.”

“May I look out over the ocean?”

“My lord,” he corrected.

A slight sigh escaped her lips that she was going to have to repeat her question to get an answer. “May I look out over the ocean, my lord?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she said turning away from him.

“If we get married, I should like you to call me
my lord and master
when we are alone.”

“If that is your wish, my lord,” she said, twisting her neck around to look at him.

He stepped up close behind her, but not touching. “I want to hear how that sounds from your lips, Miss James,” he rasped into her ear.

“If that is your wish, my lord and master.”

“Hmm. I certainly like the way you said that.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

She stood there unmoving feeling his breath on her neck. “Lord Ironwood, why do you like to see me stand still?”

“I’m afraid you wouldn’t understand.”

“Explain it to me, my lord.”

He sighed with exasperation. “Some men enjoy telling women what to do and that includes in the marital bed. Many times, I might want my wife to be still, so that I may tend to her in particular ways, and if she does not do as instructed, I might have to punish her.”

Andrea was thankful for the cool ocean breeze that pulled the heat of embarrassment from her cheeks. If she had realized the reason had to do with the bedroom, she would not have said a word. Her muddled mind tried to make sense of what he said, but her mind only focused on the fact that the act was so awful, a woman might draw punishment rather than be compliant. She wondered which was worse.

“You would spank your wife for not being still in the bedroom?”

“Perhaps. Or maybe I would just have to tie her to the bedpost with the sash of my dressing robe to make her stay still. Does that prospect frighten you?”

Andrea could feel her breath increasing. “Yes, my lord.”

“You would have to give me your complete trust, knowing I would never harm you. Like that bite on your wrist, it may have hurt for a moment, but you weren’t really harmed, were you, Miss James?”

“No, my lord,” she said hesitantly.

“Did you think of me when you saw the bruise on your arm, my dear?” he asked quietly into her ear.

She could feel her skirt move as he closed the distance between them. “Yes, Lord Ironwood.”

“Did you like seeing my mark on your flesh?”

Andrea could not slow her breathing. Between his nearness and the way he talked about the marital bed, she was amazed she was not shaking like a leaf.

“Answer me.”

Her voice came out as a whisper. “I don’t know, my lord.”

Suddenly, his hands were on her waist. “You swayed,” he said. “I thought you were going to fall.”

Andrea tried to pull away, but he gripped her waist tighter.

“Don’t move. Stand as still as you can,” he ordered. “Feel my hands. Feel the way they hold you tightly. Am I hurting you?”