The Accidental Courtesan (8 page)

A man was tangled high in the ropes of a sail, several dozen feet above the deck of a ship. He raised his hand, and it took her a moment to realize she'd found Mister Blackwell.

The devilish American was shirtless in the sunshine, and his skin held a golden flush. Muscles bunched while he strained and shifted with the sway of the ship. Several locks of hair blew in casual disarray about his face while the majority of his hair was fighting to remain in a ribbon tied at the base of his neck.

She touched her hand to her throat and did her best not to openly admire his fine form. The impropriety of his half-naked state was negated by the fact that she found him utterly attractive and could not turn away.

It was difficult to believe that this man was first cousin to an earl and not bred and whelped in an alley. Still, though he had no problem with flouting convention at every opportunity, there was nothing crude or lowborn about him. Even now, her heart fluttered dangerously at a second viewing of his magnificent chest, this time in bright daylight.

He wavered slightly when a gust of wind snapped the partially lowered sail near his head, and he ducked to keep from being hit in the face by the heavy canvas.

Noelle gasped. When she was certain he was about to plunge to his death, he easily righted himself and actually laughed as he began the process of climbing down to the deck.

Her skin tingled as he retrieved his shirt and walked toward her, taking his sweet time covering himself. The man was a preening peacock, showing off his attributes. It was obvious he enjoyed flaunting his sculpted body for her perusal. He was sweaty, gritty, and disheveled. And all she could think of was ripping off her gloves and exploring each curve and angle of his body with her bare hands. For hours, if she had her druthers, until she was certain no muscled plane had been left undiscovered.

Sweaty or not.

“No need to worry, love,” he said, coming to a stop before her and squinting in the sunshine. His hair was damp on his forehead, and perspiration gave his skin a damp sheen. “I have been climbing in the rigging since I was a boy. My maternal grandfather owned a shipyard much like this one. Only grander. Until it was sold to settle bad investments.” He looked down the row of ships, and pride was clear in his eyes. “I will outpace him someday in ships and coin.” He turned back to wink at her shadowed face. “Count on it, Milady Thief.”

Noelle lifted her nose. She should have known her disguise wouldn't keep him from recognizing her. Even at a distance. He'd been intimately close to her, several times. He probably realized who she was as soon as she alighted from the coach.

“You are awfully confident, Mister Blackwell.”

“Success takes confidence,” he countered, scratching the side of his head. Noelle locked onto the action. It aggrieved her greatly that his every movement fascinated her. She should find his dusty appearance repulsive. Instead, she wanted to know if he smelled as earthy as he looked.

“Some find working in trade beneath them,” she said, hoping to remove the confident smile from his face. The hungry look in his eyes rattled her. She let her attention fall to his callused hands. “They leave labor to the laboring classes.”

Mister Blackwell chuckled. “Spoken like a true aristocrat, dearest, from one used to living off the earnings of their ancestors and the hard work of others. Tell me, Lady Seymour, did you manage to get into that frock of yours unassisted, or did you need a slew of maids to help?”

Involuntarily, her hand went to the trail of buttons on her dress. She gnashed her teeth when she realized he was mocking her. “You also have been living off the coin of others, sir. Your father was an earl's son. That makes you as connected to the indulged upper class as I.”

He cocked a brow. “Perhaps. Once. Now I find I enjoy watching the fruits of my own efforts grow and flourish.” He held out a hand to indicate the ships. They were beautiful against the blue sky and the Thames behind. “Did you know my father cut Mother off when she refused to return with me to England? If not for a small inheritance, we'd have been left with nothing. He paused and returned his attention to the ships. Pride seeped from his every pore. “Everything you see before you is mine. Every shilling that purchased these ships, I earned with back-bowing work.”

Noelle felt a welling of admiration for the exasperating man. She hated the feeling. It was more acceptable to see him as a debaucher of innocent women, or a tradesman less than her equal. In truth, he was her superior in that he actually earned his way in life. She'd lived off her father and her uncle and all the generations of Harringtons before her. Truthfully, she wasn't certain which previous Harrington was responsible for the family wealth.

For the first time she saw herself as he must see her, a spoiled and indulged brat. Her throat burned.

Something on her face must have caught his attention, for he reached out to cup her chin with rough fingertips. “Worry not, love. You have many other admirable qualities.”

She sniffed lightly. He lowered his arm and closed his hand around hers. Her gloved hand was nearly encompassed by his. Only her fingertips showed.

“Come,” he said. “Let's get you out of this heat.”

He pulled her toward the building, her feet moving quickly to keep up with his long strides. He opened the door and allowed her to pass inside the dim interior. The air was several degrees cooler than the heat outside. A row of open windows overlooking the Thames was the source of a cool breeze.

Noelle looked around and realized the large building wasn't just an office, but some sort of workshop, too. There were various woodworks in progress, parts she assumed belonged on ships to help them sail.

Several men clanked tools and sent brief speculative glances her way. Gavin led her toward an open door and into a cramped but tidy office. While he removed his soiled shirt, took a clean one off a peg, and pulled it over his head, Noelle walked over to a model of a ship that was similar, she thought, to the one on which Gavin had been climbing among the sails.

“It's a frigate, a warship.” Gavin joined her and touched a fingertip to the delicately carved mast. “The navy has commissioned me to build a dozen of them.” He smiled softly and ran the same fingertip over a tiny sail. “My grandfather should be turning in his grave with envy.”

Noelle smiled. She couldn't help herself; his humor was infectious. “Is this one of the ships I saw moored outside?”

He shook his head, and several straight locks fell over his eyes. “I have yet to begin building. We start next week.”

The ribbon at the back of his neck had proved ineffective against the wind and rigging climbing. His disheveled hair gave his face a boyish slant. Noelle's hand twitched to brush the hair out of his eyes. But to do so would inform him of her desire to touch him and also offer unneeded encouragement on his part. Mister Blackwell was already free enough with his hands.

She forced her eyes back to the model ship. “It's beautiful.” A wistful sigh followed, and he chuckled.

“Would you like a tour of a schooner?”

Noelle nodded eagerly. “Yes, please.”

 

G
avin watched her pale face turn animated. She colored with a light blush, obviously excited at the prospect of putting her pretty little feet on the deck of a ship. Most women saw ships as a means to get from one place to another and thought of little beyond that. Noelle seemed intrigued by the ship itself. He realized that besides his aching attraction for her, there was much about her to like.

“Then let us proceed.” Gavin took her elbow and led her outside. The bright sun had moved temporarily behind a fluffy cloud. He wondered what she was thinking beneath the shadows produced by her bonnet. Everything about her puzzled him. One minute she looked like she wanted to lick cream off his chest, then the next, like she wished to put a bullet between his eyes and be done with him.

He much preferred the former.

Gavin chose the three-masted schooner less for its interesting lines than for the fact that it was currently unoccupied by workers. The ship belonged to a duke and had taken a beating during a stormy journey to Paris. Gavin had refitted the damaged pieces, and it would be sent off to Dover in the morning. It was the perfect place to get the lovely lady alone.

It had come as a surprise to see her alight from the rented hackney in her drab costume. Gavin knew she'd been avoiding him. To see her arrive at his shipyard unattended by a chaperone had almost cost him his footing, and quite possibly his neck.

Not that he was complaining, mind you. Her scent mingled with the salty sea air and teased his nose. He'd never thought sea salt and spice and fruit could arouse him until his cock twitched beneath his dirty breeches. The combination stirred up images of her in his bed, kissing him with that delicious mouth of hers. He was beyond tempted to taste her again, if only to assure himself she was not some heated daydream about to dissipate on the wind.

Noelle lifted her face to the breeze, and her bonnet fluttered. He caught a brief glimpse of her pert little nose and fine angled features as the bonnet blew backward against the tightly tied ribbons beneath her chin. Just as quickly, the wind died, and the bonnet returned to its previous position.

Gavin wanted to snatch it from her head to expose her face, and to crush the unflattering bonnet beneath his boot. He was stopped from doing so by fear of retribution from the petite miss. If he angered her and she ran back to the waiting hackney, then he might never discover the reason for her visit.

And he was nearly expiring from curiosity.

“I own the land from the warehouse down there”—he paused and pointed to the low, squat building perched on the end of the row, then turned in the other direction—“to just beyond the ketch with the pink sail.”

Noelle screwed up her mouth, and Gavin chuckled at her puzzlement. “The marquis who owns it wants to present the boat to his wife for her birthday. He spent a sizable chunk of his fortune getting the sail tinted her favorite color.”

Her amber eyes softened. “He must love her very much.”

Gavin shrugged. It wasn't his business why the marquis had requested a pink sail. The money was good, and he'd have outfitted it with black dots had the marchioness liked dots. “She just presented him with an heir. Had the babe been a girl, she might have gotten a tea service.”

Clearly she didn't like his comment. “Are you always so unromantic, Mister Blackwell? In spite of the practice of chaining men and women together for financial or social gain, some people do find love and happiness in their marriages.”

The lovely lady was a romantic. A surprise, for Lady Seymour seemed more of a practical sort. He knew very few couples who had genuine love and grand passion after their weddings, and none since his arrival in London. Most couples tolerated each other and found happiness outside their marriages with lovers.

He stepped around to face her. “If you are so intrigued by the institution, then why, Lady Seymour, are you unwed?” He perused her upturned face. There was a tinge of annoyance in her eyes. He bit back a smile. “Certainly at least once since you were dragged out of the schoolroom and had your first Season you've received an acceptable offer to wed?”

Her glower deepened. “Just because I believe the marquis loves his wife does not mean I believe all couples are happy. I have seen, firsthand, the destruction a miserable marriage can bring to a family. I have no desire to bind myself for eternity to a man I loathe.” She drew in a deep breath as if to collect her thoughts. “I am quite content to live my life as—”

“A courtesan?”

 

N
oelle stewed. How dare he remind her of her folly again and again? Clearly, the man was missing even a small measure of manners.

“You, sir, are insufferable.” She lifted her nose as high as she could comfortably do so without falling over backward. “As I have told you before, you have mistaken me for someone else.”

Skepticism filled his eyes, and his square jaw twitched. She'd grown to despise that smug look. It showed her that no matter what she said, how many arguments she launched, he'd always know she was lying.

If only the Thames were closer. She'd greatly enjoy pushing him into the vile water.

“Oh, there is no mistake, Milady.”

Before she could protest again, he grabbed her arm and fairly dragged her toward the schooner. Noelle sputtered at the mistreatment but was unable to pull away. He rushed through a litany of ship terms while dragging her across the deck. Boom, gaff, topsail, stern; her mind whirled, and she soon found herself belowdecks. When he finally saw fit to stop, she took the chance to breathe and scowl at her molester.

“I hope you paid attention to your lesson on ships, Milady,” he said, chuckling. “For I intend to test you on all the terms and what purpose they serve. If you fail, I shall have to kiss you.”

She shot him a stern look. He was impossible! Choosing to ignore the comment, she examined the small space that she assumed to be some sort of cabin, and dug her nails into her palms. If he planned to ravish her on the narrow bunk tucked against one wall, he'd be in for a fight.

“Are you always such a charmer, or is there something about me that you find distasteful, Mister Blackwell?” She raised her closed fists to about waist level. He made no move toward her, nor did he appear worried. “I came to speak to you privately, and you accost me publicly.” She took a small sidestep toward the door. “I think I made a grave mistake believing I could plead my case to you.”

This time his brows shot up. “What case is that, exactly?”

Noelle focused on his chin and kept her eyes averted. In the enclosed room, he seemed large, bold. Her body was emitting small shivers, and she was having a difficult time remembering the words to explain why she'd come. She opened and closed her mouth several times with the struggle.