A Lady's Guide to Skirting Scandal (3 page)

“Doing what?”

“Things that duchesses do.” She caught her lower lip with her teeth. “There will be parties. And balls. And other…things to attend.”

“I see. And this is what you wish to be remembered for? Attending parties?”

Her beautiful face had set mutinously. “Are you mocking me?” she asked.

“No. I am asking you a question.”

“Well, it’s a ridiculous question.”

“Is it?” Nate unfolded his arms.

“Yes.” She stood her ground, refusing to back away from him. “And I resent your implication that I am less than worthy.”

“Less than worthy?” Surprise made him stop. “Less than worthy for what?”

“To make a good duchess. No matter what you think, Mr. Shaw, I will be a duchess one day. I deserve to be a duchess one day.”

Nate made a disparaging noise. “And is this how you’ve decided to measure your value—your worth in life, Lady Viola? By whether or not you become a duchess?”

“What else is there?” She put her hands on her hips.

Nate felt his own rush of resentment, along with another pang of scathing disappointment. “This is exactly why I am leaving England,” he said.

“What? Why?” Viola looked puzzled.

“This antiquated viewpoint that some of us are better than others based not on merit or intelligence or courage, but based only on an accident of birth.”

“But—”

“Do you know how they select officers for the army, Lady Viola?”

“I’m not sure if—”

“They are selected based on their titles and their purchase of a commission.”

“Well, of course—”

“Do you know what happens when officers are given command of men not because they are qualified in the art of war but because their names were preceded by a title?”

She was looking up at him now, startled, no doubt, by the bitterness that even he could hear in his words.

“Surgeons like me deal with the casualties resulting from inexperience and incompetence.” He leaned forward. “And it is such a shameful waste.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she demanded a little defensively.

“What happens if the duke you choose is a simpleton?” he asked her. “Or perhaps he is given to sloth, or drink, or another vice that might make him cruel. To you or to others around him. Will you disregard this to attain the title that marriage to such a man will give you?”

Viola blinked at him.

“I would have thought that a woman such as you would want a husband who would admire her. Respect her. Maybe even love her.”

“I do,” she said, a little uncertain now.

“But yet those things do not count if they don’t come with a title?”

“You can’t have everything, Mr. Shaw.”

“So that is what you would choose? Title over happiness? Title over love?” He was provoking her deliberately.

She was twisting the ribbons of her bonnet in her fingers now. “You must choose what is more important, don’t you agree, Mr. Shaw? And in my world, it isn’t a choice.”

“Then I suggest you consider leaving your world behind.”

“One cannot simply leave a titled position, Mr. Shaw.”

Perhaps it was the powerlessness Nate had felt on the battlefield, his inability to challenge or change such thinking. Perhaps it was the catch of hesitation he heard in her answer. Either way, an edgy recklessness gripped him, and he found himself closing the distance between them, catching her chin in his fingers and tipping her head up to meet his gaze.

“And what would happen, Lady Viola, if you found a man who did not have a title, but a man who would worship the ground upon which you walked?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. “A man who would trade his life for yours without a second’s thought. A man who would give anything he owned just for the opportunity to kiss you? Would you turn away from such a man and live the rest of your life wondering how things might have been if you had chosen happiness and love?”

“I don’t know.” Her breath was coming in shallow gasps, and her color was high.

He had proven his point, he knew. He had made her uncomfortable and had dared her to think. He should step away from her now and leave her to consider his words, if she was wont to do so. But he couldn’t.

Aside from the recklessness that had clouded his judgment, there was a woman he had glimpsed within her, one who sat cross-legged and spoke of frogs and muck. A woman whom he feared he might like very much, should she ever be allowed to be completely free of the woman who spoke of dukes and parties.

His hand slid from her chin to the back of her neck, his fingers caressing the silk of her hair. She was watching him now, her beautiful blue eyes wide. But not afraid. As if she was challenging him to do his worst.

So he kissed her.

She stiffened slightly before melting in the next instant, her hands coming to rest against his chest, her bonnet crushed between them. Her lips were soft and warm, and they parted in surprise as he brushed his mouth over hers, teasing her bottom lip with his teeth. That was all the invitation he needed to sweep his tongue into her mouth, exploring her, tasting her. He continued, taking his time, setting a languid, sensuous pace.

His fingers tangled in her hair, stroked the side of her face, and caressed her upper arms before sliding lower, over the sides of her breasts. She made a small sound and wriggled closer to him, and he could feel his body respond with alarming speed. Desire pooled in his groin, and his kiss became more demanding.

Her own tongue touched his, tentatively at first, unsure and unschooled. The knowledge that he was the first man to kiss her the way this woman deserved to be kissed pleased him immensely. He encouraged her, his tongue teasing and stroking until she became bolder. His hands dropped to her waist and then over her gloriously round backside, pulling her closer toward him. He pressed into her softness now, the way he had wanted to do when she had first come into this cabin, and he groaned softly, unsure if she realized just how badly he wanted her.

She was all beautiful curves and welcoming softness—a woman that a man could get lost in forever.

From somewhere down the passageway, he heard the shrill voice of Miss Yates, complaining to Miss Woodward that she had been unable to locate Lady Viola. Nate froze before he pulled away, dismayed. It was one thing to prove a point. It was another thing altogether to completely abandon good sense to do it. Nathaniel Shaw was not in the habit of seducing inexperienced, infuriating young women simply to…prove a point.

He didn’t even know what he had managed to prove. That kissing Viola Hextall was unlike anything he had ever experienced? That it had ignited all sorts of visions of what it would be like to take this woman to his bed and continue to teach her everything he knew about the human body and the infinite ways in which it might be pleasured?

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, stepping away from her. Far, far away from her. “I should never have done that. Nor do I have any excuse that will adequately justify my deplorable actions.”

Viola was watching him, her fingers going to her mouth, which was slightly swollen and reddened. Heaven help him, but she looked like a woman who had just been kissed and kissed thoroughly. Worse, she didn’t look as if she considered his actions deplorable at all. She should be chagrined or horrified or upset, but instead she simply looked…thoughtful. “Why did you do that?” she asked.

That was a very good question. The most credible answer was that he had lost his mind.

“Because I am an idiot,” he muttered under his breath. “I think it would be best if I—if you—if…” Nate stopped, trying to pull his thoughts together. “I think it would be best if we did not have any further contact beyond what is absolutely necessary for the remainder of our journey.”

Viola raised a delicately arched eyebrow. “Don’t be absurd. We reside on a ship, Mr. Shaw, not a country estate. Do you propose to become nocturnal to achieve such ends?”

She was right. “I’m sorry—”

“And stop apologizing. I rather…enjoyed that.”

No. No, no, no, she shouldn’t have enjoyed that, and even if she had, she should certainly never admit it. He needed her to be hysterical. Angry. Or some other sort of reaction that would be suitable for a young lady who had her sights set on an imaginary duke but had just suffered liberties taken by a lowly surgeon.

Liberties that he would very much like to take again, given half a chance.

“There you are, my lady!” It came from the door with shrill urgency, and Viola flinched. “Miss Woodward, I’ve found her,” Miss Yates called.

“Indeed, you’ve found me,” Viola agreed with a heavy sigh.

A twinge of pity caught Nate unawares. He hadn’t really given much thought to what it might be like to have two people watching and judging your every move.

“What in heaven’s name are you doing in here? With Mr. Shaw? By yourself?” Each question ended with saturated accusation.

Nate glanced at Viola, only to find that there was now a wicked gleam in her eye.

He swallowed, his mouth dry.

“Mr. Shaw was teaching me a bit about biology, Bar—Miss Yates,” she said. “He is quite…accomplished. As a surgeon, that is.”

Miss Yates narrowed her eyes at Nate, putting a hand to her substantial bosom. “Indeed? Biology?”

“And blowflies,” he blurted, feeling the weight of more accusation in her gaze.

“Mr.
Shaw
!” Miss Yates was aghast. “You should know that such subject matter is not suitable for the minds of young ladies.”

“Of course. My apologies. I do tend to get carried away.”

“Then I would request that you show more restraint in the future, Mr. Shaw,” the woman ordered.

Nate risked another look at Viola. Dear God. She was
grinning
at him.

Reckless. Impulsive. The other two adjectives Boden had used to describe his sister, and no doubt they were not meant as compliments. But when combined with desirable and devilish, the mixture became rather exhilarating.

“Perhaps, my lady, you might like to borrow this,” he said, reaching for the book and the map that lay forgotten on the counter. He knew very well why he was making this offer, even though his actions now were likely no wiser than when he’d had his hands on her backside. But, as then, he seemed incapable of resisting. If Lady Viola borrowed this book, she would need to return it. She would have an excuse to seek him out again.

“What is that, Mr. Shaw?” Miss Yates demanded, striding forward to pluck it from his hands. She turned it over gingerly as though she expected it to detonate in her grasp. “I trust it is not something inappropriate.”

He avoided Lady Viola’s gaze.

“It is a brief account of our destination,” Nate said smoothly. “I thought it might be beneficial for Lady Viola to familiarize herself with the geography and the history.”

“Why?”

“So that Lady Viola may participate in the conversations that will take place at the dinner parties and other social functions that she will undoubtedly be invited to. I am made to understand that exploration and expansion are of great interest to New York’s most elite.” As he finished the sentence, he almost snorted. He was lying through his teeth. As if he would have any idea what the upper echelons of New York society spoke of over roasted capons and champagne.

“Really?” Miss Yates was frowning, her tiny eyes almost disappearing under her heavy gray brow as she flipped through the pages.

“Very well.” She handed the book to Lady Viola, apparently failing to find anything in it that looked inappropriate. “You may read it.”

“Thank you,” Viola said, holding the small booklet to her breast, looking oddly as if she had just been handed a diamond tiara.

“I do think you will find that book educational and informative,” Nate said to her.

“I’m sure.” Lady Viola was still grinning, and it was suddenly very hard to remember why he shouldn’t grin back.

“Good day, Mr. Shaw,” Miss Yates sniffed.

“Good day,” Nate replied.

“Now come along, my lady.” Miss Yates was ushering Lady Viola out of the surgery as quickly as her bulk would allow. “It is simply not seemly—” She stopped abruptly. “Good heavens,” she exclaimed, her face screwed up into another arrangement of accusation and displeasure. “Whatever happened to your bonnet?” She put a hand to her mouth. “Why, it is positively
flattened
!”

V
iola had never been kissed before.

Oh, she thought she had, those two times gentlemen had stolen quick pecks out in a darkened garden, but now she realized just how foolish she’d been. Those kisses had been fleeting, and not a little slimy, if she was being honest. Men who had grasped her gloved hands, squeezing her fingers as though they’d been afraid she would bolt, while pressing their lips to hers. Men who clearly had no idea how to kiss.

Not like Nathaniel Shaw did.

Mr. Shaw did things to her that she didn’t quite understand. He scattered her thoughts, and he made her body feel as though it might come apart. His mouth had been so soft yet so hard on hers, a strange juxtaposition. The sensation of the rough stubble of his jaw against her own face should have been disagreeable, yet instead, it sent currents of excitement across the entire surface of her skin. Perhaps she’d been too hasty in her notion that a man should shave daily.

And his touch—oh, his touch. It had made everything inside her ache. Her breasts had become heavy and sensitive, and she had wanted him to put his hands over the hardened peaks just to see if it would feel as good as she suspected it might. A steady pulse had started in her lower belly, something nameless that had urged her closer to him. The slide of his fingers over her backside had been wickedly exquisite, and it had emboldened her to kiss him back the way he had taken her.

It was all terribly inappropriate. It was all terribly thrilling.

And she wanted to do it again.

The rational part of her brain reminded her that that was not a wise idea on any level. She was the sister of an earl and expected to behave as such. Which, when in society, meant avoiding anything that smacked of fun. Or excitement. She’d done her best to ensure she’d met these expectations in her effort to secure a proposal of marriage from a duke, but so far, she’d failed to achieve her goals.

And now she found herself a prisoner on a ship where there was a dearth of dukes.

And society.

Even though Bart and the Post had been hired to ensure the rules of civilized society were enforced, their current location so far out in the Atlantic reduced those rules to a set of anemic suggestions. Really, what happened out here on this ship had no bearing on what would happen a year from now. By the time she returned to London, Mr. Shaw would be somewhere out in the Missouri Territory, patching people up. If she asked Mr. Shaw to kiss her again in the manner he had done yesterday—if he did kiss her again—no one would ever know.

The thought gave her pause, even as another delicious shiver tingled through her body.

Perhaps more experience in the skill of seduction might help her catch a duke when she returned to England. Because that was what she wanted.

Wasn’t it?

As much as she’d liked Mr. Shaw’s kisses, she hadn’t liked his questions. And for the moment, she was determined to ignore them. Mr. Shaw had no idea what he was talking about. He didn’t even know her. Not really. Ever since her family had inherited the title, it had been an uphill battle to prove to the ton that they belonged. That she belonged. And what better way to silence all the doubters and judgers than by marrying a man who was barely a step away from royalty?

There was a sharp rap on her door, and the Post stuck her head in without waiting for Viola to invite her to do so. Which annoyed Viola to no end. Bart and the Post shared the cabin next to hers, while Viola had her own. She supposed that was the only benefit to having a brother who owned the ship upon which one was sailing, and she treasured that sliver of privacy.

“What are you doing?” the Post challenged.

Viola bit back a cheeky answer and only held up Mr. Shaw’s book. “Reading,” she said.

“Still?” Her eyes fixed on Viola and then skittered around the cabin as if looking for proof that might suggest otherwise.

“Yes.”

“
Hmph.
”

“Did you want something?” Viola asked.

“Miss Yates and I will be resting for the next hour,” the Post said. “I came to ensure that you will not leave in the interim.”

“Oh, that is a pity. I had planned a jaunt to Covent Garden.” She regretted it the moment it was out. She needed to learn to curb her tongue. Needling Bart and the Post accomplished nothing.

The Post’s lips thinned even further. “Lady Viola, must I remind you that such responses are unbecoming—”

“No,” Viola said. “You need not remind me of anything. I apologize for my unbecoming remarks.” She just wanted the Post to leave.

“
Hmph.
” The Post seemed suspicious of her apology.

Viola returned her attention to Mr. Shaw’s book, pretending complete absorption, and after a minute, the Post retreated.

Viola waited five minutes before jumping to her feet and tiptoeing to her cabin door. Silently, she pulled the door open and peered into the passageway, but Bart and the Post’s door was tightly shut. Without a second’s hesitation, she hurried down the passageway, heading aft. Heading for Mr. Shaw’s surgery.

She wasn’t at all sure if he would be in his surgery—it was very likely he would be above decks somewhere—but as she got closer, she could see his silhouette through the open door. He was working on something at the counter, stripped down to his shirtsleeves, the muscles of his back and arms flexing beneath the thin fabric as he leaned and twisted. She paused, taking a moment to admire him. She found she rather liked the way his hair curled around his collar. It looked infinitely touchable. She enjoyed watching the muscles in his forearms tighten as he worked, bared to his elbows, where his sleeves were pushed up. And she’d been right. His coat had hidden a very nice—

“Are you coming in, my lady?” He said it without turning around. “Or are you going to loiter at the doorway until a written invitation is delivered?”

She nearly yelped in surprise. “How did you know I was standing there?”

“I heard your steps in the passageway. No one else on this ship has time to loiter.”

Viola sniffed and stepped into the surgery. The sharp scent of mustard filled her nostrils. “What are you doing?”

“Grinding more mustard seed,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I ran out.”

“Are you mocking me again?” How did this man do it? How did he knock her off balance so easily? She might not know a great deal about kissing, but she certainly knew a great deal about conversation. And until she had met Mr. Shaw, she had considered herself quite accomplished at it.

“I’m not mocking you, my lady. I answered your question. If you want a better answer, then ask a better question. You’re smarter than this.”

She realized she had no idea if he was insulting her or complimenting her.

“What do you use ground mustard seed for, Mr. Shaw?” she asked. “And how is it administered?”

He turned then, still holding the pestle he’d been working. “Ah. Now that is a much better question. Ground mustard seed, Lady Viola, is used for the relief of congestion or cough. Mixed with flour and hot water, it creates a poultice. Normally, I purchase the ground product at an apothecary. But since we’re a good ways away from such, I’ve ground my own.”

“I see.” She ventured farther into the surgery. She could see on the counter he had a heavy marble bowl, and it was filled with powder.

He was watching her, his booted feet crossed as he leaned back against the counter. “What can I do for you today, Lady Viola?” he asked, and there was not a hint of anything in his voice that suggested he was the man who had kissed her witless not so very long ago.

You can kiss me again
, she wanted to demand.

But she couldn’t quite bring herself to say it.

“I brought your book back,” she told him instead, holding out the thin volume.

“You read it already?” Mr. Shaw reached for the book, sounding skeptical.

“I did. Twice, in fact.” She’d missed details the first time.

“And what did you think?”

“It was rather barbarous.”

“You didn’t enjoy it.”

“What? No. I enjoyed every minute of it. Did you not hear me say I read it twice? The Post scolded me this morning because I had used up too much oil reading too late into the night. Well, that and she was worried that loss of sleep would adversely affect my appearance.”

“Who is the Post?” Mr. Shaw looked confused.

“Umm.”

“Miss Woodward?”

“Maybe.”

The crinkles in the corners of his eyes betrayed him.

“Please don’t tell her.”

“Tell who what?” he asked, a picture of perplexed innocence.

Viola looked away, this exchange strangely intimate and making her insides tilt wildly.

“So you enjoyed it? Even though you found it…barbarous?” Mr. Shaw asked after a moment.

“Very much so. Those men struck out knowing nothing about what they might encounter. Yet they persevered anyway. The hardships they faced—good heavens, it was almost too fantastical to be believed.”

“Mmmm.”

“Do you have another one?”

He straightened. “Another what?”

“Another book like that.”

“I’m afraid not. That is the only book I have on the Lewis and Clark expedition.”

Viola glanced around the surgery. “What about a book on surgery?”

“Why would you want a book on surgery?”

“Because I had packed an entire trunk of books to keep me entertained on this journey. Bart and the Post, with the blessing of my brother, went through them all and left me two. Two that they considered appropriate. I was done reading them by the second day of our journey. If I don’t have something new to read soon, I fear for my sanity.”

“Bart?”

Viola made a face.

His eyes crinkled a little more. “You enjoy reading then?”

Another trait that would be social suicide in a ballroom should she ever admit it. Young ladies that hoped to marry well did not profess such things. Otherwise they ended up like Mary Wollstonecraft, the object of every joke told by a gentleman in a card room when the subject of the intellectual abilities of their wives was brought up. Luckily she was not in a ballroom. Or a card room. And there was no need to lie to Mr. Shaw. “Yes. Very much.”

“Well, why didn’t you say something earlier?” Mr. Shaw seemed immensely satisfied with her admission. “What sort of book would you like?”

“What do you have?”

Mr. Shaw put down his pestle and moved over to a trunk secured to the far bulkhead. He flipped open the lid and gestured to the interior. “Look for yourself.”

Viola hurried over and dropped to her knees in front of the trunk. It was almost completely filled with books, the only other contents a spare shirt, two pairs of woolen socks, and an embroidered blanket that had a distinctive feminine flair. Her hand hovered over the blanket, wanting to ask.

“It was my sister’s,” he said from behind her. “My mother made it for her when she was born.”

“It’s lovely.” It wasn’t made of silk or satin or edged in lace, but somehow, the thought of a mother carefully and painstakingly putting in each stitch especially for her daughter made it infinitely beautiful. “Did your sister give you this as a keepsake when you left to come on this journey?” She ran her finger over the rose-colored thread.

“My sister died when I was seven.”

Viola snatched her hand back. “I’m sorry.”

“It was what made me want to become a surgeon. I know now that, had she had competent medical attention, she wouldn’t have died.” There was no bitterness in his words. Just a subtle determination.

“What happened?” Viola put her hand back on the worn fabric.

“She was climbing a fence. Caught her leg on an exposed metal hinge. The wound festered for weeks, poisoned her limb, and eventually killed her.”

A silence fell.

“Pick a book, Lady Viola,” Mr. Shaw said, the discussion of his sister clearly at an end.

Viola lifted the first volumes out, setting them to the side. She took out a handful more and sat back on her heels to examine them.

A heavier leather-bound volume caught her eye. She opened the book only to be presented with a number of shocking drawings. Naked women and men, their outer layers peeled back, exposing a confusing array of details that were labeled with terms she had never heard of.

“Cheselden’s
The Anatomy of the Human Body
,” Mr. Shaw said. “The illustrations are quite good.”

She could feel his eyes on the back of her neck. Part of her expected him to yank the volume from her hands and declare that the content was inappropriate. Yet he didn’t move.

“You’re welcome to it,” he said, “though you might need to keep that hidden from your keepers. I’d hate for Miss Yates to confiscate it and throw it overboard.”

Viola nodded, turning the pages slowly. They were scandalous, these drawings. And yet…so utterly fascinating and compelling.

“If you’re going to take that book, you’ll want this one as well.” Mr. Shaw reached down and selected another volume, bound in green cloth. “This will explain further some of what you’re seeing in the drawings and their function. Or at least as much as we know. You’ll have to excuse my own notes in the margins and pages of both of those. I have a habit of making observations whenever possible.”

Viola closed the anatomy book and stood. “Why would you give these to me?” she asked, unable to help herself.

“Because you told me you’d go insane if you didn’t have something new to read.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I mean, why would you allow me to read this?” She tapped the cover. “Which you know very well would never make it onto any approved reading list for young ladies.”

He met her gaze squarely, his eyes an intense blue. “Because you might be a lady, but you’re not a child,” Mr. Shaw said, a faint note of derision in his voice. “You are a perfectly intelligent woman perfectly capable of understanding intelligent ideas.”

Viola blinked at him, a rush of…something flooding through her.

“I’ve surprised you.”

“A little,” she admitted.

“Some of the most skilled medical professionals, if you’d like to call them that, are midwives. Childbirth can be extremely dangerous for both mother and child, and a good midwife can be the difference between life and death. I’ve seen it firsthand, and I suffer no illusions that women are not able to grasp the concept of medicine with the same skill as men.”