I Married the Duke (9 page)

“I am grateful for the care you took of me while I was chilled, Doctor. I wish I could offer you suitable compensation.”

“Ye needn’t be thanking me.” He chuckled. “And there’s no need for compensation.”

She dug into her pocket and withdrew her largest coin. “Will you accept this?”

Gently he pressed her hand away. “There be no shame in accepting charity, lass. Nor sin.”

“The sin lies in the pride that leads one to reject charity.” Captain Andrew filled the doorway to the cabin.

She was not prepared to see him again. She probably would never be. It had not been the brandy or sleep or the young sailor’s attack that muddled her when he was near before. It was rather him—simply—his strangeness and destroyed beauty and intense gaze that gentled so abruptly and grew hard again as swiftly.

“Are you a theologian now, Captain?” she said.

“I dabble in many endeavors, Miss Caulfield.”

His glimmering gaze made her want to tease too.
She mustn’t.
But after today she would never see him again. She would return to work and determination and her goal. “Like what?” she let herself say. “Other than sin, that is.”

He leaned a shoulder against the door frame and crossed his arms over his chest. “A bit of this, a bit of that. You know . . . apprehend jewel thieves, rescue damsels . . .” He waved a negligent hand. “The usual sorts of things.”

Dr. Stewart cast him a slanted look and went out.

Arabella drew a steadying breath. “I did not steal the ring.”

His brow went up. “I did not say that you had.”

“Why do you mistrust me about this? Have I given you any special reason to?”

He assessed her with that odd intensity that made her knees feel watery. “You are not what you appear, Miss Caulfield. The ring you bear suits your character better than the governess’s gown. Will you deny it?”

She wanted to. It was on the tip of her tongue. He spoke foolishness. She was a poor girl from a poor family. An orphan. A servant.

But when he looked at her, he made her feel like . . .
a duchess
.

She grappled at reality. “Why is the British Navy escorting your ship? In French waters, no less? Have you done something wrong?”

“Ah, the little duchess believes she may ask any question she wishes while refusing to answer those put to her. Interesting, though to be expected, I suppose.” He nodded toward the gun deck. “We will shortly come into port. Perhaps you would like to take in our arrival from atop.”

He gestured her through the doorway, and she went before him. But he stayed close, too close, and as she climbed the steep stair to the main deck, his hand brushed hers upon the rail.

He grasped her fingers, halting her ascent. The breeze twining down the hatchway whipped around her cloak and their joined hands.

“Sir,”
she whispered, but her throat was constricted and the wind snatched away the sound.

He released her and she hurried the remainder of the way up.

The wind was strong on the main deck, and the
Retribution
’s sails were full like those of the naval ship close by. Sailors were active on deck.

“Have you lost your gloves, Miss Caulfield?” The captain spoke at her shoulder, low and intimate, as though they were not standing in broad daylight surrounded by dozens of men.

She turned. Color shone high upon his cheekbones and his lips were parted.

“In Plymouth,” she said, “I sold my gloves for food.”

“Food for those children you found.”

She nodded.

He stared at her mouth and his chest rose sharply, and she feared he would kiss her here before his crew in the light of day, like a man might kiss a woman of ill repute—where he wished, when he wished. For all his talk of governesses, he must believe her to be what he had first suggested in Plymouth. She was traveling alone and in possession of a ring that only a wealthy man would own. Captain Andrew had no reason to think her other than a fallen woman, or any other justification for staring at her with undisguised desire.

“I am not what you think I am.” She bit her lip. She had not meant to speak. She needn’t justify herself to him.

“I don’t believe you have the faintest notion of what I think of you. Now look behind you.”

She turned.

Arrayed like a bride on her wedding day, the estuary shone bright and sparkling in the sunshine, broad across and festooned with vessels. The near bank stretched gold and white with long, lazy beaches giving way to rows of docks cluttered with ships, banners proclaiming them from every nation on earth, it seemed.

Tucked beyond, inside the mouth of the river, the town of Saint-Nazaire was little more than a collection of quays and shipyards, with a church spire poking above the cluster of buildings that rose from the shore.

“Here amidships you are unlikely to fall overboard, duchess,” he said quietly at her shoulder. “You can release the railing now.”

She started. Her knuckles were white around the stair rail. “I . . .”

“I noticed,” he only said. “Welcome back to land, Miss Caulfield.” With a bow he strode across deck and to the helm.

Chapter 6

Two Louis

“J
e suis désolé, mademoiselle,”
the innkeeper said without a shadow of desolation on his narrow Gallic face. “
Mais
, there is no carriage in the carriage house. And one cannot fabricate a carriage from the air like the magician, can one?” His lips pursed.

Arabella’s fingers gripped the coins she had shown him, every penny she had. “This is because I am not offering to pay you more, isn’t it?”

He shook his head. “
Je vous ai dit
, the horses and coach, they are not available until
jeudi
.”

Thursday. Two days away. She could not afford to stay even a single night at the inn and also hire the carriage to Saint-Reveé-des-Beaux.

“Is there another place I may hire a carriage in town?”

“Non non, mademoiselle.”
He shook his head again as though he were filled with sorrow over her plight.

“But I passed a stable walking here, and I saw a perfectly good carriage and two horses doing nothing at all,” she said firmly. “How do you explain that, monsieur?”

“There is no arguing with innkeepers in this country, my dear,” a languid voice came from behind her. “Now that they have tasted revolution, the French have little respect for anything but avaricious acquisition. Pity, really. They used to be so delightfully ingratiating.”

Golden like a god, with wavy hair and warm brown eyes, dressed in dark velvet, with draping lace at throat and cuffs, and boots that shone with champagne polish, the man standing in the doorway looked like a prince out of a storybook.

But no prince would peruse a lady from brow to toe. In comparison, Captain Andrew’s lustful stares seemed positively safe.
No
. That was not true. There had been nothing safe about Captain Andrew’s stares, because despite herself she had wanted them.

“Monseigneur, bienvenue!”
The innkeeper bowed deeply. “How may I be of service to you?”

“You may cease distressing this lady.” He came to her. “Clearly she is in great need of assistance.”

“Which she is unlikely to accept from you.” Captain Andrew strode through the door. “I think you will find she is adamantly self-sufficient.” He bowed to her. “Madam.”

Arabella battened down on her tripping pulse. “Captain.”

The gentleman’s languid eyes went wide. “How is it, Lucien, that you have the pleasure of this diamond’s acquaintance yet I do not? It is positively criminal.”

“Miss Caulfield, allow me to—with all reluctance—introduce you to the Earl of Bedwyr,” the captain said with a sideways glance at the earl. “Cam, Miss Caulfield took passage aboard the
Retribution
from Plymouth.”

The earl’s mouth curved into a slow grin and he scanned her anew. “Ah, now is fully explained the presence of a passenger aboard your ship otherwise
rempli des bêtes
. Well done, Lucien.”

The captain accepted a key from the innkeeper.

“Festival in town, tomorrow,” came through the door before the man who spoke it. “Great guns, gents, we’re to have uncommon entertainment.” Black-haired, with moustaches that curled dramatically upon either cheek, he wore a naval uniform, the splendid plume of his tricorn draping over blue eyes. He saw her and halted abruptly.

“Well,
bonjour
, mademoiselle.” He swept off his hat and scraped the plume to the floor. “Sight for sore eyes, ain’t she, gentlemen?”

“It seems that Luc’s eyes are not quite as sore as ours, Anthony,” the earl drawled. “Rather, eye.”

“Miss Caulfield, this is Captain Masinter of the Royal Navy.” Captain Andrew said, coming to her side. “Tony, she is not French.”

“I don’t think Anthony is particular when the beauty is so marked,” Lord Bedwyr said with a smile.

“And she is not married,” the captain said flatly, cutting the earl a sharp glance. Then he looked at her. “Are you?”

She swallowed over the catch in her throat. The earl was frankly gorgeous, and the naval captain dashing. But standing beside the scarred, autocratic merchant shipmaster when she had expected never to see him again made her knees watery. He carried himself with absolute authority, and she had not needed to tell him she feared the sea for him to know it. She could not read him, but it seemed he could read her perfectly well.

“I am not married.”

“My sympathies, Cam,” the captain said without any show of humor, then looked down at her and his gaze glimmered. “Monsieur Gripon, have you assisted Miss Caulfield to her satisfaction?”

He had done this before, speaking to another while looking at her. It was as though he knew everyone’s attention would always be on him, waiting for his words, no matter where his attention was directed.

“Hélas, monsieur!”
The innkeeper clasped his hands together as though he were in great distress. “The preparation for
le jour de la fête
tomorrow, you see, it has commanded
toutes les ressources de la ville
.”

The captain frowned.

“I wish to hire a carriage to travel to the chateau,” she said, “but he said there are none to be had, although I saw one in the stable, and horses.”

He turned to the innkeeper. “Is this true?”

“
Le chariot
is to bear the holy image of
le roi
Louis IX in the procession tomorrow night, Captain. I cannot send it away now.” The innkeeper shook his head sorrowfully. “But the mademoiselle, she does not understand.”

The captain nodded. “I see. Miss Caulfield, I am afraid in this he is probably telling the truth. How many days yet before you must arrive at your destination?”

“Five, but I should like to arrive before then.” She had no choice. She hadn’t the funds to linger even a day in Saint-Nazaire. She could not have come this far only to be thwarted now. “Will the festival last many days?”

“Only one.” Captain Masinter removed his gloves. “It is the Feast of Saint Louis, Miss Caulfield, one of those medieval crusading blokes, and ancestor to the newest Louis, don’t you know. Ought to be great good fun tomorrow.” He gave her a broad smile. “Continental Catholics, you know, throw a splendid party.”

“Why don’t you remain in town a night and enjoy the celebration, Miss Caulfield?” Lord Bedwyr said with an elegant bow. “I should be honored to escort you about the festivities.”

“I’ve no doubt you would.” Captain Andrew looked back down at her. “Miss Caulfield, if your claims of having spent time among London society are true, you will know better than to trust in Lord Bedwyr’s intentions.”

“I am barely acquainted with him, Captain Andrew. I should not presume to make a judgment.”

“Perhaps then you can trust in my word.”

“Yes, Miss Caulfield,” Cam said with a sly look at Luc, “by all means trust our friend Captain
Andrew
here rather than me. For all that he looks like a villain and addresses a lady like a cad, he is a
noble
fellow in truth, while I am but a poor man alone in an alien country, innocently seeking a lovely lady’s company for an evening stroll.” Cam’s grin slipped into the smile he had practiced upon hundreds of pretty females with enormous success.

A pale flush stole over the little governess’s cheeks.

Luc ground his molars. The rakehell always had such an effect on women. Luc had never cared. Not once.

Now he cared.

“Camlann, don’t tease the lady,” he said, unsurprised at the gravel in his voice.

“You are to be the only man allowed that privilege, I suppose?” A gleam lit Cam’s eyes.

“Captain. My lord,” she said firmly, her chin inching upward. “I would very much like it if you would not speak about me as though I were not standing here.” She turned to the innkeeper. “I will hire a chamber for tonight and tomorrow night, monsieur, in the hope that you will make the carriage available to me the following day. How much will it be?”

The innkeeper looked questioningly at Luc.

Her cheeks flamed. But her slender shoulders remained square. “I am barely acquainted with these gentlemen, monsieur, and not a member of their party. I will pay for my own room and for the carriage to Saint-Reveé-des-Beaux.”

“Saint-Reveé-des-Beaux?” Cam said with a quick glance at Luc. He stepped toward her. “Why, my dear, that is precisely my destination as well. I have an itch to see my old friend, Prince Reiner, who is in residence there as the guest of . . . Now who is that crusty old fellow that owns the castle, Tony?”

Tony lifted a brow and casually twirled a moustache between forefinger and thumb. “Don’t know if I quite recall.”

“Ah, yes, the Comte de Rallis.” Cam gestured with a lacy wrist. “Monsieur Gripon, the carriage the day after tomorrow will be on my bill. I insist. I will, of course, allow you privacy during the journey, madam. I shall ride ahead and clear the road of ruffians and knaves.” He gave her a winning smile and went to the door. “Now, Tony, why don’t we find that smart little brasserie we passed and command a roasted capon. Lucien, I trust we shall see you anon.”

“Capital idea, Charles.” Tony swept a deep bow to Miss Caulfield and departed.

She said, “You count earls and naval commanders among your close friends, Captain?”

“ ‘Friend’ loosely employed in the case of Bedwyr.”

“That, at least, is obvious. I have no intention of accepting his assistance in traveling to Saint-Reveé-des-Beaux.”

“That is probably wise.” If there were a horse or mule to be spared in town, he would send a message to the chateau and have a carriage sent for her. As soon as Miles had finished packing, he must see to it.

She studied him for a moment longer, the flush still high in her cheeks. “Good night, Captain.”

He watched her follow the innkeeper up the stairs, her back as straight as any duchess’s. He had no doubt that the young ladies she trained for society were among the fortunate few.

T
HE INN SAT
at the far end of town at the edge of a stretch of beach bordered by a grove of shrubs and mottled plantane trees. Monsieur Gripon gave her a bedchamber the size of a closet at the head of the stairs from which Arabella heard every footstep and uttered word of every guest in the crowded hotel as they passed by her door. It seemed that having the acquaintance of both an English nobleman and a captain in the Royal Navy did not ensure a poor woman an enviable bedchamber in a French inn. The bed linens were thin and worn, the mattress a straw pallet, and the posts and headboard eaten through with tiny holes by some hungry resident.

It required little to soothe herself with the reminder that in two nights’ time she would be sleeping in a castle.

For now she stared out the window at the black waves breaking on the beach where two hours earlier the sun had disappeared in a blaze of fire into the inlet. From this distance and the safety of land, the water seemed dramatic and powerful, but no longer frightening. Even its scent, mingled with comforting aromas of the meal served earlier in the inn’s dining room below, seemed less wild and ferocious.

Her stomach growled. If the passage of other guests traveling up and down the stairs did not keep her awake all night, her empty belly would. But she hadn’t enough to pay for the room and dinner.

Captain Andrew would purchase dinner for her if she asked. Then she would owe him a debt and he would expect payment from her in return. They usually did. She had rarely met a man who did not look at her as though she were a thing to be cajoled, commanded, or purchased. Or despised. Like the man her sisters called Papa.

She believed the Reverend Martin Caulfield to be a good man, sincere in his intentions and affectionate in his subdued, scholarly way. He admired Eleanor’s modesty and was proud of her fine mind. And Ravenna’s interests in every beast and bird in the village amused him; he imagined her an amateur naturalist of sorts. But he had never cared for his middle adoptive daughter. Once, when she was very young and disturbed him at his work, he scolded her, telling her that her vanity drove her to disrespect him.

But as she grew older she had seen something else in his eyes when he looked at her. Disappointment. Disgust.

Then, on her fourteenth birthday, he discovered her talking with the blacksmith’s son. A strapping lad, he had brought her a bouquet of flowers plucked from a garden, and she laughed at how he escaped the gardener’s notice. The Reverend found her there, grabbed her wrist and dragged her home. He called her immodest and read to her the story of Jezebel from scripture. He told her he had long suspected their mother was a woman of ill repute. Who else but a red-haired harlot would send her children away from her as she had? Arabella must fight against that tendency in her blood, for the good of her sisters’ reputations and for the good of her soul.

After that she ceased seeking his approval or affection. She sought instead to educate herself so that she could find her mother and prove him wrong. Eleanor’s prolonged illness made it possible. Instead of her elder sister, Arabella went off to school with the funds he had saved, and learned there what she must to enable her to forge her destiny—and to someday, hopefully, find the man who had sent for his daughters across the ocean to claim them as his own.

Now her fingertips stole to the linen wrapped about her head. She remembered her mother’s hair well, all silken and bright in the tropical sun.

Her own was wretchedly dirty. And her scalp itched. She could not meet Princess Jacqueline looking like a nun. But if she put down her hair without washing it, she would look worse.

Taking up the stub of tallow candle Monsieur Gripon had given her, she left her chamber and climbed down the four narrow flights of stairs to the parlor. The hour was late already. She peered into the corridor leading to the back of the inn. A woman marched toward her, her cheeks ruddy, hair trussed, and black silk skirts starched.

“I’m Madame Gripon.” She spoke like the downstairs maid in the town house of Arabella’s last employer. “Cat got your tongue, miss?”

“I desire a bath.” Arabella adopted her best upper servant hauteur. “I should like hot water sent to my bedchamber immediately.”