Lord of Devil Isle (7 page)

Nick frowned. “A ball?”

“Oh, yes!” Miss Munroe now slid firmly into the opposing camp. “Is there anything more romantic than a ball?”

“I like to dance,” Miss Smythe added shyly.

“Even though your home does have many guest rooms, it can only accommodate so many. But a ball, which shouldn’t require you to provide lodging, would allow you to invite many more people,” Eve said, her logic flawless. “And your stated purpose is for us to meet as many eligible men as possible, is it not?”

“There’s the rub, Miss Upshall,” he said with a triumphant grin. She’d run herself into a narrow inlet this time with no clearance to turn around. “My home is
spacious, but I have no ballroom. Even if we cleared out the dining room”—he waved a hand around the largest room in his home, which he’d designed around the cedar table that expanded to seat twenty when all the leaves were in place—“we’d still be hard-pressed to make space for more than a half dozen couples or so to dance at once. A reel is quite vigorous, you know.”

“Then we must choose a different venue,” Eve said, neatly closing the trap on him.

“I-I could inquire about hiring the town hall,” the traitorous Higgs offered.

Around the table, ideas for the ball bounced from one woman to the next, the plans zipping beyond his control, like a hooked marlin diving for deep water. Eve’s new scheme quickly escalated past the point of reeling it in.

“Oh, Captain—” Eve finally deigned to include him in the discussion. “Since this ball constitutes a savings for you over your original plan, I do trust you’ll still be willing to provide new ball gowns for us.”

All the feminine heads turned expectantly in his direction.

“Of course,” he said in resignation. Nick glared at his first mate. “I expect Higgs can see to the arrangements for new ball gowns and all the necessary accoutrements while he’s off hiring a hall tomorrow!”

Sometimes, in the smoke of battle a promising action turned south when a man least expected it. A wise man had to know when to withdraw from an engagement, so he might regroup and fight another day.

Nicholas wished them good evening and excused himself before Eve Upshall forced him to wave his napkin like a white flag.

“I think I’m far too flat in back, don’t you?” Sally twisted her neck before the long looking glass, trying to catch a glimpse of her own derriere. “Give it a look, then, won’t you, Evie?”

The women all enjoyed their own chambers, but frequently met in Sally’s, since hers was the middlemost and boasted the largest looking glass. Usually the face-sized mirrors in their own rooms were fine for Eve and Penny, but they were preparing for “Lord Nick’s Ball” that evening. Being able to view the full effect of their new gowns was an important consideration. And for Sally, it seemed critical.

Her pale brows scrunched into a frown. “Evie, don’t you think I need a bumroll?”

“I think your bum is adequate for all normal purposes,” Eve said, briefly glancing up from the book in her lap. “Without an additional roll.”

Eve returned to her book. Think what she might about “Lord Nick,” the wicked devil knew how to stock a library. She’d found a relatively easy book on the history of animal husbandry and was using it to hone her limited reading skills. The subject matter wasn’t exactly riveting, but she was able to cobble the letters into intelligible words much quicker now than when she’d started.

“Eve’s right. You’re lovely, Sally,” Penelope said. She was already trussed into her new lemon yellow sack dress. Penny perched delicately on the edge of a straight-backed chair to avoid creating any wrinkles in the yards
of silk. “I expect the men of these isles have never seen the likes of you.”

“You, too, Penny,” Eve said. “That yellow makes your skin glow and against your dark hair, why, it’s enchanting. You’ll catch plenty of masculine eyes.”

“Doubt he—they’ll even notice I’m there.” Penelope looked toward the open window, where the setting sun was fractured by the rectangles of multiple panes.

“Nonsense,” Eve said. It hurt sometimes to see how little Penelope thought of herself. “Besides, tonight is just a chance to have a little fun at the captain’s expense. Remember that you have a fine, respectable gentleman waiting for you in Charleston.”

“I don’t want a fine respectable gentleman in Charleston,” Penny said softly.

“Pen has her eye on someone here already.” Sally hitched up a bumroll under her panniers despite Eve’s opinion. Once she tied off the tabs, she smoothed down the pink silk panels of her gown and ruffled petticoat. She turned sideways and eyed herself critically, then gave her cork-enhanced bottom a wiggle. Sally smiled at her reflection with a satisfied nod. “Our Penelope’s been mooning around over someone for the last fortnight, but she won’t tell me who he is.”

“Is this true, Penny?” Eve closed the book. She didn’t think she could persuade Sally to continue to Charleston. Her fear of another wreck was just too great, but Eve was counting on Penelope to join her.

Penny shrugged and smiled. “You know Sally. If nothing interesting is happening, we can always count on her to make something up.”

Before Eve could pursue the matter further, their new maid, Day a, appeared in the doorway with news that Eve’s bath was ready. “Lord Nick” hadn’t ever kept any
female servants before. Mr. Higgs had let it slip that the captain’s previous mistress wouldn’t tolerate any other women in the house, but Daya lived with her husband Sanjay in the small caretaker’s cottage on the edge of the captain’s land. Sanjay was a brilliant gardener and kept Whispering Hill’s expansive grounds in pristine condition. So when Eve and her friends needed a lady’s maid, Daya was close at hand to help and glad of the work.

Eve thanked Daya and hurried back to her own chamber where a jasmine-scented hip bath waited.

As usual, Eve allowed Daya to loosen her stays, but declined help in disrobing. She didn’t want even this calm, silent East Indian woman to see her naked.

Just before Daya slipped away, Eve called out. “Oh! The modiste is supposed to be delivering a second petticoat for me. Could you watch for it and bring it to me as soon as it arrives please?”

Daya nodded and sketched her exotic gesture of farewell before closing the door behind her.

Once the maid was gone, Eve reached under her skirt and untied her panniers. The wire contraption fell to the floor and she stepped out of it. She toed off her slippers. Then she wiggled the rest of the way out of her gown, peeled off her chemise and rolled off her stockings.

With satisfaction, she sank into the hot water. She closed her eyes for a moment, drinking in the fragrant steam before she picked up the jar of soap and sudsed her hands.

She reached as far as she could over her shoulders, lathering her back. The awful bumps and ridges of the scars were still there. She wondered if they were still angry and red. She wet a cloth and let the water sluice down her back.

The scars on her soul were angry. Why shouldn’t the ones on her back be as well?

As Nicholas strode through the foyer on the way to his study, he noticed Daya squatting in that inexplicable Indian fashion of repose by his open front door. She rose as soon as she saw him and templed her hands before her.

“Please do not think me idle, Lord Nick,” she said with a deep salaam. “I but wait for a package for Miss Eve. Ah! There it must be.”

A gig shuddered to a stop in the circular drive and a man hopped down with a large parcel under his arm. Daya skittered out to retrieve it and hurried back.

“This must be something of supreme importance,” Nick said with a grin.

“Assuredly so. It is her new petticoat.”

“I paid for it, so that makes it mine. Why don’t I deliver it to her?” He tried to take the package, but Daya didn’t release it instantly as he expected. “Where the devil is she?”

“In her chamber, but she is with her bath, sir, and would not be liking you to come in.” Daya tugged on the parcel, but he managed to snatch it away finally.

“Her bath, hmmm?”

His imagination treated him to a rakish vision of Eve rising from her ablutions, rosy-skinned and glistening, like Venus rising from the waves. Desire denied was leaving him with an almost perpetual erection. If this kept up, he’d need to see his tailor for some permanent alterations to his breeches. He held the parcel strategically before him. He’d be happy to let Eve see the evidence of his arousal, but he didn’t want to embarrass his gardener’s wife.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you that cleanliness is next
to godliness, Daya? Godliness is beyond me. Perhaps I should settle for the next best thing.”

“Oh, she will not be happy with me,” Daya said, trying to reach for the package.

“You work for me, not Miss Upshall. If I’m pleased, that’s all that need concern you.” Nick turned and headed for the wing that held the row of bedchambers. “Don’t worry,” he called over his shoulder to Daya. “Surely you’ve heard the ugly rumor that I’m acting the gentleman now. I’ll knock first.”

It wasn’t his fault Eve answered his knock with, “Come in, Daya.”

He turned the knob and pushed the door open slowly. A gentleman would announce himself at once, he knew.

Fortunately, he was not really a gentleman. He was a smuggler at heart. Cunning and stealth had served him well in the past. He peered around the door.

Blast and damn! She had a privacy screen set up around the hip bath, but he could hear water splashing on the other side of the thin shield of silk.

“Just put the package on the bed,” Eve said. “I’ll unwrap it myself. That’ll be all, thank you.”

He trod across the room, careful to keep his footfalls as soft as possible and laid the parcel on the end of her bed. From this position, he made the happy discovery that the privacy screen did not wrap completely around the bath. Moreover, there was a well-placed mirror above her dressing table which canted at an angle that gave him a partial view of her.

He was treated to the sight of her soapy knee rising from the copper bath. If he bent down a little, he could make out the swell of her breast. The knee blocked any chance of spying a wet nipple. There was a
bit of a slender arm. The teasing glimpse made his whole body ache.

He made a mental note to furnish her room with a larger looking glass at the first opportunity.

“I said, that’ll be all, Daya.” She half rose, enough for him to see her belly button peeping between her upraised knees in the small glass.

He tiptoed to the door and, without going through, opened and shut it quietly, just as Daya would. For good measure, he slid the bolt, taking care not to make the slightest sound. The bathwater sloshed as she settled back into it.

The screen was low. He should be able to see over it, provided he could get close enough. With agonizing slowness, he toed off his boots and then crossed the floor on silent, stockinged feet.

Boldness had always yielded rich rewards in his past. The present was no exception.

Eve was faced away from him, but she reclined in the bath so he looked down on the crown of her head. She’d pulled her auburn hair into a topknot, baring her neck. A few tendrils had escaped and were teasing her tender nape.

He ached to taste her skin just there at her hairline.

His position gave him a full view of her delectable breasts. They were all he’d imagined they’d be—creamy, rose-tipped mounds just begging to fit a man’s palm. He could drown in the well between them and not care a whit.

His gaze traveled southward, over her ribs, past the indentation of her navel to the water’s edge. Her secrets were obscured by a layer of soap bubbles.

He inhaled silently. Sweet jasmine. Spicy and exotic, the scent spoke to him of hot summer nights and sweat-slick bodies tangled up in inventive ways. His travels
had taken him to places in the world where the giving and receiving of physical bliss had few restrictions.

Oh, how he’d love to school this prim English rose in a wide assortment of primitive pleasures.

She took up the jar of soap and dipped her fingers into it. Then she lathered her body, touching all those places he longed so to touch. When her fingers passed over her breasts, scrubbing across her nipples, bringing them to pert tightness, he fervently wished, like Shakespeare’s Romeo, to be a glove on that hand. He nearly groaned aloud when her knees parted and her legs fell slack. Her hand dipped between them to wash her intimate folds.

And stayed to dally in those wet curls.

Nicholas swallowed hard. Magdalen had let him watch once while she pleasured herself. That time wasn’t anywhere near as exciting as this stolen glimpse into a wench’s private desires.

He’d thought to school Eve Upshall in the carnal arts. Perhaps she had a few things to teach him as well.

The soapy layer on the water parted and he saw, in wavering shadows, her fingers slipping between those tender nether lips. She stroked lightly. She circled. She spread herself wide with her other hand.

He was near to spilling his seed in his breeches.

Then she made a noise of frustration and stopped, planting both hands on the sides of the hip bath.

He bit his tongue to keep from urging her on.

Her head lolled to one side. She sighed and loosed a muttered string of invectives. He didn’t catch the name attached to the curses, but she questioned someone’s parentage back several generations, accused this person of copulating with various farm animals, invited him to “sod off” and ended with a heartfelt plea for the Prince of Darkness to “damn the man all to hell.”

Nick grinned, hoping the curse was meant for him. The way she said it almost made the tirade an endearment.

She loosed a long sigh. Then she pulled her legs under her and rose from the bath, water streaming down her curves. Little soap runnels disappeared in the crevice of her heart-shaped buttocks.

But instead of being titillated, Nick frowned. He was no longer interested in that lovely bum. His attention was riveted on her slender back.

It was covered with recently healed scars. Diamonds of healthy flesh between the angry crisscrossed weals told him the stripes had been laid on by a master of the whip. None of the marks had been overstruck, but each had broken her delicate skin. The bastard who’d administered this punishment had placed the lash with exquisite care for every stroke, not a jot out of place. No doubt, he was someone who fancied himself an artist and liked to leave distinctive marks on his victims.

Nicholas had witnessed plenty of floggings in his years at sea. He’d ordered it done once when a seaman was caught red-handed stealing water from the scuttlebutt when the ship was under drought rations. Even when it was necessary, flogging a man was a nasty business.

He’d be the first to admit Eve Upshall was a sorely trying woman, but nothing she might have done could possibly warrant punishment like this.

“Bloody hell,” he said softly. “Who did this to you?”