Andrea Pickens - [Lessons in Love 03] (4 page)

"It seems I was the only one of the family who ever asked Alex what really happened. In the first few days after the accident, he needed desperately to speak of it. God knows, he blamed himself enough for Jack's death—he didn't need all of you to do so as well. But your father never understood that. When he began to treat Alex as little more than a murderer, well, something inside him did die. From then on, he refused to ever talk about it." The earl got up to refill his brandy. "Did you never question why he turned from a scholarly young man into a wild rakehell?"

"It puzzled me," admitted William. "But I assumed he had got in with the wrong crowd at Oxford and had simply... changed."

Thomas let out a heavy sigh as he darted a guilty look at his wife. His mouth crooked in a rueful grimace. "You have always felt that we have been too harsh on Alex. It seems you and your female intuition were right after all." He turned back to his uncle. "Why did not you tell us this sooner, so that we might have tried to make some sort of amends?"

"While your father was alive, it was not my place to do so." Ivor's gaze shifted to the eldest Sheffield. "But you are head of the family now, William, and may set your own standards for the Sheffield family."

There was another long silence. "If I have appeared overly harsh to you—all of you, mayhap it is because I... I did not wish to appear unworthy of the position. I never expected to take Father's place, you know."

"Don't confuse being human with being weak, William. I have always thought you a man of good judgement and good character. Trust in your own instincts, rather than try to emulate the actions of another." The earl gave a gruff smile. "In all honesty, I think you will be a much more admirable earl than your father."

William bowed his head. "What the devil can I do? That is, if it is not too late to reach out to Alex."

Ivor finished his brandy and stared for some time into the empty glass. "At the moment. I am not sure there is a cursed thing any of us might do that would make a difference. We can only pray that in setting out to save young Nicholas, Alex might also be starting a new chapter in his own life. One that will lead to something more than drunkenness and despair."

Chapter 2

The wind was picking up. Off in the distance, one of the Royal Navy frigates accompanying the small convoy of merchantmen pitched in and out of view as the leaden waves grew ever larger. There was the clatter of feet on the deck as the watch was called out to take in another reef in the sails. Overhead, the sky was nearly as dark as the icy water, an ominous sign of the approaching storm.

Octavia clung to the railing, half hidden by the mizzen mast, hoping to go unnoticed by the grim lieutenant supervising the crew's efforts. Despite the steep roll of the deck and swirls of salt spray that threatened to soak her cloak, she was loath to go below. The rattle of the spars was infinitely more welcome than the rattle of Mrs. Phillips prosing on about her experiences in savage lands, and the buffeting gusts, though chill on her cheeks, felt invigorating after the stale air in her cabin.

Her hopes, however, were short-lived. A sailor in the rigging above her let slip one of the clew lines, drawing the attention of the officer of the watch. After giving the man a blistering set down, his eyes fell to Octavia. "You there," he snapped. "All passengers must go below. Can't you see a storm is brewing?"

Octavia bit off a tart reply. What a stupid question! Of course her eyes were no less keen than his. Why was it that men assumed a female's sensory capacities, as well as their mental acumen, were so inferior to theirs? She gave a sigh as she swept a windblown lock of hair away from her eyes. It should come as no surprise, she reminded herself, given that most of those of the opposite sex were so smugly sure of their own superiority in every regard—unwarranted in most cases, to be sure!

Seeing that the man was about to bark again, she gathered her flapping cloak close around her and retreated towards the mizzen hatchway. The ship gave a sudden lurch, causing her foot to slip on the steep wooden ladder. An instant later, another twist and roll nearly sent her head first into the murky darkness below. She tightened her grip and felt for the next rung.

It was clear the force of the bad weather was now full upon them. Octavia managed to make the rest of the descent without further mishap. Her fingers kept hold of the ladder as she steadied her footing and peered down the narrow passageway. It was almost pitch black and the violent motion of the ship made it even more difficult to make out much of anything. However, she was sure the way to her cabin lay ahead and to the right.

She ventured several steps forward, only to be tossed against one of the stout oak timbers. Repressing a most unladylike word, she rubbed her bruised shoulder and started off again, this time keeping her body pressed up against the rough wood. Her progress became steadier, and as she descended another set of narrow steps, she felt she was nearly there.

Suddenly, the ship yawed nearly on its side. Octavia was flung across the passageway, but instead of crashing into another beam, she found herself up against something equally as solid, but a bit more yielding.

"Well, well, what have we here?" came a slurred voice.

To her dismay, Octavia discovered that her nose—and a good deal of the rest of her anatomy—was buried in the rough wool of a man's coat. An arm groped its way around her waist and pulled her even closer.

"Why, it's a female," continued the soft drawl. "And a rather shapely one at that." The man's feet moved unsteadily with the next buck of the hull, causing the bottle in his other hand to thump into the cross beam. "Perhaps you would care to join me in a little toast to weathering this blow. I'm sure we could also... come up with some interesting ways to keep each other warm in this cursed cold."

A binnacled oil lamp up ahead cast just enough light for Octavia to make out the lean jaw, straight nose and full lips of the face before her. Lips that were slowly curling into a suggestive smile. He was tall enough that he had to stoop quite low to avoid hitting his head, causing a tangle of long, raven locks to fall over his bleary eyes. They were blue, she noted, despite the tumble of curls. An unusual blue, somewhere between cerulean and slate.

"Let me go at once, sir!" she demanded as she struggled to free herself from his grasp.

His arm only tightened its hold. "I assure you, it would be a most pleasant way to forget about the storm outside." The hull rocked wildly once more. "We could... make our own waves."

What gall! How the devil did he presume to know what she would find pleasurable? As she opened her mouth to tell him just that, his mouth brushed against hers and she felt his hand begin to rove lower.

That settled it. Since words were having very little effect in discouraging his amorous attentions, she decided she would have to resort to a more convincing way of saying no.

Her knee came up hard in his groin. Very hard.

The bottle fell from his hand and rolled away. With a sharp intake of breath, the man sunk to his knees, then toppled forward and rolled into a fetal position. A low moan escaped his lips—which, she noted in grim satisfaction, were no longer curled in a smug smile.

Her rather limited experience in such evasive action had taught her now was the time to take to her heels. As soon as the man recovered, he was likely to be in quite an ill-humor. Unfortunately, the ship took a steep plunge. Octavia lost her footing and both she and the other body slid down the pitched planking, coming up hard against the latched door of storeroom.

She began struggling with her tangled skirts, desperate to be out of the man's reach by the time he was able to move again. However, another sound from his lips brought her up short. She couldn't quite believe her ears.

Why, it appeared he was laughing.

"Good Lord, where did you ever learn that?" he managed to gasp.

Octavia sat up on her knees. "From a friend," she replied warily. "I was told it was the most effective way to discourage a man's attention."

"Oh, most effective," he agreed. He slowly propped himself up against the closed door and wedged his long legs against the other side of the bulkhead to keep from being thrown about any more. Octavia couldn't help but acknowledge that it was handsome face, despite the sallow skin and fine lines etched at the corners of the mouth. Such hints at dissolute habits were at odds with the flash of lively intelligence in those piercing blue eyes, a light evident despite the haze of alcohol. "I suppose it is a good thing I am a youngest son and need not worry about begetting an heir."

A flush of color rose to Octavia's cheeks. "That, sir, is a most ungentlemanly remark."

He chuckled. "And your action, my dear lady, was a most unsporting blow."

"I didn't realize it was a sport to accost innocent females," she countered.

The grin disappeared. "To some perhaps, but not to me. Believe me, I am not in the habit of forcing myself on a lady, no matter how deeply foxed. Allow me to apologize."

She could hardly believe her ears. "You are not angry?"

"I imagine I got what I deserved." He regarded her in silence for a moment. "Though I must admit it came as a bit of a shock. You have a good deal of, er, spirit, Miss—"

She ignored the pointed hint for her name." A shock? By that do you mean you are not in the habit of being told no?"

The seductive smile reappeared. "No, indeed I am not."

Arrogant coxcomb!

"Allow me to offer you one bit of advice, however," he continued. "Most men will become, er, rather enraged at that little trick. You had best be as far away as possible in the short time you have."

"I'm well aware of that," she snapped. "I slipped. The other time—"

"The other time! Are you in the habit of trying to make a choirboy out of every man you meet?"

Octavia looked at him in some confusion.

"Never mind," he muttered. "And what happened on that occasion?"

She quirked a rueful smile. "I am on a ship bound for Russia, that is what happened, sir."

His brow furrowed. "How could he force such a thing?"

"I don't wish to discuss it, especially with a stranger," she said curtly. "As if you aren't acquainted with the way men may force what they wish upon females." His simple inquiry, however, had suddenly stirred up all the anger of the last few months that was pent up inside her. Giving vent to her feelings, she went on. "Really, what an incredibly stupid question. Are all of you men so thick that you don't see what little choice a female has in life? What rights do I have? I can own no property, I have no voice in what laws govern me, I can seek no interesting employment. And," she added for good measure, "if I were leg-shackled it would be even worse!"

He looked at her with interest. "Ah, a sympathizer with the ideas of Mrs. Wollenstonecraft, no doubt."

"What halfway intelligent female wouldn't be? There are any number of sensible ideas in her writings." As she spoke, it struck her that, given the circumstances, this was turning into a most peculiar conversation.

"You have an interesting point. Have you considered—"

At that moment, a monstrous wave crashed into the side of the ship, sending a strong tremor through the oaken timbers. The man winced, and his gaze searched wildly for his lost bottle. "The devil take it! My brandy," he croaked thickly. "Where's my brandy."

Octavia was about to answer with a scathing reply when she caught sight of the rigid set of his jaw and the haunted look that had suddenly dulled the unusual blue of his eyes. Another shudder of the hull caused those eyes to squeeze tightly shut, as if in anticipation of a physical blow.

It was the storm, she realized with a start. Its effect on him was so palpable she could almost feel the tension stiffening his rigid limbs. In the flickering shadows she saw him blink once more, and in that instant, a wrenching look of raw need replaced the studied nonchalance of a hardened wastrel. Then the shadows moved once again, casting the plane of his chiseled profile in darkness.

She sensed the fleeting emotion she had just witnessed had nothing to do with physical fear. No, something infinitely more complex than that had suddenly made him seem very vulnerable and very alone. For some reason, she felt a twinge of sympathy in her breast.