Ravished by the Rake (10 page)

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Averil assured her. ‘I would hate it if a man guessed something like that about me.’

‘So would I,’ Dita assured her as she adjusted her shawl. ‘So would I.’

They managed a brisk walk around the deck, which Dita thought would account for any colour in her cheeks, and then went straight in to breakfast. Alistair was
already at table, seated between the Chattertons; Dita deliberately sat opposite. The men half-rose, greeted them and resumed their conversation.

‘I was going to try some singlestick exercises early this morning, but I got distracted,’ Alistair said, continuing his conversation with Callum.

So that was what he was doing, up so early. Dita accepted a cup of coffee and took a slice of toast.

‘I think I’ll do that every morning,’ he went on, without so much as a glance in her direction to accompany the warning. ‘Why don’t you two join me? We could box, wrestle, use singlesticks.’

‘Good idea,’ Callum agreed, with a nudge in the ribs for Daniel who was grumbling about early rising. ‘We will be sure to avoid the ladies by doing that.’

And that put an end to any dawn exercise on her part, Dita recognised, slapping preserve on her toast with a irritable flick. It was easier to be angry with Alistair than to confront any of the other feelings he aroused in her.

‘What a charming picture you two ladies make.’ Alistair again, smiling now. Beside her Averil made a small sound that might have been pleasure at the compliment, or might have been nerves. ‘So English in your muslins and lawns and lacy fichus.’

‘You do not like Indian female dress, my lord?’ Dita enquired. She was not going to allow him to needle her and she rather thought he knew exactly why she had changed into something so blandly respectable. It had been an error to show him that she cared for his opinion. She had morning dresses that would make him pant with desire, she told herself, mentally lowering necklines and removing lace trim from the contents of her trunk.

‘It is suitable for Indian females, but not for English ones to ape.’

‘But English gentlemen resort to Indian garb to relax in, do you not? Why should ladies not have the same comforts? But of course,’ she added, ‘you do not appreciate the wonderful freedom of casting off one’s stays.’

Averil gave a little gasp of horrified laughter, Callum went pink and Alistair grinned. ‘No, but I can imagine,’ he said, leaving her in no doubt he was thinking of garments he had unlaced in the past.

She was not going to rattle him, she realised, and all she was succeeding in doing was embarrassing Averil and scandalising Callum Chatterton, who was too nice and intelligent a man to be teased.

‘And how do you ladies intend passing the day?’ Callum enquired, changing the subject with rather desperate tact.

‘I am making Christmas gifts,’ Averil confided. ‘I thought that all of us who dine in the cuddy make up a house party, as it were. On Christmas Eve after supper it would be delightful to exchange little tokens, just as though we really were at a Christmas house party, don’t you think?’

‘Gifts for
everyone?’
Daniel asked, chasing some tough bacon around his plate.

‘It would be invidious to leave anyone out, I think.’ Averil frowned. ‘Of course, it is not easy to prepare for this sort of thing, not knowing everyone who is of the party. But twenty small gifts are not so very hard to come up with.’

‘Twenty-one with the captain,’ Dita pointed out. ‘I think it is a charming idea, but we should let
everyone know we will do it, don’t you think? In case there is anyone who had not thought of gifts and is embarrassed.’

‘Oh. I had not considered that. If there are people with nothing suitable to exchange, it would indeed put them out.’ Averil’s face fell.

‘If you mention it now, then anyone who needs to do last-minute shopping can go to the bazaars when we call at Madras,’ Alistair suggested. Averil beamed at him and Dita found herself meeting his eyes with something like gratitude for his thoughtfulness to her friend.

‘That was a kind thought,’ she said across the table when Averil was distracted by Daniel teasing her about what she could possibly give the captain. ‘Thank you.’

‘I do occasionally have them,’ he said laconically. ‘Miss Heydon is a charming and kind young woman and I would not like to see her embarrassed.’

‘I do not accuse you of being unkind,’ Dita began. That had felt like an oblique slap at her, the young woman he had no compunction about embarrassing.

‘You, my dear Dita, are a feline. You walk your own path, you guard your own heart and you will not yield to anything but your own desires. Miss Heydon is a turtle dove—sweet, loyal, affectionate. Although,’ he added, glancing along the table to where Averil was fending off Daniel’s wit with surprising skill, ‘she has more intelligence and courage than at first appears. She would fight for what she loves.’

‘Whereas you think me merely selfish?’ Dita’s chin came up.

‘And intelligent and courageous and quite surprisingly
alluring. But you are going to find it hard to bend that self-will to a husband, Dita.’

‘Why should I?’
Alluring?
The unexpected compliment was negated by the fact he found it surprising that she should be attractive. She sliced diagonally across the slice of toast with one sweep of her knife. ‘Men do not have to compromise in marriage. I cannot imagine
you
doing so, for example, even for a woman you love.’

Alistair gave a harsh laugh. ‘What has love got to do with it? That is the last thing I would marry for. Excuse me.’ He pushed back his chair and left the table.

How had he let that betraying remark escape? Alistair wondered as he strode down to his tiny cubicle off the Great Cabin. Or was it only his acute consciousness of his own ghosts that made him fear his words would expose him?

Love brought blindness with it and rewarded trust with lies. It had blinded him, humiliated him—he was not going to give it a chance again. Physical love was easy enough to take care of, even if one was fastidious and demanding, as he knew himself to be. Alistair grimaced as he sat on his bunk and tried to remember what he had come down here for. Not to run away from Dita Brooke, he sincerely hoped, although the wretched chit was having the most peculiar effect on his brain.

Easier to think about sex than about emotion—and Dita seemed to produce emotional responses in him he rarely experienced: anxiety, protectiveness. Possessiveness, damn it. Yes, better to think about sex and she certainly made him fantasise about that, too.

He had dreamed about her for years, erotic, arousing,
frustrating dreams that had puzzled him as much as they had tormented him. They had been too real. Had he really thought about the girl he had grown up with in that way and suppressed it so the desire only emerged when he was asleep? Now it was damnably hard not to indulge in waking dreams about the adult woman.

Three months’ celibacy was not something he would seek out, he had to admit. He was a sensual man by nature, but he prized control and he was not going to seek relief either here on board or in any of their ports of call. Fortunately there was no one on the
Bengal Queen
who attracted him in that way. No one except Lady Perdita Brooke, of course.

Hell.
How could he feel responsible for her—a hangover from all those childhood years, he supposed—and yet want to do the very things he would kill another man for trying with her?

She was so responsive, with all the intensity and passion of the child grown into the woman. Her reckless riding, the way she had flung herself from her horse and run to him, her uninhibited attempts to care for him. That kiss. Alistair fell back on to the bed and relived those stimulating seconds.

He had enjoyed that, irresponsible as it had been. And so had Dita. And being Dita, when she thought he was offering to do it again she had wanted it, as filled with passionate curiosity for risk and experience as she always had been. Passion. A shiver ran through his long frame as he thought about passion and Dita.

Damn it, no.
By all accounts she had been hurt enough by her own recklessness—the last thing she needed was an
affaire
with him. And the last thing
he
needed when he arrived in London for the Season was the rumour that he had been involved with the scandalous Lady Perdita. He was hunting for a bride as pure as the driven snow and for that he had to preserve the mask of utmost respectability that was expected in this artificial business. He owed it to his name. And he owed it to his own peace of mind not to become embroiled with a mistress who would expect far more than he was prepared to give.

Alistair sat up abruptly. He was leaping to conclusions about what Dita might expect. She knew he was no saint. His mouth curled into a sensual smile. If Dita wanted to pay games—well, there were games they could play, games that would be just as much fun in their own way as those innocent sports of their childhood.

Alistair left the cabin half an hour later, notebooks under one arm and his travelling inkwell in his hand. He had told Dita that he was going to write a book; now he must see whether he could produce prose that was good enough and turn his travels into something that would hold a reader’s attention.

There was a lady seated at the communal table in the middle of the cabin, a sewing box open and items strewn around. Ah, yes, Mrs Ashwell, the wife of newly wealthy merchant Samuel Ashwell. He had seen her at work before, it was what had prompted his idea about mistletoe for Christmas.

‘That is very fine, ma’am,’ he observed.

She was instantly flustered. ‘Oh! You mean my artificial flowers? I used to be … I mean, I always used to
make them, for myself and friends, you understand. I enjoy the work …’

In other words, she had been an artificial flower maker before her husband made his money. He, no doubt, wished his wife to hide the fact, but she enjoyed the creativity. The products were as good as any society lady would buy.

‘Can you make mistletoe?’ Alistair asked. ‘A spray of it that a lady might put in her hair?’

‘Why, yes, I suppose so. I never have, but it should be straightforward.’ She frowned and rummaged in her work box. ‘This ribbon is the right green. But I would need white beads for the berries and I have none.’

‘I have.’ Alistair went back into his cabin and unlocked the small strong box he had bolted to the deck. ‘Here.’ He handed her a velvet bag. ‘Use all of them if you can.’ Now, how to recompense her for what would be a considerable amount of fiddling work without giving offence by offering payment?

‘And thank you. You have rescued me from the embarrassing predicament of having no suitable gift for a lady. I do hope, when you are in London next, you will do me the honour of leaving your card? I would very much like to invite you and Mr Ashwell to one of the parties I will be giving.’

‘My lord! But … I mean … we would be delighted.’ He left her ten minutes later, flushed and delighted. If only pleasing a woman was always that easy.

20th December 1808—Madras

T
he
Bengal Queen
dropped anchor opposite Fort St George close to the mouth of the Kuvam River and the harassed ship’s officers set about sorting out the groups of passengers. Some wanted to go ashore to shop in Madras; there were men who were eager to hire a boat and go upstream to shoot duck and the East India Company supercargo—very senior men indeed—demanded to be taken ashore to transact Company business with all speed.

‘I really do not think we should go ashore without a gentleman to escort us,’ Mrs Bastable said for the fourth time since breakfast. ‘And Mr Bastable is clerking for Sir Willoughby and will be in the Company offices all day. Perhaps we could join the Whytons.’

Averil and Dita exchanged looks. The thought of a morning in the company of the Misses Whyton was excruciating. ‘Um … I think they are already a very large
group. I asked the Chattertons,’ Dita said, ‘but Daniel is committed to the shooting party and Callum is going to the offices with Sir Willoughby.’ She surveyed the rest of the available men without much enthusiasm. ‘I suppose I could ask Lieutenant Tompkins, if he is off duty.’

‘A problem, ladies?’

Dita turned, her heart thumping in the most unwelcome manner. ‘Merely a question of an escort to the markets, Lord Lyndon. Please, do not let us detain you—I am sure there are ducks awaiting slaughter.’

‘I was not intending to join the shooting party and I have my own shopping to do.’ He appeared to take their acceptance for granted. ‘Are you ready?’

‘Yes, we are. Thank you so much, my lord.’ Mrs Bastable had no hesitation snatching at this promise of escort. ‘Oh dear, though, there’s that dreadful chair to negotiate.’

‘Safest way down,’ Alistair said. ‘Let me assist you, ma’am. There you are.’

Averil and Dita watched their chaperon being whisked skywards. ‘She’s landed safely,’ Averil announced. ‘Look.’

‘No, thank you.’ Dita remained firmly away from the rail.

‘Why do you climb the rigging if you won’t look over the side?’ Alistair demanded as Averil sat down in the bos’un’s chair with complete unconcern.

‘The further I get from the sea, the happier I am,’ Dita said and turned her back firmly on the rail and all the activity around it. She fixed her gaze on Alistair’s mouth, which was a reckless thing to do for the sake of her emotions, but was a great help in taking her mind
off small boats and open water. ‘Don’t ask me to explain it, I know it is irrational.’

‘That is no surprise, you are female after all,’ Alistair remarked. She glanced up sharply and met a look that was positively lascivious.

Dita opened her mouth, shut it again with a snap at the expression in his eyes and took two rapid steps back. Alistair followed her, gave her a little push and she sat down with a thump in the chair.

‘Why, you—’ He flicked the rope across the arms and signalled to the sailors hauling it up. Seething, Dita found herself in the flat-bottomed boat being helped out by Averil.

‘You devious, underhand, conniving creature,’ she hissed as Alistair dropped into the boat from the ladder.