How to Be a Proper Lady: A Falcon Club Novel (9 page)

But the notion of embracing Aidan again didn’t speed her heartbeat now. Not Aidan at all.

Chapter 7

My lady,

My father, brother, and I are delighted with your latest pamphlet on the Despicable Conditions that Manchester textile workers are forced to endure. Your prose exhortations continue to inspire the people of Britain to seek justice.

With the most sincere apologies, however, I must beg you to remove The Mermaid from the office. Her size and State of Undress have caused discomfort to our clients and not an insubstantial Lack of Focus among the press operators. If you prefer, I will be most happy to arrange for her disposal.

Josiah Brittle

Brittle & Sons, Printers

Dear Mr. Brittle,

I am terribly sorry for the inconvenience the statue has caused. Pray arrange for her Return to Sender to the following address: Mr. Peregrine, The Falcon Club, 14½ Dover Street, London.

A siren belongs where she will wreak destruction most effectively—not on poor laborers but on the indolent rich who best deserve it.

Sincerely,

Lady Justice

Chapter 8

V
iola Carlyle was shameless.

Overnight her prickly combativeness transformed into sloe-eyed glances and lowered lashes. Jin might be amused if she weren’t so good at it. Convincing. As though she truly wished for his attentions. She enacted the role of a demure female throwing out lures like an actress trained for the stage, but with a great deal more finesse and the advantage of a pretty face and perfectly shaped body.

The body he was now able to fully appreciate again.

She discarded the sacklike coat, donning instead a fitted waistcoat that hugged her breasts and narrow waist and emphasized the delicacy of her form. The sash slung from shoulder to hip bore a single small pistol, the hilt of a short dagger pointing at an angle designed to draw a man’s attention where it should not linger. The ungainly hat went too, replaced by a brimmed cap when she was atop and nothing when she was belowdecks. Her thick tresses, bound only in a queue as he had first seen on the dock weeks earlier, shone like satin in the sunshine and tangled in the wind, brushing across her lips.

She did not make the mistake of giving up her command to him. She maintained firm control over her ship and her crewmen’s activities to a reasonable degree, leaving to Jin his regular duties. But now she proffered her commands without taunting or insults, instead with modulated tones that suggested she had every faith in him to carry out his responsibilities.

She was beguiling, gracious, and not in the least bit obsequious or overly retiring. She was damnably alluring, like a gently bred female withholding favors she would eagerly relinquish to a man worthy of her—but only that man.

She was a conniving, manipulative she-devil.

More than anything as yet, all of it went further toward convincing him that she belonged in English high society. Beauty and subtle flirtation combined with a quiet, confident mastery of her realm marked her as the aristocrat she was meant to be—her mother’s daughter if not her father’s.

But for two decades Jin had played games far more perilous. He knew how to handle this. He kept his distance.

She made it difficult. She began taking her meals with the men. When he was atop, she made it her business to be there as well. She clearly believed proximity was the key to her success. He found himself walking away from her more often than he liked. No man dictated his actions, and certainly no woman. Not for twenty years. But her nearness distracted him. Too much.

Following the clouds and high winds, then the single sunny day on which he had agreed to the wager, rain finally came. He was settling into his cabin preparing for bed when Becoua appeared.

“Clouds parted a bit, sir. There’s a few stars showin’. Thought you’d like to know, seein’ as the captain’s asleep already.”

“Thank you, Mr. Maalouf.”

Becoua turned, then paused. “Master Jin, Captain’s smelling of flowers lately, ain’t she? Perfumey like?”

“I had not noticed.”

Becoua met his gaze with a bemused question in his own.

Jin shook his head. “Back to work, sailor.”

The boatswain grunted and shuffled off. Jin passed a hand across his face, then gripped the back of his neck. He must assess the ship’s direction by the stars. It might not clear again for days.

She stored the sextant in her cabin.

She was there now. He had known it since she walked past his door earlier, trailing the scent of flowers mingled with rich herbs. She had indeed taken to wearing perfume, an East Indian attar of roses and golden champa. A heady, lush fragrance that mingled with her woman’s scent and even at a few paces away seemed to reach out and touch a man precisely where he most needed it.

Blatant.

Shameless.

And it was having its effect. The rest of the ship smelled like sweat and unwashed men and its master smelled like a lady’s boudoir. Jin now fully regretted eschewing the Boston brothels before embarking upon this journey. With her soft, dark-eyed glances and beguiling scent she had him hard, and hard put not to teach her a lesson in what it meant to tease a man who had gone too long without a woman.

If he was frustrated, her crew members must be as well. Becoua’s confusion proved it.

Irresponsible she-devil. Or perhaps merely insane as he had first thought.

He went the few steps to her cabin door and knocked. It opened on a woman as unlike a shipmaster as could be. Her unbound hair fell about her face in waves like costly Russian mink. She wore only a thin white shirt, its laces untied and parted over the cleft of her breasts, and breeches. An open book rested in her palm.

Slowly, her wide, hazy eyes seemed to focus. Her lashes flickered, a rose veil suffused her cheeks, and for a moment she looked flustered. Then she lowered the book and offered him a feminine smile with a mile of calculation behind it.

“Calling so late, Mr. Seton. What a pleasure.”

“Do you always answer the door to your sailors dressed like that?” He gestured to the creamy expanse of soft womanhood visible at her parted shirt, perfect swells of temptation.

He was.

Tempted.

One corner of her smile lifted. “Not at all. I was expecting you.”

“You’re more likely to drive me to jump ship with further insults and transparent bravado than with this.”

“There are two ways I can win this wager.”

“There are two ways I can as well.” He leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb. “You will not endure my indifference for long. Your pride will get the better of you. You will throw me off the ship out of sheer vexation.”

“That might be the case if you were actually indifferent.” Her gaze slipped to his mouth where it lingered momentarily, then down his chest. Slowly, like a caress. And his body felt it. Like a caress.

She met his regard again. “But you aren’t.”

He crossed his arms with careful nonchalance and allowed himself to grin, but he knew why he was trapping his arms. His hands. “You would like to imagine so.”

“The other day, standing in this corridor,” she said softly, a seduction of sweet, rich femininity, “you wanted to kiss me.”

“If I had wanted to kiss you, Viola Carlyle,” he replied just as quietly, “I would have.”

“You’re lying.”

He did not respond, merely regarded her as though she hadn’t insulted him, a glint of pure confidence in his eyes. Viola’s mouth was unbearably dry. She wanted a cup of wine in her hand and Jinan Seton out of her sight. This charade was unendurable. The more she was obliged to bat her lashes and stand close beside him on deck wearing considerably less than she usually wore to bed, the more difficult it was to convince herself it was all an act. She had answered the door in her present state of undress because she’d been attempting to read a book she loved as a girl, and instead spent the time imagining how it would feel if he were to put his lips on hers.

“What are you reading?” He asked it as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“A book,” she snapped, his perfect, breathtaking mouth and arms and everything far too close. “Is this conversation you’re attempting to make?”

“Ah. The return of the shrew.” He grinned, sending her belly into tingling somersaults. “I may leap overboard yet.”

“I can only hope.”

He had the audacity to chuckle. “Come to think of it, I prefer this attitude to the other. I appreciate honesty in a sailor.”

“Don’t you mean in a woman?”

His eyes seemed to shadow. “In anyone.”

But those words were not his thoughts; she saw it in his face and knew beyond doubt that this man had been betrayed by a woman and it had wounded him.

Abruptly beset by a most pressing urge, then Viola did a very foolish thing. She reached forward and placed her hand on his chest and heard herself murmur, “I am always honest.” She was in this. Despite herself she wished to be near him, and to touch him.

Beneath her palm his chest rose and fell sharply, but his voice remained even.

“You are playacting a role that neither of us is enjoying. Put an end to this wager. It is childish and you know you will lose.”

But she didn’t feel like a child. The way he looked at her with such crystal intensity even as he remained aloof made her feel very much like a woman. She should remove her hand from his body. Beneath fine linen—far too fine for a common sailor—he was all contoured muscle.

“What if I don’t care to lose?” Her fingers spread and she felt him, his heartbeat and heat, and a soft tension gathered in her. She traced a fingertip to the laces of his shirt and with the smallest movement stroked the linen open.

Skin. Male skin beneath her touch, firm and hot. She pushed the fabric aside, baring hard collarbone and sun-darkened man. Her breaths stuttered. “And if I’m enjoying the wager itself?”

He caught her wrist in a strong grip and slid her hand fully beneath his shirt.

The air sank from her lungs. For a moment he simply held her there, her palm pressed to his skin over his flat nipple. Then he leaned forward, bent his head, and spoke low.

“You needn’t strap me to a mast in order to undress me, Miss Carlyle. I am more than happy to oblige you at any time.”

“Are you?” Dear Mother Mary, he must feel her trembling. She wanted to sink her fingers into him, to order him to oblige immediately. Oh, God, she really wanted to feel him—
more
. And to feel more of this strange, delicious quickening inside her. She’d never felt it before. Not for any man. Except Aidan, of course. Possibly. Or perhaps not.

What was happening to her?

He whispered at her brow, “Say the word, Captain.”

She stilled. In the close space she could draw into her senses his man’s scent. He smelled so good, intoxicating and familiar and warm. “You do realize you just called me captain?”

The pad of his thumb slipped over the tender center of her wrist.

“I did.” There was a rumble of laughter in his voice. “Fancy that. Must be because I am awaiting an order.”

If she turned her head, their lips would meet. She wanted it more than pride and reason. More than Aidan.

“Why don’t you tell me first what brought you to my cabin door tonight.”

His hand loosened, slipped along her arm, and with a gentleness she never imagined he possessed, he disengaged her from his body.

“The sextant.”

She blinked, knowing her cheeks were flushed, and knowing from the clear certainty in his eyes that he knew he had affected her.

“Well, you might have said that before.” She turned into her cabin, hiding her burning cheeks, and set down her book to take up the navigation instrument.

“It amused me to tease you,” he said as she came to him again.

“I’m certain it did.” She lifted a brow, pretending she wasn’t perfectly aware that he was perfectly aware of the truth, and pretending the truth simply was not the truth—that for a moment in his hold she’d been a puddle and might still be if he hadn’t released her. “The clouds have cleared?”

“Some.” He accepted the sextant and glanced at the table she’d set the book on. “You are reading Herodotus.”

It was not a question. A statement, rather, without inflection, but there was some hint of surprise in it. He brought his gaze to hers, and the hot, throbbing tingles started all over again.

“A history based on his.” She wished her shirt were laced to the throat. She wished she had on her canvas coat buttoned to her chin. She wished she were anywhere but beneath this man’s clear eyes. She wasn’t made for this sort of confusion, wanting to touch him though she loved another. “Do you know Herodotus’s history?”

He nodded, his brow still taut.

“Well,” she said as evenly as she could manage, “then there’s something we have in common other than this wager. How remarkable.” She forced what she hoped was a demure smile onto her lips.

He lifted the sextant in a gesture. “Thank you.” He turned and moved away. Viola stared at his back until he disappeared into the dark of the gun deck.

Fionn always told her she was too headstrong. With a twinkle in his eyes and a smile, the baron had called her reckless. In this, both of her fathers had been right.

“W
hat d’you think?” Mattie leaned his thick elbows on the rail and scratched his whiskered jaw. The sea stretching beyond was dark and tipped with whitecaps, the sky leaden, the wind briny and damp.

Jin lifted the telescope and studied the vessel on the gray horizon. From its movement, erratic and slow, it was surely adrift. Its sails were furled, one mast split to the deck, and an unfamiliar banner of red and white flapped in the wind. A square-rigged brig not unlike the
April Storm
, but much larger and heavy in the draft. A stranded merchant ship not entirely stripped of her cargo. Pirate prey, or not?

“We cannot take the chance,” he said quietly.

“Becoua!” The master of the
April Storm
shouted from the quarterdeck, her voice beguiling even at full volume. “Make a course for her, slow and steady.”