Ravished by the Rake (7 page)

‘I spent two nights in inn bedchambers with a man to whom I was not married,’ Dita said. ‘An overrated experience, I might add.’

It had been a dreadful disillusion to discover that the man she had thought was perfect in looks and in character was a money-hungry boor with the finesse of a bull in a china shop when it came to making love.

The realisation that she had made a terrible mistake had begun to dawn on her by the time the chaise hired with her money had reached Hitchin. Stephen had no longer troubled to be charming, to be witty, to converse or to show the quick appreciation of her thoughts he had always counterfeited before. He had fretted about pursuit and asked interminable questions about her access to her funds. When the postillions, who quite obviously realised that an elopement was afoot, became impertinent he blustered ineffectually and Dita had to snub them with a few well-chosen words.

By the time they had stopped for the first night Dita
decided she had had enough and declared that she would hire another chaise and return alone. It was then that she discovered that Stephen was quite capable of forcing her into the inn and up to a bedchamber and that he had removed all the money from her luggage and reticule.

The effort to keep him from her bed involved a sleepless night and a willingness to stab him with a table knife after he had run the gamut from trying to charm her, to attempting to maul her, to a desperate attempt to force her.

The second day had been worse. He had been furious and sulky and every pretence that this was anything but an abduction had gone. Papa had caught up with them as they had arrived in Preston and by that time she was so exhausted by lack of sleep that she had simply flung herself on his chest and sobbed, unconscious of the audience in the inn yard and uncaring about his anger.

Averil was blushing, but it did not stop her putting the question she was obviously dying to ask. ‘Is it really horrid? You know, one hears such things.’

‘With the wrong man it is,’ Dita said with feeling. And that had been without the actual act taking place. She shuddered to think what it would have been like if Stephen had forced her. ‘With the right one—’ She stopped on the verge of admitting that it was very pleasurable indeed.

‘I am sure it would be wonderful,’ she said, as if she did not know. There was no point in making Averil fearful of her own nuptials, even if she suspected that her betrothed had no finesse to speak of. Dita shivered a little, wondering what would happen if another man tried to make love to her.

Oh, but she had enjoyed Alistair’s impertinent kiss on the
maidan.
The cockerel in the chicken coop flapped up on to the perch and crowed loudly, ruffling his feathers and throwing his head back. ‘Yes, you are a fine fellow,’ she said to him and he crowed again. Male creatures were all the same, she told herself. They needed feminine admiration and attention all the time. And Alistair had sensed she had enjoyed that meeting of lips, she was certain. No wonder he was so confident about teasing her. It would be well to exercise considerable caution if he was to not to guess the way she felt about him now—which could be summed up in three words: desirable, treacherous, trouble.

‘Let us walk,’ she said firmly. ‘We must exercise every day, it will help keep us healthy.’

They strolled round and round the poop deck, both of them sunk, Dita guessed, in rather different thoughts about wedding nights. The view was not particularly diverting, for the river banks were hardly higher than the water, here in the delta of the Ganges, and mud banks, fields covered in winter stubble and herds of buffalo were all that could be seen between the small villages that dotted the higher ground.

‘I had better go and unpack,’ Averil said after a while. ‘I can see now why I was advised to bring a hammer and nails to hang things up. I cannot imagine how I am ever going to fit everything in and still live in that space. It is a quarter the size of my dressing room at home!’

Dita could well believe it. For all that she was unpretentious and unspoiled, Averil was used to considerable luxury. She wondered what she would make of the chilly Spartan grandeur of her betrothed’s home. But
doubtless her own money would go a long way to making it comfortable.

When her friend went below Dita leaned her forearms on the rail and let herself fall into a daydream. Soon the rhythms of shipboard life would assert themselves and the passengers would develop a routine that could become quite numbing until landfalls, quarrels or hurricanes enlivened things. On the way out she had read her way through a trunk full of books, determined to keep her mind off her problems with light fiction. Now she was equally determined to face the reality of her future. There was only one problem, Dita realised: she had no idea what she wanted that to be.

‘That was a big enough sigh to add speed to the sails.’

She turned her head, but she had no need to look to know who that was, lounging against the rail beside her. Her biggest problem, in the flesh.

‘I was trying to decide what life will be like when I return to England,’ she replied with total honesty. ‘What I want it to be like.’
Whatever was the matter with me when I was sixteen? Perhaps all girls that age believe themselves in love without receiving the slightest encouragement.
Only she had received rather more than a little encouragement. She sighed again, thinking of the girl newly emerged from childhood, suddenly realising the boy she had idolised had turned into a young man, just as she was becoming a woman.

‘Will the scandal be forgotten?’ Alistair asked.

Dita blinked at him. Most people politely pretended they knew nothing about it, to her face at least. Only the more catty of the young women would make snide
remarks, or the chaperons hint that she needed to be particularly careful in what she did.

‘You know about it?’

‘You eloped and your father caught up with you after two nights on the road and you refused to marry the man concerned.’ Alistair shifted so that his elbow almost met hers on the rail. Her breath hitched as though he had touched her. ‘Is that a fair summary?’

‘Fair enough,’ Dita conceded.

‘Why did you refuse?’

‘Because I discovered he was less than the man I thought he was.’

‘In bed?’

‘No! What a question!’ The laugh was surprised out of her by his outrageous words. She twisted to stare at him. No, this was not the boy she remembered, but that boy was still there in this man. The trouble was, every feminine instinct she possessed desired him. Him, Alistair, as he was now.

He was waiting for her answer and she made herself speak the truth. ‘He was after my money. Which wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t been a bore and a lout into the bargain. He must be a very good actor.’
Or I must have been blinded by the need to escape the Marriage Mart, the restrictions of life as a single young woman.

‘Or you are a very poor judge of men?’ Alistair suggested.

‘Perhaps,’ Dita conceded. ‘But I have
your
measure, my lord.’

He was staring out to sea and she could study his profile for a moment. She had been correct when she
had told Daniel Chatterton that the savage slash of the scar on his face would only enhance his attractiveness. Combined with the patrician profile and his arresting eyes, it gave him a dangerous edge that had been missing before.

Then he turned his head and she looked into his eyes and realised that the edge had been there already: experience, intelligence, darkness. ‘Oh yes?’

She straightened up, pleased to find she could face him without a blush on her cheeks; it had felt for a moment as though every thought was imprinted on her forehead. Alistair turned so he lounged back against the rail, shamelessly watching her. She tried not to stare back, but it was hard. He looked so strong and free. Bareheaded, the breeze stirred his hair and the sun gilded his tanned skin.
I want him. He fills me with desire, quite simple and quite impure.

‘You have a great deal in common with that creature there.’ She nodded towards the cockerel’s cage. ‘You are flamboyant, sure of yourself and dangerous to passing females.’

There was no retort, not until she was halfway across the deck and congratulating herself on putting him firmly—safely—in his place. His crack of laughter had her pursing her lips, but his words sent her down the companionway with something perilously close to an angry flounce.

‘Why, thank you, Dita. I shall treasure the compliment.’

A
fter their exchange on the poop deck Dita did her best to avoid Alistair without appearing to do so, and flattered herself that she was succeeding. It did not prevent the disturbing stirring in her blood when she saw him, but it gave her a feeling of safety that, in the restless small hours, she suspected was illusory.

She was helped by the captain relaxing his seating plans at dinner. Having clearly established precedent, he acknowledged that to keep everyone tied to the same dining companions for three months was a recipe for tedium at best and squabbles at worst.

Breakfast and supper were informal meals and by either entering the cuddy with a small group, or after he was already there, Dita ensured she was always sitting a safe distance from Alistair.

During the day, when she was not in her cabin reading or sewing alone or with Averil, she sought out the company of the other young women on deck. They were all engaged in much whispering and secrets, making and
wrapping Christmas gifts, teasing each other about who was giving what to which of the men.

They irritated her with their vapid conversation, giggling attempts to flirt with any passing male and obsession with clothes and gossip, but they provided concealment, much, she thought wryly, as one swamp deer is safer from the tiger in the midst of the herd.

Alistair had no way of realising that this was not her natural habitat, she thought, as she watched him from under the tilted brim of her parasol while Miss Hemming confided her plan to get Daniel Chatterton alone under the stars that evening.

It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that Mr Chatterton was already betrothed, and had been for years to a young woman who awaited him in England, and that with the amount of cloud cover just now there would be no stars to flirt beneath. But she bit her lip and kept the tart remarks to herself. Alistair bowed slightly as he passed the group, accepting both the wide-eyed looks, nervous titters and her own frigid inclination of the head with equal composure.

Now, why is Dita so set on avoiding me, I wonder? Those chattering ninnies are boring her to distraction and in five days I cannot believe we have not sat next to each other for a meal simply by chance. That kiss on the maidan? Surely not. Dita has more spirit than to flee because of that, even if she knows I want to do it again. And more. And I’ll wager so does she.

‘Oh, Lord Lyndon!’ It was one of the Misses Whyton, indistinguishable from each other and with a tendency to speak in exclamations.

He stopped and bowed. ‘Miss Whyton?’

‘What is your favourite colour, Lord Lyndon?’

Ah, Christmas gifts.
He had hoped to escape that by the simple expedient of not flirting with any of the little peahens, but it was obviously not working. ‘Black,’ he drawled, producing what he hoped was a sinister smile.

‘Ooh!’ She retreated to her sister’s side, a frown giving her face more expression than it usually bore. Apparently whatever she was making would not work well in mourning tones.

He glanced across and saw Dita’s head bent over a book. Now, it would be amusing to surprise her with a Christmas gift. What a pity he had no mistletoe to accompany it.

Or, perhaps he could improvise; he certainly had the berries. Smiling to himself as he plotted, Alistair strolled along the main deck to where the Chatterton twins and a few of the other young men had gathered. With the captain’s permission they were going to climb the rigging. After a few days out most of them were already feeling the lack of exercise and it seemed an interesting way of stretching muscles without overly shocking the ladies. Wrestling, sparring or singlestick bouts would have to be indulged in only when a female audience could be avoided.

Daniel and Callum had already taken off their coats and were eyeing the network of ropes as they soared up the main mast. ‘It looks easy enough,’ Daniel said. ‘Climb up on the outside and you are leaning into the rigging the whole way.’

‘Until you get to the crow’s nest,’ his brother pointed
out. ‘Then you have to swing round to the inside and climb up the hole next to the mast.’

‘Bare feet,’ Alistair said. Like the other younger men he was wearing loose cotton trousers. He heeled off his shoes as he looked up. ‘I tried this on the way out.’ He squinted up at the height and added, ‘Smaller ship, though!’

‘We cannot all get up there at once, not with a sailor already in the crow’s nest,’ Callum pointed out, and the others moved off to stand at the foot of the smaller foremast, leaving the Chattertons and Alistair in possession of the main mast.

‘We three can if we move out along those ropes the sailors stand on to bundle up the sails,’ Daniel pointed out. ‘And don’t snort at me, Cal, I don’t know the name of them and neither do you, I wager.’

‘Sounds as though that will work.’ Alistair took a yard in his hand and swung up to stand on the rail. ‘Let’s try it.’

The tarred rope was rough under the softer skin of his arches, but it gave a good grip and his hands were toughened by long hours of riding without gloves. It felt good to reach and stretch and use his muscles to pull himself up and to counteract the roll of the ship, one minute dropping him against the rigging, the next forcing him to hang on with stretched arms and braced legs over the sea.

The newly healed wound in his thigh reminded him of its presence with every contraction of the muscle, but it was the ache of under-use and weakness, not the pain of the wound tearing open. His right hand was not fully
right either, he noticed with clinical detachment, and compensated by taking more care with the grip.