The Seduction of a Duke (23 page)

“Perhaps Fran,” she said. “I’d prefer Fran. The other reminds me of a name I’d prefer to forget.”

“Frosty Franny?”

She stopped her forward progress. “You know about that?”

He looked up and down the corridor, then slipped his arms about her waist, pulling her close. He nuzzled her ear, then murmured, “If it were true, this voyage would be a lot easier.”

He stepped back, grinning like one of her mother’s Pomeranians, then took her elbow, much as Hairston had done, and started her moving again.

She looked at him askance. What on earth did he mean by that? Did he want her to be cold and distant? Perhaps he had heard of that seasickness remedy that called for ice in an India rubber bag applied to the spinal cord and somehow imagined a frosty wife would be the equivalent. She sighed. Was it even possible when a man was in his cups to determine wit from wisdom?

They arrived at the stateroom. Fran immediately retrieved the ginger bottle, then turned around to find Bedford had followed close behind and, in fact, was backing her into the table.

“That’s a lovely bee pin you have there.” He started to unbutton her bodice.

Dear heavens, what was she to do now? Being undressed by a man in front of a large porthole with streaming daylight felt extraordinarily decadent. Did he truly plan to lap the wine from her breasts at every interval? Heat rose to her chest along with a yearning that he do just that.

“It . . . it was a gift,” she said, as his hands neared the final button. What a delicious feeling to have another remove one’s clothes with unbridled urgency. She couldn’t recall that cited in her journal. Bridget never described details of the disrobing that Fran could recall. Both parties seemed to magically divest of clothing.

“Yes. I know. But the jeweler forgot an important component of the pin.” He yanked the bodice back exposing her corset to his view, setting the wine to slosh in the bottle. “He forgot the crescent.”

She had to admit this method of divesting of one’s attire might not be ladylike, but it definitely set her insides to tingling. Her breasts seemed to swell with his gaze and a primitive sort of yearning throbbed at the juncture of her thighs. Bedford stepped back to survey his handiwork. “Now this,” he said, “is a gift.”

A smile twisted his lips and an image from the journal slipped to her mind. His lips, her juncture . . . a delicious shiver jolted through her. She reached for a bed rail for support.

His brows knit together and he helped her regain her balance. “Are you well? Has the mal de mer affected you?”

She shook her head, too embarrassed by the train of her thoughts to give them voice. “I just lost my footing for a moment.”

“Pity, I had thought I would have to dose you. If my stomach weren’t staging a revolt, I think I know of a fairly imaginative method to serve you ginger wine.” He glanced down his front to his trousers.

Dear Lord and all the saints in heaven! Between the acts described by the journal and her chance encounter last night with the anatomy hidden by those trousers, she had a fairly good idea of the basis of his suggestion. From the heat engulfing her, she was probably as red as the stripes on her “unforgettable”—the likes of which he seemed to be memorizing, based on his lascivious stare.

“Do you require this ginger, sir?” she asked, the edge of the table pressing in just under her bustle. “Or was that merely a prevarication for removing my bodice?”

“Don’t turn round,” he grinned in a most appreciative way. “My Frosty Franny could melt the icebergs with that corset.”

Now he was just teasing her. Her face cooled, a steady heartbeat returned along with a bereft sense of loss. It was bad enough when the papers made fun of her, but this hurt so much more. “I think you should lie down, sir.”

“William,” he said, moving forward, not back. “Say it.”

“If it will assist you into your berth, Will—”

She didn’t finish as his mouth crushed down on hers, transferring some of the intoxicating whiskey vapors from his tongue to hers. His arms slid up the back of her bodice, pulling her close. She gave herself up to him, letting him know how much she wanted this, how much she wanted him. No man had made her burn in this fashion. She wanted to experience it all.

He broke the kiss, but pulled her head to his shoulder. “Franny, Franny . . . I should have been the first. If you hadn’t a babe growing in your belly—”

She pushed her head back. “A what?”

“A baby . . . that’s why your mother arranged for a quick wedding, was it not?”

Her face screwed up. “I’m not with child.”

He scowled. “But what of your lover, Randolph?”

She almost laughed at his insinuation that Randolph was her lover. She was fond of him, but he certainly never did anything to elevate that fondness to love. In fact, enticing Randolph to become her lover was the whole purpose behind securing Bridget’s journal.

She wanted to laugh, but based on the deep crease between his brows in his scowl, she rather expected he wouldn’t appreciate the irony. “I’m virginal, sir.”

He stepped back and pointed an accusatory finger at her midriff. “That is not the corset of a virgin.”

She glanced down at her unforgettable. “It’s not white . . .”

“And you know things . . . Bloody hell, Franny, you do things that a virgin should not know how to do.”

She didn’t have a great response to that. She did know things, but it wasn’t from firsthand experience. If she showed him the journal, she’d have to explain why she had it, and the accusations against Randolph would continue. It was better to say nothing.

He launched himself into his berth and covered his eyes with his arm. “I knew you’d say you weren’t pregnant. I knew it. It’s in your best interest to deny your . . . your indiscretion.”

“Indiscretion?” His accusations raised her temper. “You think I’d be so shameless as to give myself to a man not my husband?”

“You’re a passionate woman.” His eyebrow raised with his statement of fact.

She stood awestruck. He clasped her hand in his, massaging small circles with his thumb. “Franny . . . my dear, dear Franny . . . I’ll raise the child as my own, but this is too important to ignore. I must know the paternity of my heirs. If you’ll just admit to carrying another’s child, we can be as husband and wife. I want to be as husband and wife.”

There was nothing she could say in her defense. She wasn’t even sure if in his present state he would recognize her innocence. She’d heard that avid horsewomen sometimes don’t bleed their first time. She certainly qualified as a horsewoman. So if she didn’t bleed, how could she vindicate herself?

“You think I’m a whore?”

“Not a whore . . . not exactly.” He glanced pointedly at her corset. “But if one were to judge by looks . . .”

She placed the bottle of ginger wine next to him before hastily buttoning her bodice. “You—can—not—judge a book by its cover. Good day, Your Grace.”

She turned on her heel and left him to fend for his drunken—no good—uppity—branded self.

WHAT SHE WOULDN’T DO FOR A NEARBY HIVE OF bees. She stomped her way to the empty ladies’ saloon, the only place she felt safe should Chambers try to pursue her. She wished she could decry his logic, but it all made perfect sense. Naturally, it would take a foreigner to believe that the very woman whom the rest of America knew as cold and dispassionate was, in fact, a desperate demimondaine. With the help of her courtesan journal, she’d certainly acted the part well and oh so convincingly.

When she thought of how proud she was when she “forgot” her fichu and encouraged Bedford to notice her breasts . . . she sunk her head in her hands. What a fool! What a childish, silly fool. What little pride she had left after her mother sold her as a wife, she freely gave away to be a . . . harlot. It’s a good thing that alcohol had loosened his tongue enough to tell her of his suspicions, for who knows to what depths she would have descended in her pursuit of his affection.

Tears burned in her eyes. She held a balled handkerchief to her lips to keep the sobs from emerging. Such a fool!

One of the housekeeping stewardesses entered the saloon to see if it needed cleaning. Fran gave instructions for clean sheets to be delivered to the two staterooms. There was no way she would sleep in the same room with that man. He’d accuse her of tempting him, the absurdity of it all.

If she was pregnant, wouldn’t there be noticeable signs by now? That put her in a quandary. She’d never really been around a pregnant woman before. Although she knew that as a child grew, so did the woman’s belly, but she had no idea when this actually occurred.

But it would occur. She grasped on to her righteous indignity. When Bedford realized that no child grew within her, he’d come to reason. He’d recognize the error of his ways and humbly beg for her forgiveness. Well . . . perhaps not humbly . . . she couldn’t imagine Bedford ever being humble—not in public, at least.

She’d bide her time, keep her distance, and let him feel all the chill that Frosty Franny could muster. In the meantime, she’d entertain herself by contemplating just the right act of contrition she’d require of him to return to her good graces.

“Oh, I hadn’t expected to find anyone here.” The distinctively accented voice of Lady Mandrake broke the comforting silence of the room. “I most certainly didn’t expect to find our new blushing bride.”

Fran sniffed and pasted on a smile. “I was just leaving.”

“Please stay. I had hoped we could get better acquainted—you’ve been crying!” Instantly Lady Mandrake was by her side, pushing her to sit on the upholstered circular bench in the center of the room. “Has he done something to you? Bedford can be such a beast.” Using her own handkerchief, she dabbed at Fran’s eyes. “You poor dear. You can tell me anything. I’ve been married so long I’ve seen it all.”

“Bedford has done nothing wrong,” Fran said. “He’s been a perfect gentleman.” Fran gulped air trying to pull her emotions under control. How embarrassing to be caught in such a vulnerable position by this stranger. Her mother would certainly disapprove.

“Has he now?” Lady Mandrake said with a decided gleam in her eye. “Is that what has you upset? Sometimes a woman prefers a little cad in her man. It can be fun when it’s a little rough. Believe me, I know.”

Although Fran wasn’t sure what “a little rough” meant, it didn’t sound particularly pleasant, nor did it sound particularly appropriate given that they barely knew one another. She looked at “Bedford’s old friend” askance, sensing another purpose behind the woman’s words.

“I haven’t seen him since that dinner the first night. He’s not”—Lady Mandrake smiled—“indisposed by the rocking of the boat, is he?”

Fran remembered how insistent Bedford was about not letting anyone see that he was ill. It seemed a ridiculous concern to her at the time, but if Bedford wanted to perpetuate the perception that he was never ill, who was she to ignore his wishes? She straightened her spine. “Bedford and I are recently married. Neither of us have been outside our stateroom for long periods.” She dabbed at the sides of her nose. “I’m sorry you caught me in a foolish bout of homesickness. I trust you will be discreet. However, I must return now to my husband.”

Fran shook out her skirts and walked to the door. Yes. A hive of angry bees would certainly have been handy.

 

 

MUCH TO WILLIAM’S CHAGRIN, HODGINS MOVED BACK to share his stateroom. No longer would Franny be at his beck and call, to soothe his chest with cooling sponge baths, or to entertain him with children’s stories when he was bored. Who would have thought that one rather full glass of whiskey could do such damage?

At least the truth was out between them. She knew that he knew so there’d be no more need for her delightful tricks to seduce him. Even though that was a depressing thought, part of him accepted that it was all for the best. They would both just watch to see what develops.

But what if he were wrong? What if she truly was a virgin? Banish the thought, a part of his brain—the part that had gotten him through a rocky youth to respectable manhood—shouted. If he was wrong, he’d simply buy her a bauble—he could afford to do that now—and all would be forgiven. Granted, she was American, and heaven knew those people had some strange suppositions. Once she was in England and found the way of it, she would surely understand how important issues of paternity were to the landed gentry.

He debated going to dinner. While nourishment might have some beneficial effects relating to the whiskey, his stomach and food had not been cooperating partners of late. Reluctantly, he dressed for dinner with Hodgins’s limited help just for the opportunity to see Franny again. He knocked on her stateroom door and Mary advised that they were eating in, thank you so very much.

In the end, he sent Hodgins to the kitchen to rustle some bread as that was all William figured their stomachs could handle.