Don’t talk. Lie quietly. Don’t move. Don’t breathe.
“We won’t go down,” he said. “It’s bad, but we won’t go down. Here, swallow this.”
She moved her head from side to side. That was a mistake. Bile rose. “Can’t.”
“Only a drop,” he coaxed. “Laudanum. It will help. I promise.”
She couldn’t raise her head, couldn’t even open her eyes. The world was spinning round and round, leaping up and down, throwing itself from side to side.
Where am I?
He lifted her head, so gently. Was it he? Or was it she, spooning medicine into Lucie? Lucie, Lucie.
But she was away from this. She was safe in London with her doting aunts, who spoiled her appallingly. Lucie was safe because her mother and aunts had turned into three witches, brewing potions to keep her alive.
They had not fought so hard only to leave Lucie an orphan, because her mother had made a foolish mistake. A man-mistake. More than six feet tall and beastly arrogant and . . . oh, those big, beautiful hands.
“A little more,” he said. “Another drop.”
Take your medicine. Get better. Get back to Lucie.
She swallowed it. So bitter.
“Vile,” she said. “Vile.”
“I know, but it helps. Trust me. I know.”
“Trust you,” she said. “Hah.”
“Clearly you’re not dying.”
“No. Devil won’t take me.”
The low chuckle again. “Then we’re all safe.”
She wasn’t safe. The storm raged and the ship moaned and rose and fell and flung itself from wave to wave. She’d been in rough seas before. She knew this was very bad, and she wasn’t remotely safe. Yet while her mind knew this, her heart understood matters altogether differently: his voice, his surprisingly gentle touch, and the calm of his presence. Reassuring. How ironic!
“Ah, you’re smiling,” he said. “The opium is starting to take hold already.”
Already? Had she fallen asleep? She’d lost track of time.
“No, it’s you,” she said. How far away her voice sounded, as though it had traveled to London already, ahead of her. “Your ducal self-assurance. Everything will give way to you. Even Satan’s own storm.”
“You’re definitely improving,” he said. “Full, mocking sentences.”
“Yes. Better.” Her insides seemed to be quieting. But her head was so heavy. She opened her eyes, and that was hard work. He was leaning over her. The light was too dim to make out details, and nothing would stay put. His eyes were deep shadows in his face. But she knew they were green. Jade green. Or was it sea green? A color not many women could wear successfully. A color not many women could withstand . . . in a man’s eyes.
She closed her eyes again.
She felt the cool cloth on her forehead. So gentle. A feeling she had trouble naming washed over her. Then she realized: She was protected. Sheltered. Safe.
What a joke!
“Strange,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
The world grew heavy and dark, then everything went away.
Clevedon had no idea how long the storm lasted. He’d long since lost all sense of time. He’d awoken in a room heaving this way and that, to a clamor of panicked voices, a roaring storm, and the creaking and groaning vessel. He’d been sick, a bit. But his was a strong stomach—as numerous drunken entertainments testified—and the first thing in his mind was Noirot, somewhere on this boat. He’d been about to go to her cabin, medicine box in hand, when she fell through his door.
Since then, he hadn’t time to be sick or to worry about anybody else. Her pearly skin was dull and drawn. That much one could see even in the dim light. She’d been shockingly ill, and delirious. That was so unlike her. She was strong, strong to a fault, and the change had him halfway into a panic before his frantic mind sorted it out.
This was no more than seasickness, reason told him. The delirium must be part of it—or due to her having little sleep and hurried meals, thanks to her mad haste to get away from him.
Whatever caused the alarming symptoms, she was too ill to be left on her own. He left his servants to look after themselves while he tended to her and tried to stay calm. He knew what to do, he told himself. He worried all the same.
He was no physician and he wasn’t used to playing nursemaid. He told himself that he and Longmore had lived through the cholera epidemic on the Continent, and he’d learned a few basic principles from the doctors who’d had any success with the disease. They hadn’t much success, and they argued about what worked and what didn’t, but this wasn’t the cholera. This was seasickness, and there was nothing to worry about, he told himself. When the storm passed, she’d be better.
If the ship didn’t go down.
But it wouldn’t.
Meanwhile, he knew he needed to make sure she took in nourishment, and especially liquids—not easy when she couldn’t keep anything down. The brandy might have helped a little, but the laudanum proved more effective. It took a while, and she was out of her head for part of the time, muttering about witches and Macbeth and angels and devils, but eventually she quieted. When at last she fell asleep, he let himself draw a breath of relief.
He sat on the edge of his bunk and gently bathed her face now and again with a wet cloth. He didn’t know that it did any good, but he needed to do something. Saunders undoubtedly would know what to do, but Saunders was attending the maid—or seamstress—or whatever she was.
Gad, the facts about Madame Noirot were as slippery as the deck under his feet.
Deception, thy name is Noirot.
Manipulative and elusive and not to be trusted.
If he had trusted her, he wouldn’t have set a spy on her, he wouldn’t have pursued her from Paris, and he wouldn’t be on this curst vessel in this hellish storm.
Yet not trusting was no excuse for his deranged behavior. He had no excuse. She wasn’t even beautiful, especially not now. In the murky light, she looked like a ghost. He found it hard to believe that this was the same vibrant, passionate creature who’d straddled him in the carriage and kissed him witless.
He smoothed the damp hair back from her forehead.
Dreadful, dreadful woman.
Marcelline awoke to a watery light.
At first she thought she’d died and was floating in another realm.
By degrees she realized that the ship was rocking, but not in the deranged way it had done before. The clamor had quieted.
It was over.
The storm had passed.
They’d survived.
Then she became aware of the weight and warmth pressing against her back. Her eyes flew open. In front of her was only blank wood. She remembered: her desperate visit to Clevedon’s cabin, the vicious seasickness that seized her . . . brandy . . . laudanum . . . his hands.
This wasn’t her cabin, her bed.
She was in his bed.
And judging by the size of the body squeezed alongside her in the narrow bunk, Clevedon was in it with her.
Oh, perfect.
She tried to turn over, but he was lying on the skirt of her dress, pinning her down.
“Clevedon,” she said.
He mumbled and moved, flinging his arm over her.
“Your grace.”
His arm tightened, pulling her closer.
How she wished she might snuggle there, her back curved against the front of his hard, warm body, his strong arm holding her safe.
But she wasn’t safe. When he woke up, he’d be in the state men usually were in when they woke, and she had no confidence in her powers to resist so much temptation.
She shoved her elbow into his ribs.
“What?” His voice was low, thick with sleep.
&nb
sp; “You’re crushing me.”
“Yes,” he said. He nuzzled her neck.
She was desperately aware of his arousal, the great ducal phallus awake well before his brain was.
“Get off,” she said. “Get off. Now.”
Before it’s too late, and I decide to celebrate a narrow escape from death in the traditional manner of our species.
“Noirot?”
“Yes.”
“Then it wasn’t a dream.”
“No. Get off.”
He muttered something too low for her to hear, but he moved away. She turned over. Her head spun. She had to struggle to focus.
He stood at the side of the bunk, looking down at her. The shadow of a beard darkened his face, and he was scowling.
She started up from the bed.
Then fell back onto it, clutching her head.
“That wasn’t wise,” he said. “You’ve been sick. All you’ve had to eat was cold gruel and a little wine.”
“I ate?”
“You don’t remember.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what’s real and what isn’t,” she said. “I’m having trouble sorting out what I dreamed and what happened. I dreamed I was in London. Then I wasn’t. I was at the bottom of the sea, looking up at the bottom of the boat.” For a moment she saw the dream clearly in her mind’s eye, and for that moment she felt the despair she’d felt then. I’ve drowned. I’ll never see Lucie again. Why did I leave London? “People hung over the rail, looking down at me. They were gesturing and seemed to be saying something, but I couldn’t make out what it was. You were there. You were very angry.” And that, strangely enough, had been the most reassuring part of the dream.
“That much was real enough,” he said. “You’ve tried my patience past all endurance. I’m not accustomed to playing nursemaid, and you didn’t make it easy, thrashing about like a lunatic.”
“Was that why you were lying on top of me?”
“I was not lying on top of you,” he said. “Not on purpose. I fell asleep. I was tired. I’d had very little sleep before the storm broke. Then you burst in and decided to be sick in my cabin.”
“I didn’t decide to be sick—though now I consider, it was a good idea,” she said. “I wish I had thought of it. But I didn’t. I came for help—for Jeffreys. I was only a bit queasy—but then . . . something happened.” She shook her head. “I’m never sick. I should not have been sick.”
“You’re very lucky I was here,” he said. “You’re very lucky I’m a patient man. You’re a deuced difficult patient. I would have thrown you overboard, but the crew had closed the hatches.”
She made herself sit up, but more slowly and carefully this time. Her head pounded. She clutched it.
“You’d better not get up,” he said.
She remembered his patience, his gentle touch. She remembered the feeling, so rare that she’d had trouble recognizing it: the feeling of being sheltered and protected and being looked after. When last had anybody looked after her? Not her parents, certainly. They’d never hesitated to abandon their children when the children became inconvenient. Then they’d turn up, months and months later, expecting those children to run into their open arms.
And we did, Marcelline thought. Naïve fools that we were, we did. Whether Mama and Papa were about or not, it was always Marcelline, the eldest, who looked after everybody, because one couldn’t rely on anyone else. Even after she was wed. But what could she expect when she wed her own kind? Poor, feckless Charlie!
Clevedon wasn’t her kind. He was another species altogether. She remembered his hand at her back, guiding her to the shelter of his well-appointed carriage. A woman could be spoiled so easily by a rich, privileged man. So many women were.
She couldn’t afford it.
“I . . . truly, I thank you for enduring the ghastliness of nursing me,” she said. ”But I must get back, before anyone realizes where I’ve been.”
“Who do you think will notice or care?” he said. “We sailed into the devil’s own storm. People have been running about screaming and puking and generally making nuisances of themselves for hours. I doubt most of them even know where they’ve been this night.” He looked about him. “Morning, rather. Since most of them were sick, they’ll be starved by now, and the only thing they’ll think about is getting something to eat. Your head is aching because you’re hungry.” He scowled again. “Or perhaps I gave you too much laudanum. I wasn’t sure what was the proper dose for a woman. You’re lucky I didn’t poison you.”
“Clevedon.” She winced. It hurt to speak.
“Don’t move,” he said. “You’ll make yourself sick again, and I’m tired of that.” He moved away from the bunk. “I’ll have one of the servants fetch you something to eat.”
“Stop taking care of me!”
He turned back to look at her. “Stop being childish,” he said. “Are you afraid I’ll ply you with food in order to seduce you? Think again. Have you looked in a mirror lately? And may I remind you that I was the one holding your head while you were sick last night. Not exactly the most arousing sight I’ve ever seen. In fact, I can’t remember what I ever saw in you. I only want to feed you so you’ll be well and get out of my cabin and out of my life.”
“I want to be out of your life, too,” she said.
“Right,” he said. “Until it’s time to pay my duchess’s dressmaking bills.”
“Yes,” she said. “Exactly.”
“Good,” he said. “That suits me very well.”
He went to the door, opened it, went out, and slammed it behind him.
By the time the packet docked at the Tower Stairs, Marcelline wanted to scream. The storm had blown the ship off course, and a trip that in good weather took about twelve hours had taken more than twenty. The advertised “refreshments” had run out, the ship’s servants were limp with fatigue, and the mood of the hungry passengers was vile, as was their smell. Even above deck, in the brisk sea air, it was impossible to escape the evidence of too many people confined with one another in too small an area for too long. Couples quarreled with each other and scolded their whiny children, who picked fights with their siblings.
Naturally, nobody could wait to get off the boat, and they all tried to disembark simultaneously, shoving and shouting and even kicking.
Though she longed desperately get off the vessel as well, Marcelline decided to wait. She fended off the packet’s servants, eager to help her with her belongings, telling them to come back later. While she felt a good deal better, she didn’t feel quite herself. Too, Jeffreys was still weak from her own far worse bout with sickness. It made no sense to endure the pushing and hurrying and ill temper—and above all, the whiny children.
Marcelline wanted her own child. Lucie was no angel, but she did not whine. And when her mama surprised her by returning home a week early, that mama would be smiling and happy.
She would be smiling and happy, Marcelline assured herself, once the crowd dissipated, and she could have a moment’s peace, to sort herself out.
Clevedon must be long gone by now. He wouldn’t have to shove people out of his way. His servants could do that for him—not that it would be necessary. Clevedon appeared, and people simply made way for him.
“Make way, make way!”
She looked up. A tall, burly footman was bearing down on her, another footman behind him. The livery was all too familiar.
The first one elbowed an indignant packet servant aside, strode to her, and bowed. “His grace’s compliments, Mrs. Noirot, and would you be so good as to let him see you and Miss Jeffreys home. He understands Miss Jeffreys was dire ill, and he dislikes to leave her to the public conveyances, let alone being jostled by this infern—this crowd. If you ladies would come with us, me and Joseph will take you along to the Customs officers and then in a trice we’ll have you in
the carriage, which is only around the corner.”
Even as he spoke, he was collecting their things, hoisting one portmanteau under one arm and another under the other. His counterpart made easy work of the remaining bags, ignoring the protests of the packet servants they’d displaced and deprived of their tips.
It all happened so quickly that Marcelline had no time even to decide whether to object. She’d hardly taken in what they were about when Thomas and Joseph marched away with her luggage.
The drive to the shop on Fleet Street, silent for the most part, seemed interminable.
The first thing Jeffreys did when she settled into her seat, next to Marcelline and opposite the duke, was thank him for sending Saunders to look after her when she was ill.
He shrugged. “Saunders dotes on playing physician,” he said. “He likes nothing better than to make disgusting potions to cure the effects of overindulgence. It’s his subtle way of punishing us, no doubt, for getting wine stains on our linen.”
“He was very kind,” Jeffreys said.
“That would make for a change,” said Clevedon. “He isn’t, usually.”
And that was all he said, all the way from the Tower to Jeffreys’s lodgings.
From there it was an easy walk to the shop. The drive was not so easy.
Marcelline’s mind was working as always, looking for a way to turn matters to her account. He’d said . . . what had he said before he slammed out of his cabin?
He’d said something about paying the dressmaking bills. That it suited him very well.
But he’d been so angry, and he hadn’t come back.
His valet had appeared, though, with a bottle of wine and assorted cold meats and cheese that must have cost a king’s ransom in bribes.
A woman could, too easily, get used to such luxury.
She couldn’t afford to get used to it.
“I can’t decide,” she said, “whether you’re exercising forbearance or merely indulging your curiosity to see my lair.”
“Why should I do either?” he said. Seeming to make himself perfectly at ease, he stretched out his long legs, as he hadn’t been able to do when Jeffreys shared the seat with her. He rested one arm along the back of the richly appointed seat and looked out of the louvered panel, open at present to let him see out while shielding him from others trying to look in. Not that it was any secret who he was, when the crest emblazoned on the door shouted his identity to all the world.
Silk Is for Seduction Page 11