But it was her blue eyes, piercing in their potency and fringed with the thickest black lashes, which had never failed to set him on his heels. With a single glance, regardless of intent, Alex could turn the most stalwart of men into a blithering idiot, and she quite took his breath away.
It was, perhaps, his uncontrollable reaction to the chestnut-haired beauty that had fascinated him from the moment they met. At the age of one and thirty, he had thought himself immune to feminine wiles. Given Jason had spent the greater portion of his youth at sea, his education in the sexual arts had taken place in dockside taverns, in the arms of some of the most hardened doxies in London and Jamaica.
As he amassed a sizable fortune in prize money, which he had invested with care, he purchased the favors of more refined courtesans. But the attachments never extended beyond expensive brandy, fine cigars, raw lust, and sordid acts no gently bred virgin would provide in her lifetime.
Or so he thought.
Alex had not simply altered his views but had blown his preconceived notions of society maidens out of the water. She pursued him with an unrivaled aggression and openness many men would kill to possess. And she would be his bride, but not yet.
Moved by a power impossible to deny, Jason pressed his lips to her forehead. “I am so proud of you, Alex.”
As he retreated, he paused. Asleep, his lady appeared so innocent—so helpless. Temptation beckoned, even as he reminded himself no gentleman would take advantage of her oblivion. But he held no title, as he was a man of the sea.
So he bent and stole a kiss.
#
“Oh, this is terrible.” Alex rubbed the back of her neck and winced. “I ache everywhere.”
“You poor thing.” Molly perused the various garments. “Your work is very fine, but why did you not wait for me to help you?”
“Because I wanted to do it.” And so she had, completing the repairs in the wee hours of the morning. But Alex would not complain, as the ensuing short rest included a most vivid dream, which featured Jason and a delicious kiss that gave her shivers whenever she thought of it. “Besides, given your extensive list of chores, I loathe compounding your tasks.”
“Nonsense, as it is no bother, and this is my light day.” The charwoman carried Jason’s clothing into the dressing room. “I have only to wash the linens, scrub the floors, haul firewood into the bedchamber and kitchen, replenish the preserves, carry in fresh water for your bath—”
“That is quite enough.” Alex stretched and yawned. “I should clean the floors, if you will teach me how to use a mop, and then I will assist in all your chores. And if I have overlooked anything, you must tell me, as I intend to assume my fair share of the labor, for the length of my stay. What’s more, this afternoon, I shall fetch the water for my much-deserved bath.”
“Do you think that wise, Alex?” The maid put away the last of Jason’s garments. “You are new to housework, and you may not be able to move, tomorrow.”
“Fear not, fair Molly.” Alex lifted her chin. “I am stronger than I look.” Of course, she had no idea what joy awaited her, as she commenced her toils.
First on her agenda was a date with a broom, and she swept a good dust storm in the small cottage, while the cook-maid boiled preserves. By the time Alex wrestled with the mop, blisters had formed on her palms, and twice she stepped into the bucket of water.
“Oh, and I have always considered myself a graceful sort.” Alex wrung the hem of her morning dress. “And I fear I have ruined my slippers.”
“That is why I remove my boots, before I clean.” Molly stowed the preserves and rested hands on hips. “And we need only put your slippers at the hearth to dry them.”
“Will they not stain?” She could not wear soiled slippers.
“I know not.” The charwoman shrugged. “Does it matter, as they are still serviceable?”
For the umpteenth time, Alex checked her opinion. Was it possible? Could it be true? Was she a snob? “I suppose not.”
“And you brought several pairs, so you should designate these as your housecleaning slippers.” With that, Molly slapped her thighs. “Now we should strip the bed, and wash the linens.”
Once again, Alex plunged into the seemingly endless, dark vortex of misery and pain polite society had the nerve to call domestic work. After laboring over a large basin and a rather strange board contraption, which rendered her knuckles raw and her lower back a bottomless pit of hellfire and torment, Alex and Molly hung the sheets on a line to dry. Then the efficient maid explained how to make preserves, trim the wicks on candles to reduce smoke, and clean the windows.
“May I ask a question?” Weighted with a third load of logs, Alex huffed and puffed, as her arms screamed in protest from such foreign drudgery.
“Of course.” Molly kept a brutal pace and whistled as she tarried.
“Why does Jason not collect his own firewood?” The man had better sing her praises, given her efforts.
“Cap’n usually does for himself.” The charwoman all but bounced with energy, as they rounded the side of the house. “But the stores are quite low, and it is my duty to maintain the cottage.”
“I know not how you manage it.” Alex checked her footing, as she almost tripped on an exposed root. “As God is my witness, when I return home, I shall give every member of my staff a raise in pay and a full day of rest, per week. And never again will I take them for granted.”
Molly laughed and kicked the front door, which she had left ajar, and walked into the bedchamber to deposit her load. Following in her wake, Alex bent to relieve herself of her burden. When she stood, she snagged and then tore the hem of her dress on the wood.
“Oh, no.” The cook-maid smacked her forehead. “How could I be so forgetful?”
“No worries.” Alex inspected the damage. “After mending Jason’s clothes, I can repair this, myself.”
“That is not what I meant.” With a frown, Molly disappeared into the great room. When she returned, she carried a garment. “I brought you one of my frocks, which I intended to give you before we commenced our chores. You are a bit thinner than I, so it should suffice.”
“Then I should put it on, after my bath.” Alex wiped her brow and sighed. “So, what is next?”
“We need only to replenish the kitchen barrel, boil some water, and fill the tub. Once you have enjoyed a good soak, which you have more than earned, I will braid your hair and teach you a recipe, as we cook dinner.” With a mischievous grin, Molly asked, “So, are you familiar with a shoulder yoke?”
Alex gulped.
The odd looking contraption consisted of a wooden plank, which spanned the width of her shoulders, and buckets suspended from ropes at either side. Weighted with water drawn from the well, Alex engaged in a wicked waltz with what she would describe as a rudimentary torture device.
“The trick is in the timing and balance.” Molly retreated but maintained close proximity, as if teaching Alex to walk. “Go slow.”
“All right.” Alex stepped gingerly, but the yoke was heavy and clumsy. She weaved left and then right, and then she surged forward. In an attempt to stabilize the contraption, she lurched. One bucket swung behind her, knocking her backward, and she landed hard on her bottom, just as the other pail soared, tipped upside down, and covered her head.
“My goodness.” Molly freed Alex from the vicious contrivance. “Are you injured?”
“Just my pride.” Alex squeezed the water from her hair and assessed the damage. “Well I may not require a bath, after my impromptu shower. Really, I am soaked.”
The charwoman reached for the yoke. “Let me—”
“No.” Holding the plank, Alex stood. “I made you a promise, and I intend to keep my word. Now, shall we try again?”
“As you wish.” The cook-maid clucked her tongue. “My, but you are stubborn.”
“Molly, you have no idea.”
The second time proved the charm, as Alex navigated the deuced yoke with success, although s
he almost crashed at the doorstep. But the third rotation she navigated with nary a glitch, and at last the chores were completed.
When Alex sank into the tub, she could have cried, as the heretofore-simple pleasure had never felt so good. Enveloped in soothing warmth, she closed her eyes and conjured fanciful visions of her life as the wife of Captain Jason Collingwood. But she comforted herself in the knowledge that the blisters and muscle aches would be worth it, in the end, when she looked back on her adventure into housekeeping hell and what she had done for love. Wiggling her toes, she giggled. “I wonder where we will live?”
“I beg your pardon?” Molly inquired.
“Sorry.” The fantasy Alex had woven with such care had vanished, in an instant, when she opened her eyes. “I did not know you were there.”
“I hate to disturb you, but you must come out, now.” Molly retrieved a towel. “That is, if you still hope to prepare Cap’n’s dinner, under my direction.”
“Oh, I do so wish to cook for Jason.” Alex stood and stepped from the bath. “And I shall impart sage advice on how to attract a man.”
“Do tell, dear Alex.” The charwoman all but bounced.
After donning the well-worn printed muslin dress Molly had brought, Alex sat at the end of the bed and braided her hair in the maid’s usual fashion. Later, she assumed an altogether foreign position before the stove and stirred delicious smelling gravy, which she had produced with valuable guidance.
“All right.” Alex bent to check the bread in the oven. “So how shall you approach your Mr. Penniman, when next you meet?”
“I should incline my head, ever so gently, dip my chin, and gaze at Tom through my lashes.” Molly demonstrated her newfound prowess. “How was that?”
“Perfect.” Alex wiped her hands on her apron. “Such tactics have served me well, as I have often rendered Jas—I mean, gentlemen incapable of forming a coherent sentence.”
Once Molly had departed for the day, with a gifted gown from Alex’s belongings, Alex collected dishes and utensils from the cupboard and set the table. “Jason had better sing my praise for the effort I have expended today.”
And no sooner had she uttered the statement than the man in question strode through the door.
“Good evening, Alex.” Jason shrugged from his greatcoat and hung it on a wall peg. “How was your day?”
“Very enlightening.” Not to mention painful, but her travails were worth their weight in gold in anticipation of his commendation regarding her hard work.
“Upon my word.” He surveyed the surroundings. “Everything looks shipshape. Molly outdid herself.”
Alex could have strangled him.
CAPTAIN OF HER HEART
CHAPTER THREE
How was it possible for a woman to possess provocative toes? As Jason entered the little cottage he shared with Alex, he found her standing, bare-footed, before the stove.
Wearing one of Molly’s old dresses, a modest frock with a frayed lace collar, and with brown locks woven in a single braid and draped over her shoulder, Alex could have passed for a servant to the undiscriminating eye. Until she cast a charming glance and favored him with a coy smile, which underscored her patrician features and never failed to set his heart racing.
“Good evening, Captain of my heart.” How he loved her welcome, delivered in the sultry tone that ignited a raging inferno in his loins. “Are you hungry?”
Oh, yes.
But not for food.
The well-honed control he had spent Sunday afternoon fortifying with the best ale at the Blood and Swash tavern fled him in a scarce second. Gazing heavenward, he doffed his greatcoat and prayed she would not notice his animated Jolly Roger, as it was dangerously jolly and only too ready to lay siege to her virgin field.
Six days had passed since the inimitable Lady Seymour had arrived on his stoop, and he had yet to bed her. Either his halo shimmered, or he had lost his mind, as both were possible, given the circumstances.
Temptation personified, he considered Alex a prime piece, bedecked in the latest fashions money could buy. With her hair coiffed atop her head or in a fountain of carefree curls, and an expensive gown accentuating her generous curves, the society maiden’s attire served as a potent reminder of her status and kept the beast at bay.
But the new Alex, the provincial ragamuffin, tested the limits of his sanity and his breeches, as he found her unutterably irresistible. Had she paraded about the ton’s ballrooms in such garb, she would incite a riot. The thick braid evoked images of his Alex, sans clothing, engaged in a tantalizing impersonation of Lady Godiva, and he vowed, right then and there, to one day enjoy that fantasy, in truth.
“You should wash for dinner.”
Jason blinked. “I beg your pardon.”
“Our meal is ready.” The object of his affection and the source of his discomfit carried two plates to the table. “Do you not intend to wash before we dine?”
At that moment, there was only one thing he desired, and it had nothing to do with the meal. Bolstering his defenses, Jason walked to his lady, rested a hand at the small of her back, and stared into her blue eyes. When Alex trailed her tongue across her rosy lips, he stopped short of his destination, as it was a ploy for which he had fallen on occasions his pride had not allowed him to count.
“Dinner smells delicious.” Given her duplicity, he questioned everything about her, so he dropped his hand to his side and cleared his throat. “Did you cook this, all by yourself?”
“Indeed.” How sincere she seemed, as she gushed beneath his meager praise. “After you departed this morning, I trapped and skinned the rabbits, just as Molly taught me. And I followed her recipe for hare stew, to the letter.”
“Ah, my favorite.” No doubt the astute Lady Seymour had seized upon that information and hoped to capitalize on his favor. Jason poured water into the corner basin and scrubbed his hands and face. “By the by, have you misplaced your slippers, or have you started a new trend?”
“Oh, that?” She shrugged. “Molly prefers to complete her chores without shoes, and I must profess equal fondness for the habit.”
“You are comfortable?” He pulled out her chair and then settled himself in the opposite seat. “Are you not cold?”
“Not in the least.” She draped her napkin across her lap and then paused. “Tarrying over a hot stove keeps me plenty warm.”
Then Alex leaned forward and compressed her lips, and he realized she waited for him to sample her fare. So with heightened expectancy, Jason picked up his fork and speared a generous bite. To relish the experience, he held the sample in his mouth—and almost gagged. The temperature singed the tip of his tongue but not so much to temper the stomach-churning taste.
In a flash, he bent and spat the repulsive morsel to the plate. To mitigate the foul flavor, he grasped a pint of ale and gulped half the contents.
“What is wrong?” With shock investing her expression, Alex gasped. “Do you not like it?”
“Bloody hell.” Shuddering, Jason set down his fork and took another swill of ale to erase the persistent hint of the offensive concoction. “Alex, just how much sugar did the recipe suggest you put in this stew?”
“Sugar?” His society miss wrinkled her nose and snickered. “Silly man, you do not put—oh. Please, do not tell me I mistook the sugar for salt.”
“Do not fret, love.” He snorted and then burst into laughter. “I am sure it could happen to anyone, as they are both white.”
“Perhaps I can set it right? It may only require the addition of salt to counteract the sweetness.” Her mouth fell agape, when he snatched her plate from the table and stood. “Wait—what are you doing?”
“This fare is fit for neither man nor beast.” Jason dumped their portions into the pot, which he then carried outside. With a hearty heave-ho, he tossed the food to the ground. “Woe the poor creature that stumbles upon your odious feast.”
“You are horrible to make fun of me.” Alex folded her arms and loite
red in the doorway.
“No, your stew is horrible, and I am honor-bound to save us from it.” He halted at the edge of the stoop, as their respective positions brought them almost eye-to-eye. In a single swift move, he twined her braid in his hand and gently tugged. “But I am proud of you, love.”
“Proud of what? Regardless of my hard work, I produced an inedible meal unworthy of praise.” She mustered a precious pout and lowered her chin in defeat, and he claimed a whisper of a kiss. “And I did so wish to please you.”
“Darling Alex.” Jason pulled her closer and rubbed his nose to hers. “What matters is that you tried.”
And then in defiance of his instincts, he freed her braid, wrapped an arm about her waist, claimed her mouth in a sumptuous assault, carried her into the house, and kicked the door shut behind him, without ever breaking contact. After dropping the empty pot to the table, Jason unleashed his hands, resting a palm to her delectable derriere and the other at the nape of her neck. When he rocked his hips into hers, Alex favored him with a sultry moan, as their tongues dueled.
The erotic heat of his society maiden, coupled with her succulent lips, far more tempting than the sweetest confection, well nigh drove him insane. And when she wound her arms about his shoulders, and speared her fingers into his hair, he shifted his attention to her modest but accommodating dress.
In seconds, he perched in a chair, situated his lady in his lap, untied the ribbon at her bodice and chemise, and then bared one breast. At that point, he halted, only to discover Alex watched him. Why was he not surprised? So he pressed on her pliant flesh caresses intended to incite—to arouse. And he recalled the first time he had touched her thus, albeit through a heavy gown.
In the drawing room at Seymour House, in London, just prior to enlisting his aid in Cara’s plan to catch Lance, Alex had caught his wrist and set his palm to her bosom. To his chagrin, he had assumed her silent plea indicative of a healthy desire for him. Now he wondered if her bold behavior had been nothing more than means to an end.
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