by Sahara Kelly
Once he managed to persuade a local pilot to sail with them; and everyone hung on the old man’s words as he spoke of currents and tides and pointed out places at the very end of the Isle of Wight that had claimed many a vessel and many a soul.
They sailed past the Needles, the sharply upthrust columns of rock, as Miles frantically sketched them, and Prudence and Lydia leaned over to observe the different colours of the water as it swirled around the beautiful but dangerous landmark.
Ronan felt as if he were watching Prudence grow, as she began to show signs of the woman she would become.
She had been shy and retiring when first they’d met, perhaps a little overwhelmed at being in London as the niece of a renowned Duke. But amongst these friends, and now with Ivy as a step-aunt, Prudence was blooming. Her laugh was natural and invited others to share her joy. Her mind was as sharp as anyone’s and she had no hesitation in arguing a point if she believed she had the right of it. Many times she did. When she finally bested Mowbray in a discussion of the way light shone through the Needles at a certain time of day, her delight was evident as she threw her hands in the air, hugged Mowbray and gleamed at everyone in triumph.
The applause for her success was spontaneous and encouraging, and he willingly joined in.
No one could have possibly guessed how much he wanted to kiss the daylights out of the darling lass.
She was going to be a problem for him, he already knew. A stolen kiss or two back in town, when the madness seized him, had sealed his fate. But he was unable to resist those blue eyes that shone so brightly from beneath thick, dark lashes. She had something of the look of the Irish about her, he often thought. She wasn’t tall but held herself well, a slender wand of budding beauty that promised to flower into a loveliness that was echoed by her intelligence and her character.
He was, he readily admitted, entranced by this slight young woman.
What he was going to do about it, he had no idea. He certainly couldn’t do what he wanted, which was to sail away with her to some deserted island and spend the next few years teaching her everything there was to know about passion and desire.
His breeches became decidedly uncomfortable when he even considered the notion.
Such thoughts were pretty well doused when he recalled their age difference and the fact that she was a member of the Maidenbrooke family. Any kind of legitimacy, marriage, a proposal…any kind of commitment would probably not meet with their approval.
After all, he was a wayward Irishman who ran his own business. He had money, thank God, and plenty of it because thrift was a way of life for him and always had been. But his origins had been humble, the title an irrelevant byproduct of some long-ago O’Malley’s deeds, and now almost worthless.
And he was, by his figuring, eight or nine years older than Miss Prudence.
If he were the Duke—a man he’d come to like very much—he’d be looking a lot higher than a modestly endowed Irishman with a meaningless title.
It was a depressing thought, so he turned his face to the wind and let the sounds of the Maeve and the laughter of her passengers sweep away the sadness that sometimes crept into his heart.
He’d lost a wife and a babe on one bleak night, and it had taken six hard years for the wound to scar over enough to allow him to step back into a life that included laughter and the company of the gentler sex.
Such things had been a struggle at first, but now he was as whole as he’d ever be. His past had shaped him, he knew, and the man he was now laughed and flirted outrageously, but never opened his heart nor left a lady crying.
What the hell he was going to do about Prudence, he didn’t know, because he was starting to fear she was halfway to making him break his own rules, and he’d do anything rather than make her cry.
At that moment, she came to his side, holding on to the gunwale as the Maeve rode the waves. “I think I enjoy these trips more than everything else,” she smiled. “I had no idea how magnificent it was to watch the sail billow as it catches the wind, and to hear the sound the sea makes as we plough through…” She took a deep breath. “You are so lucky, Ronan. So very lucky.” Her eyes closed as the breeze once again blew across their face.
I am that, lass. In some ways. In others, I may be looking at my downfall.
He managed a smile. “‘Tis glad I am you’ve found the joys of the ocean, Miss Prudence. Mayhap someday you’ll have a boat of your own.”
She chuckled as she opened her eyes and looked at him. “Perhaps I’ll start with a dinghy…”
He laughed back. “Always wise to start small.”
*~~*~~*
Lydia, who enjoyed sailing as much as anyone, but was content to sit on one of the comfortable benches and let the world pass her by, once again caught a look on Sir Ronan’s face that sent a dart of something to her heart.
It was a warm look, but held more. Banked fires, perhaps. A yearning, possibly. She just could not put a name to it, and it irritated her no end. She wished she could walk up to him and ask him, outright, what he was thinking at that moment.
And then she would walk to Mowbray and ask him if he ever had those kinds of thoughts about her. She wanted to believe she’d seen that look in his eyes, but was practical enough to know that wanting something wasn’t the same as having it.
And unrequited desire was starting to become a heavy burden on her shoulders.
Damn Mowbray. She’d told him she wanted him, so what on earth was he waiting for? An engraved invitation?
“Dear Mr Linfield,
Miss Lydia Davenport requests the pleasure of your presence in her bed, in order to explore the delights of lovemaking. Clothing not required.
Sincerely,
L. Davenport”
She chastised herself for the absurd notion, although it did express her current state of mind. She’d gone over a variety of scenarios that might entice him, but Mowbray was a man of character and principle, and she doubted very much that she could lure him into her room with subtle advances.
He’d make the decision when he was ready, and that was that.
It was, she admitted, one of the things she found most attractive about him. He didn’t flitter about her like a moth to a flame. Many of her contemporaries loved that kind of attention, but they simply made Lydia uncomfortable.
She’d experienced it with both Anthony Calder and Will Furness, who had vied with each other to flirt with her, bring her refreshments and generally make nuisances of themselves. Neither had considered the idea that she might enjoy actual conversation.
She sighed, leaning her arm over the gunwale and letting the sparkling droplets of seawater splash over her skin, cooling it with each wave the Maeve sliced through.
The man himself was on the other side of the boat, laughing at something Ivy had said.
She watched him covertly, noting his focussed attention on Ivy, the way he listened to what she was saying, and eagerly responded. Their conversation seemed lively and the Duke leaned in to add his mite.
He reached absently for Ivy’s hand as she spoke to Mowbray.
And it was tiny little intimate moments such as that, thought Lydia, that she would like to experience above anything. To feel that warmth, that desire, the depth of caring lying unspoken but obviously so very welcomed.
She had been loved as a child, raised to value both her appearance and her brain. Her parents had given her an almost unheard-of level of freedom, and she’d managed it with care and aplomb, traversing the dangerous fields of the Ton without much in the way of gossip and nothing in the way of scandal. Miss Davenport was a renowned beauty, and a desirable guest at any evening affair. She was also sought after since she was the possessor of a renowned fortune.
Mowbray wasn’t interested in her money, of that she was assured. He had his own wealth, a name that went back many generations and was well-respected, and his absence of anything close to self-consciousness was evident every time he tripped over something, bumped into somethin
g or broke something.
They were, in a way, well-matched, and Lydia knew that London would make much of any kind of arrangement between the Linfields and the Davenports. So there were no impediments to their association should it lead to a proposal.
The direction of her thoughts was making her frown, however. Going from taking a lover to marriage was quite a step. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to make it yet. To give up her freedom, her control—that would be a difficult decision to make.
“Journey’s end, me hearties,” boomed Ronan, as Miles nimbly hopped over the gunwale to the dock and grabbed a rope.
“He’s adapting well,” murmured Rose, coming to Lydia’s side. “Who would have thought that a potential sailor lurked beneath that elegant exterior?”
“Hmm.” Lydia tilted her head in amusement. “Well, you must admit he’s always had a little bit of pirate in him sometimes, don’t you think?”
“Most men do, I believe,” commented Ivy as she joined them, then gathered her skirts to step out of the boat and onto the dock. “Is the carriage here?”
“I see it,” said Mowbray as he also prepared to disembark. “But only one…”
“Drat,” Ivy muttered, allowing her husband to lift her over the side. “One carriage, Colly.”
He sighed and stood back, helping everyone onto dry land as Ronan finished securing the boat. “Perhaps we can find a creative way to fit everybody in…”
Miles rolled his eyes. “This I really want to see.”
Ronan tied off the last rope. “I have a suggestion. Let me row back in the rowboat. I can take a couple of people…”
“I’ll go,” suggested Lydia.
“Me too,” echoed Prudence.
Ronan rolled his eyes. “My luck. Neither of you strong enough to lift an oar.”
Prudence’s eyebrows rose. “You didn’t say anything about us rowing, for goodness’ sake…”
“Never mind,” said Mowbray. “Ronan, I think the two of us can fit on the bench and I’ve rowed before…”
“Come on then, lad. Ladies.” He nodded at Colly. “Problem solved, if you agree?”
“I’ve little choice in the matter,” he answered ruefully. “If I say no, I’ll hear about it for the next six months. He shot a speaking glance at Lydia and Prudence, whose smiles were all innocence and charm.
“Right then. Let’s be moving.” Ronan led his makeshift crew to the rowboat and after a bit of careful balancing got them seated and read to go.
Colly untied the mooring rope and pushed them off. “See you back at Maiden Shore.”
The ladies waved goodbye as Ivy came up to stand next to her husband.
He turned to her. “I’m reminded of Shakespeare’s words…Light boats sail swift.”
“Though greater hulks draw deep,” she quoted back. “What does that mean, by the way?”
“Haven’t a clue,” he answered, putting his arm around her. “Does it matter?”
She grinned. “Not a bit.”
Chapter Fourteen
“I think I have a splinter.” Mowbray looked at the palm of his hand.
Lydia peered around his arm and joined him in staring at the same spot. “I don’t see anything.”
He flexed his fingers. “But I can definitely feel something.”
She sighed, grabbed his hand and pulled it toward her, making sure it was in full sunlight. Her fingers dipped in and touched his skin, and it was all he could do not to shudder at the sensation.
“Got it. Tiny little thing. No cause for alarm, Mowbray. You will live.” She held up thumb and forefinger, showing him the offending piece.
He couldn’t see it. He could see nothing but her gaze.
He blinked. “Ow.”
She rolled those gorgeous eyes. “Such a baby. Suck it. In ten minutes you’ll have forgotten all about it.” She strolled off, following Ronan and Prudence. Their miniature voyage to the small jetty at Maiden Shore had been accomplished with no problem at all and quite rapidly, since the tide was now in their favour.
“It did hurt, you know.” He followed her, catching up and walking at her side.
“Don’t whine. It’s unbecoming.”
“Cruel. I think a person who has just rowed for fifteen minutes to get another person where she wanted to go deserves a little more sympathy.”
Sighing, Lydia grabbed his injured hand. She lifted it, kissed it, and handed it back. “There. Better?”
He grinned, hoping the increasing tightness of his breeches would go unnoticed. “Much. Thank you, Doctor Davenport.”
“Oh,” she pointed toward the house. “Look. The carriage is just arriving. We did make very good time, didn’t we?”
Not waiting for his reply, she hurried to catch up with Ronan and Prudence, who were waiting at the edge of the drive.
The party reunited and everyone walked toward the front door of the mansion, which opened with what seemed like quite a fanfare.
“Your Grace,” Woodleigh’s voice boomed over their heads. “You have guests.”
He stood back to reveal the excited face of Lady Maud Sydenham, and arriving at her side, her husband, Sir Laurence.
There were squeals and shouts and the sound of feet running over gravel and up the front steps. Many hands and fluttering gowns embraced Lady Maud until she was quite lost beneath the outpouring of affection.
“Sir Laurence,” Colly hurried up and shook the man’s hand. “What a splendid surprise.”
Laurence looked at the ladies. “Why is it they don’t smother me like that?” he asked in a mournful tone.
“You could ask them…” Colly chuckled.
“God no. But you have to admit it does look rather enticing.”
The other gentlemen arrived, greeting Sir Laurence with friendly familiarity. They all knew each other, in fact Sir Ronan was there thanks to an introduction from Sir Laurence.
So it was a very merry party that adjourned for tea and delicacies in the parlour. Ivy managed to catch Woodleigh and make sure that the newcomers had rooms and that extra places would be laid for dinner.
“‘Tis all in hand, your Grace.” Woodleigh managed to look slightly offended at the thought that the household had not been prepared for just such an event.
“As always, Woodleigh, you astound me with your perspicacity and effective management skills. You are indeed, as his Grace often comments, worth your weight in gold.”
Woodleigh bowed. “You flatter me, your Grace. However, should his Lordship wish to make good on that observation, please let me know beforehand? I shall indulge in a large meal before the weighing.”
Laughing, Ivy left him to join the others.
“So there we were, home far too soon, the workmen still smothering Sydenham House in covers, and nowhere to go to rest our weary heads.” Sir Laurence was standing in front of the fireplace, his hands in his waistcoat pockets, entertaining the assembled gathering with their adventures.
“Now we could have stayed a couple more weeks in Ireland, of course,” he nodded to Sir Ronan. “But lovely though it was, my darling wife here mentioned that her shoes were getting a bit waterlogged and she worried about mildew between her toes. And I’ll admit to feeling the damp in these old bones of mine.” He managed to convey noble suffering.
“He should’ve taken up a career on the boards,” whispered Miles. “I’ve seen worse actors and paid for the privilege.”
“Hush,” said Rose, as Sir Laurence stared at Miles and then cleared his throat.
“Sorry,” mumbled Miles.
“As I was saying, green and fertile though the land is, and beautiful the ruined castles and abbeys might be—and there’s more than a few thousand of ‘em, I have to tell you—the rain, lad.” He stared at Ronan. “How do you manage it?”
“Stout shoes,” Ronan quipped. “And a lot of drinking.”
“Ahhhh.” Sir Laurence grinned. “An odd coincidence you should mention that…” He glanced from the window. “Her ladyship and I…well, w
e rather thought you should have a gift. For being such lovely friends and doing so much for the Wednesday Club.”
“Actually, I brought you girls a little something. Laurie’s gift is…more general.” Maud winked.
“And here it comes now.” Sir Laurence pointed out the window.
Everyone hurried to look where he was pointing, nudging and jostling to get a good view.
“Ouch.” Sir Ronan looked at Prudence who had stomped on his foot to get in front of him.
“Sorry,” she said unrepentantly, staring out of the window. “It’s a wagon?”
“Indeed, Miss Prudence, a wagon it is,” beamed Sir Laurence. “But it’s the cargo that is the gift.”
Colly and Miles almost bumped heads.
“Is that…?”
“No, it can’t be, can it?”
“Yes it is, lads. Maud and I wound up with a few hours to kill on the way down. So we dropped by our favourite brewery and managed to wheedle a little something for Maiden Shore.”
“I can’t make out the sign on the barrels,” frowned Lydia, squinting at the two well-secured and sturdy barrels lashed to the back of the wagon.
“Oh my God,” Miles said. “It’s Chillendale ale. Two casks of Chillendale ale. Oh my God.”
“Hmm.” Ivy frowned. “That’s rather enthusiastic for a couple of casks of ale.” She glanced at Maud. “Not that we’re not grateful, of course…”
Maud grinned back. “It’s Laurie’s favourite ale, dear. And I think you’ll find the other gentlemen are rather fond of it as well.”
Lydia looked at the male faces around her, noticing the wide-eyed interest and growing smiles. “I believe you’re right, Lady Maud. Is it that good?”
“That good and more, Lydia. The Chillendale family has been making ale for centuries or so, I think. Each year they try something slightly different. One year it was the addition of blackberries, I think. Rather liked that one. I hear this year they’ve repeated the peach version.”