She opened her mouth to ask him how he’d come by them, but instead, firmly pressed her lips together. Ladies didn’t ask personal questions of gentlemen they scarcely knew. Most especially gentlemen of questionable standing.
Grinning—he always grinned—St. Monté bent and retrieved a shiny spot of something near his scuffed boot. No polished Hessians or Wellingtons for him, but well-used footwear. “Is this what you’re searching for?”
His voice’s timbre—deep, smooth, and assuredly broiling with amusement—enveloped her, and her insides wobbled peculiarly. Perhaps she’d caught Mama’s affliction after all, which surely explained Katrina’s dampened palms and queer giddiness.
Contriving a genial smile, she eyed the thimble as she perched on the sofa cushion’s tattered edge. How had it rolled clear across the room? She trained her narrowed gaze on Percival.
He blinked at her, a definite smug look about his whiskers.
While she’d been hunting beneath the furnishings, had that devil of a cat been batting his new toy about the carpet? Precisely why, even though her pet name was Kitty, she preferred dogs. Sir Pugsley, her cherished pug, hadn’t a conniving bone in his rotund body. He wasn’t too bright either, but his devotion compensated for his lack of acumen.
Her head barely reaching St. Monté’s chest, Miss Sweeting squinted at the gold balanced atop his long forefinger. “I seem to have misplaced my spectacles again, dear boy, but I believe that must be my thimble. Is it?”
“Indeed, and none the worse for wear from its mishap.” After palming the bauble, he plucked her eyeglasses from atop her lace cap. He gently looped a wire around each ear, and gave her a tender smile. “There you are. Better?”
Such a large, unsophisticated, unacceptable man by the ton’s standards, yet so tender with his delicate aunt.
“Much, thank you. I quite forgot I tucked them there. I do that often, of late.” Her rasping chuckle ended on a harsh, dry cough. “Did you know, Miss Needham, Nic gifted me the thimble, and it once belonged to a princess?”
So he says.
Pride tipped Miss Sweeting’s mouth and frolicked in her faded whisky-brown eyes, magnified owlishly by her lenses. It had been a long while since Katrina had seen her so animated, and chagrin nipped her for entertaining uncharitable thoughts toward St. Monté.
“No wonder you treasure it so,” Katrina said. No need to embarrass the dear by telling her she’d mentioned those particulars more than a dozen times prior.
The grateful glance he leveled at Katrina propelled heat to her hairline. Hound’s teeth, a fan would be most welcome. Or a walk in the still sullen, frosty outdoors. She truly must be ailing, though she exhibited no other symptoms than feverishness and an uneasy belly.
Or perhaps … No, surely St. Monté’s practiced charm hadn’t affected her?
Silly. Of course not. Katrina wasn’t fickle or a hair-brained rattlepate. Besides, she preferred dark-haired, brown-eyed, sober men like her soon-to-be husband, Major Richard Domont. He balanced her overexuberant tendencies.
They weren’t officially affianced yet, but before Richard’s departure a jot over fortnight ago, he’d vowed he’d wait no longer to ask for her hand. When he returned from his assignment in Cambridge, any day now, he intended to approach Papa, who’d already hinted he’d consent to the match. In a fortnight, at the Wimpletons’ annual winter ball, Katrina planned to announce their official betrothal.
She’d already selected the exquisite gown she’d wear, a new blue and white confection, and since last fall when she’d confessed her tendre for the major, Mama had steadily assembled Katrina’s trousseau in anticipation of a wedding. As the cossetted—though not spoiled—daughter of a wealthy banker, Katrina had her pick of titled gentlemen, but had followed her heart, set on a love-match like her parents’ had.
Truth be told, she’d expected to have married Richard by now. He’d courted her since September, and she’d adored him almost from the moment she’d seen him at a ball, standing beside a column, oh so gallant in his crimson uniform. His official duties often called him away for a week or two, yet she’d never doubted his assurances that he’d offer for her once a respectable length of courtship had passed.
As Miss Sweeting shuffled to her favorite chair, St. Monté cradled his aunt’s elbow in his calloused, tanned hand. After depositing the thimble safely on the sewing table, he draped a shawl over her thin shoulders and a rug ’round her feet.
Still cuddling Percival, Miss Sweeting gave the parlor a cursory glance before returning her bewildered attention to Katrina. “You’ve called alone today?”
“Yes, I fear I have. Mama sends her regrets. Unfortunately, she’s abed with a dreadful cold, but she sent along plum preserves, ginger biscuits, and a new tea blend.”
Proud despite her humble circumstances, Miss Sweeting would never have accepted charity, so Mama regularly asked the elderly woman’s opinion on everything from sherry to new seed cake recipes.
The Saint really ought to have seen to his aunt’s most essential needs, rather than sending her useless, gold-painted, glass-jeweled, garish gewgaws. If rumors held true, he’d made a fortune apprehending ships, so his aunt continuing to live on poverty’s fringes rather rankled Katrina’s sensibilities. Shouldn’t caring for family and loved ones be a person’s highest priority?
She indicated the basket sitting atop a gossip-rag strewn oval table. “Mama asks if you would please sample them and give your opinion when you see her next.”
“I shall be happy to.” Miss Sweeting peered at St. Monté towering above her. “Are you quite certain you cannot join us for tea, Nic? One cup, perhaps? You arrived late last evening, and we’ve had no chance to truly visit. We’ve ginger biscuits, plum preserves, and,” she fluttered her blue-veined hand at the hamper, “a new tea. Dalton made bread this morning too, and I believe we’ve Shrewsbury cakes as well.”
Hoarded from Katrina and Mama’s visit three days ago—in case someone else came to call. Which never happened. Though the oldest daughter of a viscount’s third son, Miss Sweeting wasn’t always accepted by Polite Society. She’d never revealed why, but Mama had divulged that the censure pertained to a scandal regarding St. Monté’s mother.
Poor dear. Miss Sweeting radiated loneliness. And no wonder. With no one but a maid for companionship and a negligent nephew wont to visit once a year at most, Miss Sweeting would have had no company if it weren’t for Katrina and her mother’s twice weekly calls. During the Season, when the Needhams resided in London, Katrina doubted Miss Sweeting had any guests at all.
Her expectant expression tweaked Katrina’s heart as she resumed her seat and attended to her gloves, straightening the inside-out fingertips.
Skimming his appreciative, too-forward gaze over Katrina, The Saint fished an ornate silver stopwatch from his fawn-and-charcoal-striped waistcoat. “I can spare a few minutes since I’m not likely to complete all my business in London today, and I expect I’ll be obligated to lodge there tonight in any event.”
“Wonderful.” Miss Sweeting beamed and clapped her hands once. “Please pull the bell for Dalton. She’ll prepare a lovely tray in no time.”
The movement jostled Percival, and he opened an eye disdainfully, sending Katrina a baleful glare. Animals adored her—all except this cantankerous feline.
St. Monté dutifully summoned the servant before returning to stand beside his aunt’s chair, his stance wide and commanding. Taller, broader, infinitely more powerful than he’d been five years ago, he focused his tawny, penetrating gaze upon Katrina.
His eyes …
At once, her spencer and morning gown became heavy. Cloying. She fanned her flushed face with her hand. Merciful God. Most assuredly, she ailed. Best to depart for home straightaway lest she contaminate Miss Sweeting or find herself confined to bed when dearest Richard returned in … in …
A skeptical eyebrow arched the merest bit over The Saint’s hooded eyes.
That was, when her beloved Richard
returned next …
A sensual smile, probably designed to assault Katrina’s senses, tipped St. Monté’s mouth, and his other bold eyebrow arced, joining the first on his tanned forehead.
Devil it, whenever Richard finally returned from his gallivanting.
His posture, that of a captain braced atop his ship’s rolling deck, St. Monté shifted, locking his hands behind him. His black coat drew taut across the breadth of his preposterously broad chest and bulging biceps.
Not that Katrina had noticed the wide planes or exceptional muscles, any more than his anchored stance that emphasized his strong, buckskin-covered thighs and manhood. Or his finely honed cheekbones and contoured jawline, which fairly screamed rogue.
Knave. Rakehell. Scoundrel.
She was ill. Why else did her mind wander like a warbling brook?
Katrina doggedly dredged up Richard’s form, summoning the hazy image from deep within her illusive memory’s bowels. He sported a powerful physique too, her conscience chastised, while another part, the part quite improperly taken with St. Monté, jibed in an annoying singsong voice, Not as grand as The Saint, by any means, most particularly his manly parts.
Oh, my God. Do think of something else, Katrina. Anything else.
Katrina mentally stomped on her ruminations and scrambled for a harmless topic. Lodgings. Yes. Perfectly boring.
Except for the bed part, the irksome voice in her head trilled.
Shut up!
“If you’re not a member of any of the gentlemen’s clubs …” Would he keep active memberships when he sailed most months out of the year? “I recommend you seek lodgings at The Steven’s Hotel. It’s less posh than Grenier’s Hotel as well as Mivart’s, but officers favor it, and since you’re a sea captain …”
That was where Richard stayed when in London, and he liked the place very well indeed.
“Aunt Bertie,” The Saint flashed a neat row of square, white teeth, a startling contrast to his olive skin, “would you honor me with an introduction to your lovely guest?”
Chapter Two
Katrina flinched at Captain St. Monté’s casual request, her pride smarting from the unintended jab his words caused. He’d forgotten her entirely. Erased her from his memory as easily and thoroughly as a gobbled crumpet or a piece of foolscap tossed into the fireplace.
Rather chafed her pride, it did.
His aunt’s eyes and mouth rounded, and she halted petting Percival. “But my dear boy, surely you recognize Miss Needham.”
Katrina cocked her head expectantly.
No acknowledgment registered in St. Monté’s feline eyes.
Rot.
“Daughter to Bridget and Hugo Needham?” Miss Sweeting coaxed. “The banker who advanced you the funds to purchase The Weeping Siren?”
Even Katrina’s encouraging smile produced not so much as a glimmer of recognition.
Double rot and bother.
Well, The Saint really couldn’t be blamed. Surely Miss Sweeting didn’t expect her man-of-the-world nephew to remember a bumbling teenager he’d met but once, years ago? Still, it did rather deflate Katrina’s self-esteem to be so thoroughly unremarkable and completely unremembered.
Canting his head and narrowing his eyes, St. Monté studied her.
Oh, for pity’s sake. She would come to his rescue, though he didn’t deserve it and her pulverized pride shrieked in umbrage.
“We met but once, Captain St. Monté. Though that time, you prowled this salon like a great caged cat.” Managing to wrest her wayward attention from him, lest he see her chagrin, Katrina set her gloves beside her. This most definitely would be a shorter visit than usual. “I presumed you yearned to return to your schooner.”
Like she yearned to quit this room and his keen perusal. Desperately.
Even at one-and-twenty, he’d exuded an untamed, masculine grace as he clawed at his neckcloth and paced his aunt’s dainty, feminine parlor. Uncomfortable in his formal togs, he’d shaken his overly long sun-bleached mane, his fern-green, topaz-flecked gaze alighting on Katrina for a disconcerting moment or two.
Still longer than fashionable, his streaked hair suited him, as did his bronzed features and even the whitish scar starkly contrasting his swarthy skin. Each proclaimed he’d lived an adventurer’s life, and how much grander that must be than playing cards at White’s, ogling horseflesh at Tattersall’s, or dancing set after set at tonnish event after tonnish event.
An envious sigh bubbled up her throat.
“Forgive me, but of course I remember you, Miss Needham. How could I not?”
Katrina’s disbelieving, artfully plucked eyebrows wrestled each other in their scramble to touch her hairline first, and her “Indeed?” rang dryer than month-old bread left in summer sun.
A slow smile hitched St. Monté’s mouth. “Though you were still in the schoolroom, I believe, and blushed pink as strawberry preserves each time I glanced anywhere near your direction.”
He would recall that.
Awkward, gangly, with a horrid propensity for spots on her chin and forehead, but desirous to experience society fuss too, Katrina had been thrilled to accompany Mama to visit Miss Sweeting that day. Captain St. Monté’s presence had been an unexpected bonus, and she’d become immediately infatuated, as green girls are wont to do. For a solid year, he’d been the hero of many a romantic daydream.
Very well, considerably longer than a year, but Katrina hadn’t given The Saint more than a passing thought since meeting Richard, notwithstanding her bi-weekly visits to Miss Sweeting. But those musings weren’t voluntary. No, indeed. Miss Sweeting, without a jot of compunction, thrust them upon Katrina, regaling her with The Saint’s latest exploits and commendations.
How, as a young woman bored stiffer than a fireplace poker with Society and yearning for her own adventures, was she to resist succumbing to fanciful imaginings?
Eyeing him, Katrina affected an affronted air and notched her chin upward an inch. “I’ll have you know, my good sir, I thought myself quite grown up at fifteen, as do all girls that age.”
“Ah, fifteen.” Two words that insinuated more. Much more.
She could almost hear his mind clacking away, calculating her age and pondering why, at twenty, she remained unwed. The answer was quite simple really, and rather insipid too. Until she’d met Richard, no other man had toppled The Saint from the venerated pedestal she’d perched him upon. He was to blame for her unmarried state.
Nonsensical twaddle, mooning over and fancying herself in love with the boy-man she’d met but one time. Perhaps the innocent girl she’d once been had truly loved the wild, daring St. Monté, but the woman she’d become idolized her calm, steadfast Richard.
Dalton entered, her shoulders and neck every bit as starched as the pristine apron covering her plain, black gown. Her genial tone and the affection glimmering in her eyes belied her stiff demeanor. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Please take this basket to the kitchen and prepare a tea tray. Nic will be joining us after all.” From her delighted expression, Miss Sweeting couldn’t have been more pleased if Prinny had taken tea with her. She pointed to the basket then drew her shawl snugger. “Oh, and do add another log to the fire, please. I’m quite chilled today. My stiff bones and the pouting clouds tell me a storm’s coming.”
Gads no, not another bloody log. Sticky with sweat, Kristina would require a bath when she returned home as it was. Her alarm must have shown, for Captain St. Monté collected a surprisingly charming cream blanket from the couch’s humped back.
“Let’s wrap another throw around you, Aunt Bertie.” He slipped the soft, knitted afghan about her thin shoulders. “I fear your guest is about to melt into a puddle, though I confess, I’m accustomed to much warmer climes, and the heat doesn’t bother me overly much.”
Of course it didn’t. The devil quite enjoyed gallivanting about in hell’s bowels. Probably paraded about his schooner’s decks half-naked too.
That I should like to see …
“Thank you, Nic.” Miss Sweeting scrunched her nose a mite, still raking her fingers through Percival’s fur. “You do appear quite flushed, Miss Needham. Perhaps you should remove your spencer.”
And reveal her damp bosom and back? The fabric would cling most inappropriately. “I’m not all that warm. I shall be fine.”
As soon as she stripped naked and plunged into an ice bath.
In three strides, Captain St. Monté reached the fireplace and set about poking the cavorting flames into a demure blaze. “There, this should keep you warm, Aunt Bertie, without overheating Miss Needham.”
Not a jot of moisture glinted on his face while distinct dampness pooled beneath Katrina’s arms and trickled down her spine. Between her breasts too, dash it all. A saturated sponge oozed less moisture than her at the moment.
And there he stood, bronzed and dry, the flickering fire illumining his noble profile. When he extinguished the incense, Katrina almost whooped with gratitude.
“Next time, Bertie, love, light one incense when you can ventilate the room well. I wouldn’t want you to suffer ill-effects from my gift.”
“You’re so considerate of me, Nic.” Miss Sweeting sank further into her chair and shut her eyes.
A faint frown drew Katrina’s brows together. Mayhap she’d suggest Mama have Doctor Cutter pay Miss Sweeting a visit. She’d lost more weight, and her pallor troubled Katrina.
Line’s bracketed The Saint’s eyes, too, as he scrutinized his aunt.
A droplet seeped onto Katrina’s temple.
God help her, but ripping off her spencer and dumping the vase’s water over her head truly tempted. Instead, she withdrew the scented lacy accessory passing for her handkerchief and, the instant St. Monté sauntered to his aunt, swiftly patted her face and scooted as far from the fire as the sofa allowed.
Ladies didn’t mop perspiration from their person in front of gentlemen, though why they weren’t permitted to boggled. Women sweated too.
Think of something else.
“What brings you to Richmond, Captain St. Monté? Do you sail again soon?” She couldn’t very well ask him what ships he planned to plunder next. Or what salacious ports he most preferred.
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