Christa noted his choice of the word “escape,” but said merely, “Do you miss the Navy?”
“Yes and no.” Alex smiled at her ruefully, then started walking back along the beach while she fell into step beside him. “There are no simple answers, are there? The Navy has been my work and my family for half my life. And yet there were things about it that I loathed, like press gangs. A pressed sailor was worse off than a convict, because impressment was often a life sentence. Some of those poor devils would be released from one ship, then pressed before they could even get home to their families. More than once I let a man go if he claimed to have a wife or child he hadn’t seen in years.” The viscount was silent for a few moments before continuing.
“The sea is a hard life, and a very confined one. A ship of war is one of the most crowded places in the world. As a junior officer, the only spot where I could find any privacy was perched up in the rigging like a gull. Sometimes I thought the confinement, the endless rules, would drive me mad. And yet …” He paused, trying to define what he felt.
“Now that it is gone, you miss it?” Christa prompted.
“Exactly, though I hate to admit it after all my complaining about how rigid the life was.” Alex gave her a wry smile, grateful for her ability to grasp his idea. “It also seems strange to be leaving the Navy at a time when the opportunities for promotion will be greater than they have been in the last decade. War is an appalling waste, yet it is a fighting man’s great chance. Perhaps I am not enough of a fighting man.”
Christa nodded with resignation. “It is the way of the world. There is nothing uglier or less meaningful than war, yet courage and wisdom may flower from that great evil. Men may grow in ways impossible in times of peace.”
She gave a melancholy smile. “That is the philosopher in me speaking. As a woman, I can only condemn a war that will kill so many. Will you go back to the Navy someday?”
“I don’t know,” Alex said slowly. “Not before Annabelle and Jonathan are settled. Perhaps never. And yet, for all the drawbacks of a naval life, there are times, especially on the night watch, when the ship comes alive around you. The creaking of the timbers, the rigging and sails humming like a great chorus—it is a perfect harmony with the wind and the stars. There is nothing like it.”
With French practicality Christa said, “Why not buy a ship here? You are a lord and can do what pleases you.”
Alex stopped, much struck by the thought. “Do you know, the thought never occurred to me? I suppose it is because all of my experience has been with working ships.” He laughed suddenly. “Or perhaps because one of our English writers, Samuel Johnson, said that ‘anyone who goes to sea for pleasure would go to hell for a pastime.’ Sailing is not a common pleasure.”
Christa smiled. “Wasn’t it he who said that a boat is like a prison, only with the chance of being drowned? He sounds like a man who had a very bad Channel crossing.”
Alex gave her a surprised glance. “You’ve read Samuel Johnson?”
Christa gave her best look of wide-eyed innocence. “I have been fortunate that former masters have granted me the use of their libraries.” She would have to watch her tongue; too much erudition was out of character.
“Well, please make yourself free of my library as well,” Alex said. Returning to the topic at hand, he said musingly, “I have been wondering what to do with myself all summer. Sailing is something Annabelle and Jonathan might enjoy also. Perhaps one of the local fishing boats would be suitable …”
Christa stopped walking also, a wistful expression flickering over her face so quickly that a less-attentive eye would have missed it.
“Have you sailed, Christa?”
She nodded. “Yes, as a child I went out on the fishing boats in Normandy.”
“Good. I can use you as crew. And you can take care of Annabelle as well. I’ll travel into Ipswich tomorrow to see what I might purchase. Thank you for a wonderful idea, Christa.”
On impulse Alex bent over to place a quick kiss on her cheek, but somehow their lips met and suddenly his arms were around her, her soft curves molding into him. Christa’s lips parted under his and the whole world narrowed down to the delicious taste of her mouth, the tangy scent of her hair. It was an embrace as natural as the soft splash of the breaking waves, and her response was as free as his own. They stood locked together in the gathering dark, her arms circling beneath Alex’s coat, his hands gently exploring Christa’s back and richly curving hips.
The spell was broken by a wave from the advancing tide that raced up the sand and broke over their feet. They separated, each stepping back. Alex reached out one hand and tenderly brushed a dark curl from her face. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be one of those masters who abuses his authority.”
Christa smiled bewitchingly and briefly turned her cheek into his hand. “You know that I enjoyed that as much as you. But it is better that it not happen again, n’est-ce pas? There is only one way that would end, and it is not a way that would do honor to either of us.”
Alex laughed a little sadly. “You are right, of course. Are all Frenchwomen so irresistibly practical?”
She gave a saucy smile. “Most of us are practical, but not all of us are irresistible.”
Alex laughed again, this time without reservation. “Of all the things one might find thrown out on a London street, you are the best. Come back to the house now, and I shall do my simple male best to keep my hands off you. It won’t be easy.”
Somehow their arms slipped around each other as they crossed the sands, hers circling his waist, his protective around her shoulders. They ambled their way up the beach and across the heathlands, their steps matching with unconscious harmony until the house was in view. The sight of the Orchard subtly reestablished the social barriers that had dissolved in the sea breezes, and Alex stopped. “You go on ahead. If we come in together all windblown and sandy it will do neither of our reputations any good.”
Christa gave a very Gallic shrug. “I doubt if a French maid has any reputation to begin with, and your reputation would be enhanced rather than injured.”
The viscount stepped back and said firmly, “You are a cynical wench. You are also probably correct in your estimate, but I will send you on ahead anyhow. There is no point in being condemned for deeds we haven’t even done.”
Christa’s answering smile was no more than a white flash in the dark. “Yes, milord.” She dipped one hand into her pocket, then held it out, dropping a smooth, cool object into his hand before she turned and entered the gardens.
Alex watched until she was safely inside, his fingers stroking the flat white pebble she had given him. He placed it in his pocket for safekeeping, then turned and walked back to the shore through the darkness. Christa was becoming an unexpected problem. He had never met a woman who attracted him more, and he had opened up to her in a way unique in his experience. Her lively mind and wise understanding were as appealing as her delectable body; had she been a woman of experience, they might have enjoyed each other freely and without guilt. Had Christa been of his own station, he might have courted her.
But for all her sang-froid and delightful lack of missishness, there was an innocence in her response that convinced him that Christa was a virgin, doubtless of God-fearing peasant stock. And she worked for him. Alex had always despised men of his order who took advantage of the women in their households. It was not unknown for alleged gentlemen to throw maids out in the streets after their masters had impregnated them; he’d heard that half the drabs in London began that way.
If Alex indulged his desires with Christa, he would change her life, and not for the better. There were ways to prevent babies, but they were unreliable, particularly over a long affair, and a single night with Christa could not possibly be enough. He had no desire for his firstborn child to be illegitimate, and bearing a bastard might stand in the way of Christa’s marrying a man of her own station. Or if she refused to accept that disgrace, she might find a back-street
abortionist, with all the risks that entailed.
Alex shuddered at the picture. All of that bright life, tarnished or destroyed—it would not happen at his hands. But he could feel her lips still, and the memory of her warm body pressed into his …
He had been too long without a woman. When they returned to London, perhaps he should look around for a wife. Alex would be thirty soon, a good age to be setting up a nursery. In the meantime, he would enjoy the summer, would take dancing lessons with Christa, have her on his boat, and treat her with as much circumspection as if she were a lady herself.
A sharp pain stabbed near his ribs as he sat down on the shore to watch the pale breaking waves, and Alex smiled without humor. He had no doubt that Peter Harrington had been right in his speculation that a shell fragment was still embedded in Alex’s left side. It was there, and moving. From what Peter said, the odds were about even whether it would work its way out or kill him. Thoughts of marriage might prove moot.
Christa rolled over on her narrow cot and punched the pillow viciously, seeking an elusive comfort that might let her sleep. She had gone through the motions of putting Annabelle to bed, but her thoughts had been elsewhere. Now, with no distractions, her mind and body were vividly recalling the embrace on the beach.
In the wake of that discussion it had seemed such a natural thing to let Alex kiss her. He was a most attractive man, and no one would be harmed by it. Her body’s traitorous reaction was entirely new in her experience, and threatened to sweep away her prized common sense. Even now, hours later, she could taste his lips and the warm depths of his mouth. Alex had been gentle, yet the memory of his tall muscular strength hinted at a power and passion beyond her experience. Christa was aware that no amount of reading could match reality, and she had a sudden craving to supplement her book learning with experience.
She sat up, carefully straightened the blanket and her twisted nightdress, then lay back and smoothed both neatly over her. Prim as a nun, Christa considered the drawbacks and advantages of a love affair. There was something unbearably tawdry about being tumbled by her employer, and the consequences of that could be disastrous in her present situation. She was a d’Estelle, and had far too much pride to give herself to a man who found her passingly attractive. While she was sure Alex Kingsley was sincere in his way, Christa knew that men were slaves to their passions—what would be a pleasant interlude for him would be far more significant to her.
Christa felt a brief stab of fury at the circumstances that brought the two together when there was an unbridgeable social gulf between them. Had it not been for the revolution, her birth and fortune would have more than matched his, and they could have met as equals, free to work out a future if they chose.
She ruthlessly suppressed the thought; life had little to do with fairness, and she must work with what it had given her. She would admire her master from afar, keeping her emotions rigidly in check. And when Suzanne’s business had grown to the point where it could support them both, Christa would leave the Kingsleys, heart whole and with her pride intact.
The drawbacks of the situation were obvious, and conclusive: an affair with Lord Kingsley was out of the question. But for one last languorous moment she allowed herself to think of the advantages. Christa grinned into the darkness. Sacrebleu, but he was a man!
Chapter Ten
Alex left for Ipswich early the next morning. A strenuous day produced satisfactory results and he returned to the Orchard in time for dinner. During the first course, he said teasingly, “I have some news that may be considered a mixed blessing.”
Jonathan ceased his annihilation of a lamb chop long enough to question, “Oh?” while Annabelle knit her brows worriedly and asked, “What do you mean?”
Alex sipped a little red wine, grateful that his prudent father had laid down such an excellent cellar before the war with France and the subsequent blockade. “I found a dancing master in Ipswich. He will come out here once a week all summer, or until Jonathan and I have satisfactorily mastered the art, whichever comes first. Annabelle, you will be the judge of when it is safe to turn us loose in a London ballroom.”
Annabelle’s happy exclamation was drowned by Jonathan’s howl of anguish. “Alex, no, not a dashed caper merchant! Surely you aren’t going to make me learn to dance?”
“I most certainly will. It is an essential skill to all aspiring Army officers. Because the Army is not as fair an institution as the Navy, dancing ability plays a role in advancement.” Alex had to laugh at his young brother’s appalled expression.
“Come, Jon, look upon it as a first lesson in military discipline. You will have to learn many things you won’t like, and this is merely the first. If it makes you feel any better, I will be there beside you, and probably making more mistakes, which will give you the opportunity to feel superior. Do try some of the veal—Monsieur Sabine has surpassed himself.”
Jonathan had too much adolescent pride to admit that he might enjoy dancing. However, when he had gone that morning to renew his acquaintance with his old friend Tom, the vicar’s son, he had noticed that Tom’s sister, Sally, had changed out of all recognition, and much for the better. It wouldn’t hurt to learn how to dance; Jonathan knew that females set great store by it, and he dimly recognized that someday he might want to impress a girl.
“When is the dancing master coming, Alex?” Annabelle asked.
“Monday, the day before I go to Ipswich for my new boat.”
“Your what?” This time his siblings were in chorus.
Alex smiled, vastly pleased with himself. “This morning I bought a small boat in Ipswich.”
“Whatever for?” Jonathan asked curiously.
“For sailing, of course. And you lucky people are going to learn how to sail too.”
There was a long pause while his brother and sister chewed and thought. Unlike his brother, Jonathan’s passion had always been for horses and riding rather than the sea. Still, it should be quite fun going out on a boat, and he was in favor of any project that gave him more time in his brother’s company. “I think I shall enjoy that, Alex.”
Annabelle wasn’t so sure. It sounded very strange, and not at all proper, to go sailing for no reason; no young lady of her acquaintance had ever done such a thing. But if her brother wanted her to sail, she would try. “What should I wear, Alex?”
Her brother frowned thoughtfully. “A good point. Jon, do you have some old breeches and shirts that might fit Belle? You were her height not long ago.”
“Breeches!” Annabelle squeaked in horror. “Why, I’ve never done anything so improper in my life!”
Alex smiled at her. “Then it is high time you started. Otherwise you might be hopelessly missish by the end of this autumn’s Season.”
He chuckled at her outraged expression, then said coaxingly, “I really think you will enjoy sailing, Belle. If you don’t, of course you needn’t continue, but it would please me if you at least tried. Besides, I’ve named the boat Annabelle.” Alex privately thought that Christa would be more appropriate, but decided it would invite too many questions.
His sister looked at him fondly, her resistance melted. “If you want me to go sailing, of course I shall. But what if I succumb to mal de mer?”
“We’ll take Christa to take care of you—she’s an experienced sailor, and can reassure you that you will survive. See if you can find some breeches for her too. Someone on the estate must have a son about her size.”
Alex saw the beginnings of a question in his sister’s eyes, and thought she might be wondering how he had learned so much about her maid. Fortunately, the perfect distraction came to mind. “By the way, Belle, I ran into a Navy friend in Ipswich today and asked him about Sir Edward Loaming. The man has an unsavory reputation. If he calls on you in London, refuse him.”
Her eyes fixed on her plate, Annabelle murmured in a barely audible tone, “Very well, Alex.”
It never occurred to Alex, used to years of giving orders in the Navy, tha
t he might not be obeyed.
The dancing lesson turned into a comic disaster. Soon after lunch on Monday the three Kingsleys and Christa assembled in the Orchard’s great hall, which also served as the ballroom. The dancing master, Mr. Rockland, was at heart a composer, but dreary reality forced him to find more lucrative occupations to support his family. He didn’t mind teaching young ladies to dance because they were usually enthusiastic, but in his experience young gentlemen like Master Jonathan were a much less predictable quantity. At least half of them took lessons under duress and seemed to delight in their clumsiness.
What the dancing master had not expected was that the man who had hired him, an adult and a viscount, no less, should prove so hopelessly incompetent. Even the simple country dance Mr. Rockland began with produced missteps, wrong turns, and collisions. The younger brother was little better. The two young ladies—though one, as he later sniffed to his wife, was certainly not a lady—were skillful enough, but the expanding chaos of the dance lesson soon reduced the two young Kingsleys to hysterical giggles. Within half an hour the lesson was a complete shambles.
While Jonathan and Annabelle were having a wonderful time, only Christa noticed Alex’s tight-lipped frustration. After an hour Mr. Rockland gathered up his accompanist and stalked out with an air of great injury, while Jon clowned outrageously for his sister’s amusement. Under cover of their laughter, Christa went up to Alex and asked quietly, “Lord Kingsley, do you have trouble telling left from right?”
Alex looked at her for a long moment while a muscle in his jaw jumped. Under most circumstances he was able to conceal the mental quirk that caused him to confuse directions, words, and numbers. He had had trouble learning how to read, and as a student at Eton he was frequently beaten by masters who assumed that any boy so brilliant in some areas must be willfully obtuse to fail in others. Alex had always had trouble with examinations, and under acute emotional stress was often unable to find meaningful words. With maturity he had learned how to work around his problem, chiefly by substituting direct physical action for verbal confusion. It had been years since he had found himself in a situation like this one, where the humiliations of his childhood were painfully resurrected.
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