Monsieur regarded the glistening globule of spittle, then shifted on the stool, the only piece of furniture in Blu’s cabin aside from a narrow cot bolted to the wall and the trunk containing her clothing. At some point Monsieur had observed the state of his boots and had corrected the error. Now, apparently regaining his strength by the moment, he adjusted his wig to an angle of approximate correctness and straightened his stock.
“Blusette, this is the Duke’s ship. We are his guests.”
“Paying guests, Monsieur. The Duke has been paid well to carry us to London.”
“Regardless, it is his ship and he is obliged to command as he sees fit. If this means Isabelle may no longer ply her trade, that I must forebear the use of the scribe’s services, that Mouton may not defend his charges, or that you must confine yourself to a single pint—then so be it.”
“And to think I wanted that rat dropping to be my first! How right you were, Monsieur! I was spared a disgrace of the first water.” Raging, she paced and turned, paced and turned, her sword banging against the cot, the trunk, and Monsieur’s dodging knees,
“I advise we shift this turn of events to advantage.” Monsieur lowered his head and examined her over the rim of his splintered goggles. “I suggest we employ the next weeks to our profit.”
“We bring the crew over to our side and seize the ship?” Blu inquired hopefully. “We instigate a mutiny?”
“Not at all,” Monsieur responded, stiffening. “Mutiny is not the pursuit of a lady.” A sniff emerged from his nostrils. “I suggest we employ our time in preparation.”
Disappointment tugged at Blu’s lips. She needed no oracle to grasp where this discourse led. Disheartened, she sank to the edge of the cot and dangled her hands between her knees.
“‘Tis no going back, is there?” Turning her head, she gazed morosely at the circle of window on the outer wall. “I have no say on this ship, and I will have no say in London. My fate is controlled by every man jack but myself.”
“‘Tis for your good, Blusette,” Monsieur pronounced briskly, but not without a degree of sympathy. “Now to business. In the next weeks, we shall accustom you to proper dress.” Ignoring her outburst, he hurried on. “Isabelle must be trained as a ladies’ maid. And, I blush to admit it, but I overlooked Mouton’s wardrobe. Suitable clothing must be assembled for his use in London.” Before she could comment, he rose and pressed the door latch. “When you meet the Duke, you may assure him I have spoken to Isabelle, and Mouton has agreed to submit further disputes to the ship’s officers. I have no further need of the ship’s scribe.”
When Blu had calmed herself, she raked her fingers through her tangled hair and straightened her spine, then she presented herself at the door to the Duke’s cabin as previously agreed.
“Thank you for coming,” he said pleasantly, opening the door to her. He was in the same state of undress in which he had appeared on deck. The navy kicks, the coarse shirt opened down his chest; it impressed her as unseemly.
In order not to stare at him, Blu devoted her attention to his cabin. Unlike her own, the Duke’s cabin was large and commodious. She recognized his bed at once and hastily averted her gaze, turning slowly to observe a half wall of books secured by a bar across the front of the shelves, a chart case, a table and four chairs, a carved wardrobe, a bank of windows overlooking the ship’s wake. The air was lightly scented by the aromatic cigar he held between his teeth. Dropping her gaze, Blu looked away from his naked mouth. Despite everything, she could not look at his lips without the bad pork feeling looping through her stomach.
“Would you care for wine?”
“I’ll not tip elbows with a rat dropping like yourself.”
Taking a seat before the table, the Duke leaned backward and narrowed his eyes against the smoke curling from the thin dark cigar. He regarded her for a long moment before he spoke.
“If your continued hostility reflects back to our evening together—may I remind you it was your savagery which prevented our mutual pleasure and no action of mine.”
To her everlasting disgust, a rush of angry heat warmed her cheeks. “No action is entirely correct. And what you refer to as savagery was merely innocence. The rawest gudgeon would have recognized it as such. If good form is all, as Monsieur insists, then you should have given me an opportunity to mend the evening instead of trigging it like the cowardly whore’s son you are!”
Gripping the handle of her sword, she narrowed her eyes, watching as he appeared to consider her charges. By all rights he should have leaped to his feet, sword in hand, prepared to fight to the death to avenge her insults. Instead, his gray eyes sparkled with humor or, an explanation she preferred to believe, perhaps the twinkle was merely a trick of the dying light.
At length, he exhaled slowly, stroked his mustache, then responded in a calm tone. “For the sake of peace, I concede there may be an inch of truth in what you charge.” He raised a hand. “Perhaps we both might have performed better. I suggest we leave it at that, shall we?”
“Hell, no! I share in none of the blame!” Blu answered with heat. “Any squab would have done as I.”
“Blu, this is a small ship. We shall be confined to cramped quarters for several weeks. We can agree to set aside our differences and proceed in a civilized manner, or we can endure the voyage engaged in mutual animosity. I would prefer to complete the journey in as pleasant a manner as possible.”
“Bloody hell! Are you claiming I’m uncivilized? I am as civilized as any man jack aboard!”
“If you insist.”
She stared, resenting his superiority. He sat at his captain’s table, smoking, drinking wine from a leaded goblet, observing her with a wary gaze which suggested he expected her to blunder on and dishonor herself in some as yet undefined but unmistakable manner.
Challenged to prove she could be as civilized as any English cank, Blu picked up a chair, turned it around and straddled it, then rested her arm upon the back and met his eyes with a steady gaze as direct as his own.
“I’ll have that wine now,” she said coolly. “As a gesture of conciliation.”
“I’m pleased you have decided to behave reasonably.” Smiling, he poured a goblet of claret and pushed the wine across the table.
“For the moment,” Blu cautioned. “I am suffering great pain at the thought of arriving in England a virgin. A state of affairs for which I blame you.” The wine impressed her as weak and thin, though he seemed to fancy it. “It was a matter of some urgency that I be cracked before this voyage.”
His eyebrow soared. “A matter of urgency?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” A furious blush fired her throat and cheeks. “Wenches generally are cracked years before my age. But here I sit, a woman grown and intact as the day I was born! I could as well appear in England with a sign around my neck proclaiming myself a failure!” Face flaming with humiliation, she extended her goblet for a refill. “I have other, private reasons as well,” she added sourly.
“I see.” After refilling her goblet, he leaned back in his chair, his narrowed eyes. contemplating the swell of breast beneath her shirt.
“If you’re thinking to offer your services,” she snapped, noticing his glance, “you can bugger off. I have my standards and you no longer meet them.”
She had revised her standards to include a provision that the man of choice must have wind in his sails. Before she took him to bed, she would have to feel proof of a good solid erection and have his assurance of no niffy-naffying. If he could not settle his mind to business on the instant, she had no use for him.
“You doubt my ability to perform?” the Duke asked incredulously when she stated the addition to her standards and explained her reason.
“If you were man enough to own the truth, you would admit to being as much a squab as I. And at your years! ‘Tis a shock and an embarrassment to be sure and one we share in common.”
He stared at her then burst into a gust of laughter which at first confused her then
offended. At the end, he covered his face and shook his head. “My dear Blu,” he said when he could speak. “You are a most extraordinary creature.”
“Bloody hell,” she murmured modestly, willing to forgive in the name of conciliation. But she was pleased by the compliment in any case. When she realized she had swung toward looking on him with pleasure, she stiffened her shoulders, accomplished the business of the rules, and withdrew before she again succumbed to the spell of smoky eyes and a sensual mouth.
Uncivilized, indeed, she thought, with a sniff. She would show His Lofty Lordship a thing or two.
~ ~ ~
“I’ve never worn so much rigging in me bloody life!” Blu exclaimed, looking down at her skirts and coats with heavy dismay. “I feel like an Easter pudding stuffed in a weekday bowl!”
With Isabelle’s help and with Monsieur coaching outside her cabin door, she had donned corset, petticoats, garters, stockings, sleeves, bodice, high heels, frills and flounces. She felt pinched and pleated, a sausage bulging out of its casing. “I won’t wear this scurvy rig,” she shouted to Monsieur, staring at the wings sprouting from her waist, grown there by a massive pannier.
“You must,” Monsieur shouted back through the door. He mopped his forehead. Coaxing her into her first corset had been a trying experience, the stuff of nightmares. “I’m coming inside now to admire you.”
Not knowing precisely what to expect, he pushed open Blu’s cabin door, then his anxious expression transformed to profound relief. Peering closely, he circled her, examining her from every angle before he pronounced himself lightheaded with delight.
“I should bloody well hope so,” Blu muttered. The torturous corset was squeezing the life from her body. “Now can I take this off? Are you satisfied?”
“We have only begun.” She recognized the determination thinning Monsieur’s lips. “We shall now take a turn about the deck.”
Blu voiced her outrage by swearing steadily and with vehemence; then her shoulders dropped in resignation. Once Monsieur anchored his mind, he would not be budged. Still swearing, she attempted to fit herself through the door. Only by hammering at her petticoat and turning herself sideways did she manage to squeeze into the passageway. Her hoops scraped the walls and flared her skirts out before and after her until she finally emerged up the steps and onto the deck.
Immediately, she felt the sun and breeze on her bared breasts and clapped a hand over her exposed cleavage. Crimson fired her cheeks. “If England means to keep her wenches virginal, she would do better to cover them up,” she complained, sensing that every man jack on ship stared at her.
After instructing Isabelle to follow behind, Monsieur bowed and presented his arm. “You must curtsy.”
Blu tried, she truly did, but the moment she bent her knees, she fell out of her heeled shoes and crashed to her bottom amid a flying billow of skirts and petticoats. Cursing loudly, she allowed Mouton to yank her up before Monsieur waved him away. Isabelle came forward to shove her shoes back on her feet.
“You might do better with slippers that have backs to them,” Monsieur observed thoughtfully.
“I will manage,” Blu said between her teeth. She curled her toes hard against the shoes, drew a breath, and stepped forward. She stepped on the hem of the gown and pitched forward. If Mouton hadn’t leaped forward to catch her, she would have fallen on her face. “God’s balls! Bloody, bloody hell!”
Only now did she notice that the width of the boned petticoat prevented her from lowering her arms. She also noticed an unnatural silence had overtaken the ship. Turning her head, she scowled at several clusters of men who hastily looked away and pretended attendance to their labor.
“You carry your arms bent at the elbow in a graceful manner, “ Monsieur instructed. “Fingers lightly laced in front of you.”
“I’ll get cramps. I’m already getting cramps in my legs below the garters.” Awkwardly, she leaned over the petticoat and grabbed handfuls of skirt, pulling it away from her feet so she could walk. “Bugger this. No more. I’ll have my kicks and boots.”
Monsieur drew to his tiptoes and glared at her from beneath his spectacles. His pinched nostrils gave his voice a thin nasal sound. “Do you want Lady Katherine to sneer? To laugh at you?”
Blu halted.
“With what contempt might Lady Katherine observe one who cannot dress or walk?”
“Lady Katherine rigs out like this?” When Monsieur confirmed it, a snarl spat from Blu’s throat. During the rare times in recent years when she had attempted to visualize her mother, she had imagined Lady Katherine clad in limp cotton skirts and blouses like the whores wore. In what she now recognized as a foolish oversight, she had not thought to imagine Lady Katherine togged out like the few grand ladies residing in St. George. “If she can master this bloody foolery, so can I!” Extending her arm, she ground her teeth and commanded Monsieur to lead on.
Their progress was slow. Blu trampled her hem, walked out of her heels, staggered, stumbled, and toppled twice. As they approached the quarterdeck, she spied the Duke leaning against the stair rail, arms crossed over his chest. The moment she saw him, his grin vanished and he inclined his head in a half-bow. When Isabelle had replaced her shoe and had crawled out from under her hem, Blu managed a silent wobbly curtsy, careful to clasp her hand over her breasts so he couldn’t gaze down to her navel. When she straightened, she squinted at the Duke’s expression. Had he displayed the merest hint of mockery, she would have snatched her sword from Monsieur’s hands, hacked off her hem, kicked off her shoes, and ventilated his ribs. His cheeks were sucked in as if he were holding back a shout of laughter, but his eyes were utterly sober. She wobbled and toppled and half fell but she got herself past him and completed the circuit about deck.
At the end of the week, the Duke invited Blu and her party to sup in his cabin. As a further gesture of conciliation and because she wished to test her skills in company, Blu reluctantly agreed.
For the occasion, Mouton oiled his head with coconut oil and donned a recently sewn waistcoat over his canvas breeches. Everyone agreed the rich gold brocade appeared striking against his ebony skin.
As Monsieur considered the invitation formal, he painted his lips and cheeks with French vermilion, trimmed his beard to a sharp point, and applied a scarlet paper patch high on his left cheek. He spent the morning smoking the nits out of his wig and gluing tufts of goat’s hair over the bald spots. To signal his appreciation for the Duke’s invitation, he wore his silver-buckled shoes with the high red heels, the pride of his life.
After much discourse and indecision, Isabelle cut away the neckline over her massive breasts until the depth approached that of Blu’s gown, skimming the top of her nipples. Occasionally it was necessary to return an errant breast back into her bodice, but as everyone had seen Isabelle’s breasts, this discomfited no one. Rather, it was viewed as an inconvenience. In a concession to fashion and the captain’s table, Isabelle washed her hair for the first time in three months, dried it on deck, then piled it over a wooden bowl inverted on her head. Mouton and Monsieur pronounced the effect remarkable.
Like Monsieur, Isabelle was fascinated with patching and spent nearly an hour gluing silk patches over every blemish. At the finish, she had seventeen patches on her nose, forehead, cheeks, and throat and was immensely pleased once Monsieur had assured her no one would conclude she had contracted a case of the pox.
Secretly, Blu disagreed, thinking Isabelle looked more than a little poxy. Therefore, she restrained her own patching to a velvet heart-shaped dot high on one cheek and another at the corner of her lips. She balked at painting her face with white lead, but did agree to a bit of rouge on cheeks and lips and she slapped a liberal coating of powder over her breasts.
Although she had nearly mastered walking in heels, to prevent any untoward mishap, she chose a dance gown with the hem cut high in front almost to her ankles. The gown she selected was silver-blue brocade, crushed beyond anything the original owner would ha
ve recognized, but Isabelle assured her no one would take notice. For tonight, Blu dressed her hair high on the crown and covered the whole with a lacy evening cap that streamed ribbons. Once they were ready, Blu and Isabelle doused their private parts with jasmine scent, sniffed one another’s armpits for freshness, then sallied forth in full confidence.
After bashing her hoop skirt through the passageway and forcing it up the staircase, Blu stepped on deck and gazed at the starlit canopy overhead. When Monsieur and Mouton joined them, everyone happily examined everyone else in the light of a swinging lantern.
“By the shirttail of Christ!” Blu exclaimed, pleased. “We do look fine!” Puffed with pride, she returned Monsieur’s bow then accepted his arm, Mouton and Isabelle following behind, and they promenaded the length of the ship to the Duke’s cabin. To her great satisfaction, she didn’t trip once.
This time she was prepared for the damask cloth on the table and could look with amusement at Isabelle’s and Mouton’s amazement. Although she would not have stated it for her life, she too, was secretly impressed by the Duke’s lemon-scented wax candles and his gleaming collection of silver plate.
The Duke himself was handsome enough that Blu would have gasped had her lug-loafed corset allowed her breath for a gasp. Tonight he wore a bottle-green coat over an ebony and silver waistcoat. His kicks were as milk-white as the lace at his cuffs and throat. White silk stockings molded his well-shaped legs and ended in shoes with jeweled buckles. His dark hair waved back from his face and was caught in a curl at the neck by a satin bow. To Blu’s discomfort, his naked lips were as thrillingly disconcerting as ever they had been.
As a liveried boy handed around pewter goblets of burgundy, the Duke exchanged bows with Monsieur and Mouton, then reduced Isabelle to jiggling giggles as he raised her fingers to his lips.
“Pardon me,” she murmured coyly as she hefted her left breast and tucked it back inside her bodice.
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