How to Be a Proper Lady

by Katharine Ashe

  “Don’t,” he said harshly against her palm.

  “Don’t? But-”

  He captured her mouth with his and she feasted on him, the taste of him and heat and his hard body beneath her hands. He grasped her shoulders and lifted her onto her knees and kissed her again, and again. His hands swept down her arms to her waist, encompassing and spreading heat. Then he touched her. He touched her and her world ended and began at once.

  He had not touched her there the night before. Their coming together so swift both times, like summer storms breaking, had not truly allowed for it. Now to have him touch her so intimately, she was changed.

  She had never thought much about the womanly parts of her body. They were to be used as any other parts for their proper purpose-for pleasure with a man, certainly. But she had never known what it felt like to be worshipped.

  Gently at first he caressed her, and she trembled, and their mouths stilled upon each other’s. His breaths came unevenly like hers. Her face tilted upward, eyes closing, and he stroked deeper. She whimpered from the pleasure that made her need more with each stroke, from the certainty of his touch. In that touch he must know he could control her, command her in this manner, know that at this moment she would do anything he asked. She pressed into him, lost to his caress, and did not care that she had lost.

  “Viola, open your eyes.” He spoke at her brow, his deep voice taut. “Look at me.”

  Her eyelids fluttered, heavy like the aching pleasure mingled with desperation in her body. “Yes,” she sighed, working her hips against his hand. She whimpered, with each caress needing him inside her, seeking for him. “Why?”

  He impaled her upon his fingers.

  “Oh! God.”

  He thrust again, a hard, sublime possession. “I want you to see that it is I giving you pleasure.”

  She moaned and rode his fingers, pushing him deeper, wanting him deeper, everywhere inside her. She sank her hands into his hair. “Of course it is you.” She kissed him, but the need was too much, too painfully good in its intensity. She jerked her hips to him, his fingers a sweet agony in her. “Jin, take me now. Now. I cannot bear it any longer.”

  “You will bear it.”

  “No.” Would he deny her?

  “You will not only bear it,” he said huskily, then finally-dear God, finally-pressed her back to the mattress. “You will ask for more.” Meeting her desperate thrusts with his hand, he parted her knees and took her with his mouth.

  She did not ask for more.

  She begged.

  She pleaded.

  Upon an astounded, needing sob she cried for more. For she had never known this. She had never known any of that which he so beautifully gave her body. Yet each time he brought her to the edge, each time she thought he would give her what she craved, he did deny her. With his tongue hot and soft and devastatingly good he made her wild, with his fingers plunging inside her he made her helpless, until the pleasure was so great and continuous that only one wish tumbled to her lips.

  “Please.” She gripped the bedclothes. “Let me give to you too.”

  That seemed to decide the matter.

  She reached for him and he came to her, then inside her in one smooth thrust, surrounding her with his body and filling her with his hard heat. She choked back the joy of the pleasure, wrapping her arms about his shoulders. They were joined, finally, fully, and completely motionless save their breaths pressing her breasts against his chest.

  He threaded his fingers through her hair, kissed her brow, her cheek, her throat. His hand trailed along her waist, circled a taut nipple, making her gasp and murmur his name and shift against him to feel him more, to revel in his presence in her.

  Then, slowly, he moved in her, and he took what gift of pleasure she was able to give him, which as it happened was a great deal of pleasure. For, perhaps predictably (if either of them had paused to waste time predicting), their lovemaking did not remain languorous more than a moment. She drew him in, he sank into her, and they proceeded to prove quite definitively that it did not require a burning cane field, a frantic horseback ride, cannon fire, or even a staircase to inspire them to mate with the urgency of animals and the ecstasy of gods. The bed creaked furiously, she made sounds she had never before heard, he caused her previous gyrations beneath him to seem tame, and when it was over she felt fantastically sated and thoroughly battered. Additionally, four neat pink stripes were rising in welts across each of his shoulders.

  “I have wounded you,” she gasped, struggling to fill her lungs.

  “You have. Witch.” He seemed to be unsatisfied with the quantity of kissing that had already gone on, and now leaned down to press his mouth to hers again. But the caress of his perfect lips was nearly too much, the sweetly dissipating pleasure within her tender and unstable. Perhaps his excessive sensual teasing had overstimulated her exhausted flesh. But now with the leisure to feel his entire body against hers, again she trembled. Quite fearsomely.

  “Your hand is bleeding again.” She stroked her fingers along his arm sleek with muscle. “You will wear a hook after all.”

  “It will have been worth it.” He pulled off her and fell onto his back, taking her hand in his. Then for a moment he went very still. He released her hand, leaned over her, and drew a coverlet over her body. Without a word, he settled onto his back again.

  She turned onto her side to face him, and curled her knees and arms tight to her. “I am not actually chilled.”

  “You are shaking.”

  “I’m exhausted.”

  “Then sleep.” Lit only by the fading lamplight, his face and body were beautiful, his dark hair tumbled across his brow, black lashes low over ice eyes that could glisten with heat. A spot of crimson spread from the center of the single scrap of cloth on his body.

  “I would like to tend to your wounds first.”

  “They will keep until later.” His voice sounded quiet and deep, as though he were already descending into slumber.

  “Don’t you want me to leave now?”

  He did not look at her or even open his eyes. “No.”

  She sat up, the covers falling to her lap. “I must dress that wound again.”

  With an indolent, thoroughly uncharacteristic motion, he swept his forearm in an arc and laid his bandaged hand beside her, palm up.

  “As you wish, harpy.”

  Tingling warmth scurried around her belly. He seemed… happy. Simply happy.

  Carnal pleasures made men happy. Viola knew this as any woman would who had lived among men her entire adult life. Men were simple creatures, most of them, and when they were satisfied carnally-be it on food or a woman’s body-they were content. Still, as little as she understood Jinan Seton, she knew he was not a simple man. Happiness did not, she thought, come easily to him.

  She slid off the bed and went to his luggage, where she found what she expected, fresh bandages and salve. Although earlier when she needed an excuse to touch him she’d taunted him about tending his wound, she knew no shipmaster would actually be that negligent. Certainly not this man. She returned to the bed and unwrapped his hand.

  He seemed to sleep through her ministrations, although the wound must pain him; it was deep across, though a clean slice. It would heal well. She rebound it, then laid his hand on the counterpane. Next she dipped all four fingertips into the tiny pot of salve, leaned to his shoulder, and painted a path along the tracks she’d dug with her nails. His skin was taut and damp over firm muscle, and she wanted to linger and breathe in his scent, to continue touching him. Instead she repeated the salve on his other shoulder, then drew away.

  The caress of linen bandage and warm skin on her naked behind arrested her.

  She swallowed through her constricted throat. “You mustn’t use that hand now.”

  “Kiss me.”

  “I don’t take or-”

  “Kiss me, I pray you, Miss Carlyle?”

  She bent and did as requested as his fingers skirted the crease bet
ween her legs, then smoothed along her thigh to trail away. When she pulled back, his eyes were still closed, his mouth ever so slightly curved upward.

  “Thank you,” he murmured.

  “For the nursing or the kiss?”

  He smiled fully.

  She pulled the coverlet over them, closed her eyes, and allowed the stars to lull her to sleep.

  Chapter 17

  Viola grinned, stretched, flinched from the wonderful soreness all over her body, and finally opened her eyes. Sunlight peeked through the draperies, casting the bedchamber in a hazy morning glow.

  She sat bolt upright.

  Except for her shift draped across a chair and herself in the bed, the place was empty of everything but furniture. The man with whom she had made passionate love mere hours earlier, who had hired this chamber for himself, might never have been there at all.

  Viola sat for a moment quite immobile, considering how among the various foolish things she had done in her life, to have practiced this lack of forethought was perhaps the most foolish of all. Unwisely, she had not assumed that the moment the wager ended he would leave her side, no matter the circumstances.

  Now the discomforts in her body did not feel so wonderful. Instead she felt rather ill, her stomach tight and all her limbs soggy.

  She swiveled, climbed from the bed, and took up her shift. It got stuck going over her hair, knotted strands tangled in the laces. She shoved it down and tied it over her breasts. Her sailor’s blood accustomed to rising with the sun told her it was still early morning, so she might not encounter others in the corridor. But her blood had also told her that Jin Seton would be present when she awoke. So it looked like her blood wasn’t as clever as she’d always thought.

  Hand on the doorknob, she paused.

  The wager was over. He had left. But that did not necessarily mean she had lost. It could, in fact, mean she’d won. If he fell in love with her, he was to admit to it, then to deed his new ship over to her and leave her alone forever. Even now he could be sailing to Tobago to collect his assets, which would allow him to complete the purchase of the sleek little schooner in Boston. Perhaps he had simply gone to fulfill the terms of the wager.

  Or perhaps not.

  She went to her chamber, dressed in breeches, shirt, and vest; slung her coat over her shoulder; and took up her bag. Depositing the key with the proprietor, she pressed a coin into the housemaid’s palm, then went out into the sunny morning.

  The walk to the wharf was only fifty yards. Sam sat on the dock beside the yawl bobbing in the water, dangling a piece of straw from between his teeth. He sprang up and tugged his cap.

  “Morning, Cap’n. How was that hotel? I ain’t never stayed in no hotel before.”

  “Good morning, Sam. It was fine, thank you.”

  She boarded the little boat and Sam rowed her to her ship, tentative nerves of triumph twisting about her belly now. Jin must be aboard or Sam wouldn’t be waiting for her at the dock.

  She climbed the ladder and set her feet on her deck’s solid planking. Her home.

  She called down to Sam, “You may have the day now. Take the yawl, but return by midday to bring me ashore.” To negotiate a cargo for her return trip to Boston, as she had told Aidan.

  She started across the empty deck. Only old Frenchie dozed on guard duty atop the quarterdeck, another two sailors below on rotation. Otherwise her ship was deserted.

  Except for Jin Seton.

  He ascended the stairs from the main hatch, and Viola’s heart climbed into her throat. He looked nothing out of the ordinary-simply dressed, sober, handsome. Perfect.

  He saw her and paused at the head of the stair. They stared at each other, the deck between them crisscrossed with shadows of spars and lines cutting through morning sunshine. Heart galloping, she went forward and he did as well, and they halted at a distance. Viola’s insides twisted. With what words could she possibly begin this day?

  Instead, he began it.

  “When can you be ready to leave?”

  She could not breathe. His gaze was quite serious.

  “I suppose this is your way of telling me you’ve won the wager?” She forced through her closed throat.

  His gaze remained steady upon her.

  He had made love to her and she had given him some pleasure, but at the wager’s commencement he had promised to tell her the truth of it. So this was the truth: she had not succeeded in making him fall in love with her. And she, her insides howling strangely like a hurricane, must abide by the terms upon which they had agreed.

  “I can be ready in a sennight. Less than a fortnight, certainly,” she heard herself say without knowing how the words came. “I will need to conclude negotiations regarding the cargo my ship will carry to Boston. And arrange matters with the men, of course. Becoua will captain the April back to Boston and put it into Crazy’s care.”

  “I regret that I must return you home against your will,” he finally said. “I wish it were otherwise.” He spoke with a gentle sincerity that actually hurt in the pit of Viola’s gut like someone was driving a pole into her. “Viola, I am…” He paused. “I am sorry.”

  He was sorry for her. Sorry that she had lost the wager. Sorry that she had not succeeded in making him love her.

  In this, however, she trumped him. Because she was a great deal sorrier than he. A very great deal. For now the truth slammed into her like a jib boom swinging in a crosswind. It had been many days since she wished to win for the reason she had given him-that she did not want to return to England. In truth, she had wished to win because it would have meant that he loved her, and she wanted that. She wanted him. He filled her longing, stretching the loneliness that made her ache at sunset through her like a storm that only he could calm. She was in love with him. She knew now that she had given herself to him the night of the fire not because she needed comfort, but because she was in love. She had been in love with him long before her ship docked at Port of Spain.

  She had played a very foolish game, and lost.

  “I won’t back down on my part of the wager, if that’s your concern.”

  “I know you will not.” It might be pity he felt, but the distance in his crystal gaze struck her even more forcefully now.

  And quite swiftly, her anger rose. Perhaps so swiftly because she had anticipated this outcome. In her heart she had known even last night when she went to seduce him that she would lose. Yet she had gone anyway.

  “I have hired a sloop,” he said. “I will sail for Tobago this morning to visit my bank to pay the fine on the April, and I will purchase a ship to take us east. I’ve been told there is a suitable vessel for sale at port in Scarborough.”

  “I suspected you wouldn’t want to wait to collect your schooner in Boston first.” She didn’t truly care whether they sailed in a yawl or a hundred-gun frigate across the Atlantic. She didn’t care about anything except berating herself for the fool she’d always been.

  She was tired of loving men who could not love her back. Aidan never had. He spoke the words and even made the gestures. But he did not treat her with love. She saw this now more clearly than she had seen anything before. She saw it perhaps because the man standing before her had never spoken the words or made the gestures, and she wanted him more than she had ever wanted Aidan.

  It infuriated her-her weakness. Her hardheadedness. Her blind foolishness. Beginning now, she would never again love a man until he loved her first. Never. To not be loved in return hurt far too much. Her insides felt as though someone had scooped them out with a galley ladle.

  “We should depart before the storm season commences,” he replied. “It is best we not delay.”

  “Of course.” She would write to Mrs. Digby and her renters and Crazy and let them know she would be gone for an extended absence. She would negotiate a cargo so her crew would be able to carry back home at least some gold in their pockets. She had much to do and no practical reason to stand around mourning a misguided attachment except
that her body seemed to want to remain near his as though he were a pole and she a pathetic little compass needle. She wiped her damp palms on her breeches. “I should get to business if all is to be ready by the time you return from Tobago,” she said briskly. “You’ll be gone a sennight or so?”

  “Yes.” His eyes were quite cool now.

  “All right.” She nodded. “Until then, Seton.” She passed him and strode aft toward the companionway on which he had made love to her. She knew he watched her as she went below, and hoped he felt buckets of guilt for forcing her to do what she didn’t wish to do. But he was not stupid and they both knew the truth of it. He had always known this would be the outcome. As he said from the beginning, her wager had been a child’s game.

  And she had lost.

  She had lost him before she ever had him. No amount of anger would ease the pain of that.

  “Mr. Julius Smythe?”

  Jin swung his gaze up from the glass of rum gripped in his fist.

  “The very one.” His voice sounded dull. But most everything did in this palm-frond-and-plywood excuse for a rum house along Tobago’s least traveled byway. The pub was so close to the breakers crashing against the rocks twenty feet below, little else could be heard. Occasionally a gull’s cry. More frequently the protests of his own conscience.

  He studied the man as though seeing him for the first time. Spare of frame and height, with curly brown hair, skin the color of oakwood and quick eyes-English, African, East Indian, Spanish-he appeared an unremarkable specimen of humanity. A mestizo. Not a man of distinction. No one of note. Which made him particularly good at the living he pursued. And particularly useful to Jin since they’d first met years ago.

  Joshua Bose extended his hand, a charade they enacted on each encounter in the event that any interested party might be watching.

  “I am Gisel Gupta,” Joshua said, East Indian this time, apparently. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”

  Jin gestured him to the chair across the table.

  “You will have a glass with me, Gupta?”

  “Thank you, sir.” Joshua sat almost daintily, straight-backed on the edge of his seat. He placed a thin leather satchel on the table, then his palms flat on the satchel. “I hope your journey to Tobago was a smooth one.”