Regency Vows: A Gentleman 'Til Midnight / The Trouble with Honour / An Improper Arrangement / A Wedding By Dawn / The Devil Takes a Bride / A Promise by Daylight

“Irrelevant.”

“Not to her virtue, it isn’t. Don’t believe all that stork business, do you, Croston?”

James quashed an urge to lunge across the table and grab Kenton by the throat. Instead, he reached into his coat and drew out his resignation letter. “I think we’re finished here, so I shall give you this.” He tossed the letter in front of Wharton. “My resignation.”

Wharton’s chin disappeared into his fleshy neck. “That’s preposterous. You’re in line for commodore.”

“Let someone else have it.”

“No.” Wharton shook his head, staring at the letter. “No. We need you.”

“What in God’s name for?”

“We need that woman under control! If she’s attainted, there’s no doubt she’ll leave England for good. We cannot let that happen—she’s been a nuisance long enough.” Wharton drummed his fingers tensely on the table. “She needs a husband.”

James’s heart sped up. “I’ll not accept that commission, either.”

Kenton blanched. “Good God!”

“I’d never suggest anything so preposterous,” Wharton thundered. “I have no fear of finding someone willing to acquire Dunscore through marriage. It’s her willingness that concerns me.” Now Wharton pinned his aging eyes on James. “We need you to arrange a marriage she will accept.”

James let out a laugh that felt like a strangle. “You’re trying to get me killed.”

Wharton scowled. “Are you saying—”

“What I’m saying, Admiral, is that Katherine Kinloch will accept nothing less than her birthright, free and clear.” And that I’ll kill any man that touches her.

No. God. He didn’t give a bloody damn who touched her.

“I plan to have her activities in London carefully observed.” Wharton leaned back in his chair, studying him intently. “The slightest hint that her loyalties do not lie squarely with the Crown, and she will be arrested.”

“What the devil for? She’s done nothing.”

“So you’ve reported for three years.” He looked at James meaningfully. “And yet we know that during that time she overran at least one Barbary ship. Likely two.”

“I reported those incidents when I learned of them.”

“And a fine gloss you put on them, too,” Kenton said. “An investigation into what you saw or didn’t see is not beyond the realm of possibility.”

James stared at him. “There’s no need to threaten me, Admiral.”

“Afraid we won’t like what we learn, Croston?”

“Not at all. I simply have business to attend to—” business that involved cognac and solitude and no tempting female sea captains “—and I dread the idea of anything interfering with its immediate commencement.” But already it was clear that there would be no immediate commencement.

An investigation. It could drag on for months—years—while they called his honorable service into question and accomplished nothing.

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Bloody hell. Perhaps the admirals’ plan wasn’t so off the mark. Perhaps if Captain Kinloch married the right man—a peer, and one in good favor—then she would have Dunscore, and he could be done with this entire bloody business.

Right. As if she would ever consent to marry simply because it was expedient. As if any man in London could possibly deserve her.

“By all means,” he said irritably, “let me keep watch on Captain Kinloch while she’s in London and use my best efforts to barter her on the marriage mart.”

Wharton narrowed his eyes. “This is serious business, Croston.”

“You’ve made that clear.” James stood up. “Now. If you have nothing else, I must take the helm of my new command.”

* * *

BY THE TIME Katherine’s coach rolled up in front of Lord Deal’s that evening, fear had begun to take root.

She held the curtain aside with a finger and looked out. Lord Deal’s windows blazed festively in the night, and a line of carriages ejected beautifully dressed members of the beau monde in front of the door. She fisted her hand against the urge to pull the bell and order the coachman to drive past.

Tonight was necessary. She would reestablish her connection with Lord Deal and take note of people’s reaction to her—that was all. Lord Deal was well loved and had always been so kind to her. He would be an excellent ally. Yet still dread winged drunkenly through her belly, so she fixed her mind on Anne.

Anne warming herself by one of the fires in Dunscore’s great hall.

Anne pushing her fingers into the wet, gravelly sand on Dunscore’s shore.

Anne turning her face to the wind atop Dunscore’s ramparts.

The coach slowed to a stop. Katherine tried for a deep breath, but the corset prevented it. Madame Bouchard had outdone herself in a few hours’ time with the dark red silk and a black, bead-encrusted petticoat and stomacher that created a dramatic effect. Perhaps too dramatic, Katherine thought now. Too dark. The woman in the looking glass just before she’d left for Lord Deal’s looked nothing like the starry-eyed girl who had happily tasted the joys of her first Season twelve years ago. The touch of kohl around her eyes, the dark curls lying artfully across one shoulder, the flesh swelling high above her stays—they made her look wicked when she needed to be charming. Fallen when she needed to appear angelic.

The carriage door opened, and for several heartbeats she sat paralyzed by her own vulnerability. And then she forced herself to move. Jet beads sparkled on her red slippered toe as she extended her foot from the coach. Captive inside a prison of whalebone, she needed assistance even with this. Reaching out to the footman, she gripped his hand to climb out.

But the hand she gripped did not belong to the footman. It belonged to Captain Warre.

“A wise decision, leaving your cutlass behind this evening,” he murmured, helping her to the ground.

His touch rippled across her skin like a hot gust across a still sea as she stepped into the night, with panniers jutting out stiffly at her hips and stays making it impossible to breathe normally.

“I could hardly win society’s approval if I hadn’t.”

“Approval?” He raked his gaze over her, lingering in forbidden places. “My dear Captain, nobody will approve of you. Our goal is mitigation, not acquittal.”

The man who had swabbed her decks and polished her cannons was gone. In his place was not even a naval captain in blue, cream and gold, but the Earl of Croston in dark green brocade and a silver-embroidered waistcoat. A white shirt embellished with the subtlest ruffles lay stark against his sea-bronzed skin. At his side hung a Royal Navy sword.

His power hummed through her, and the physical connection of his hand was dangerously comforting.

“I am not on trial,” she whispered sharply, pulling from his grasp.

“On the contrary,” he said. “Every word that falls from your lips will be entered as evidence in the court of society’s opinion.” He gave her a look. “As well as every chair and footstool you pitch into the street.”

She scoffed. “I shed no blood.”

“Commendable indeed. In any case, it would seem I am to be your constant companion, according to the plan you outlined aboard the Possession.”

Her eyes locked with his in a mutual memory. Her back to the wall, his hands on her breasts. Her fingers in his hair, his tongue mating with hers. Bodies on fire. Her shove, his push. William’s fist.