The Lady's Command

Outwardly gay, she attempted to respond to the banter and comments directed her way sufficiently well to camouflage her distraction. Meanwhile, the better part of her brain revisited the options she’d identified over the past twenty-four hours. She wasn’t the sort to fret and fume, to argue and shout; over the years, she’d found that the most effective way of overcoming hurdles was to ignore them and act as she believed she should. However, this situation was complex and complicated, affecting not just her but Declan, and also impacting and potentially shaping the foundation of their marriage.

She’d thought about seeking advice, but there were precious few whom she might ask, and even fewer with what she deemed the requisite experience and understanding to whom she might consider listening. There were few ladies in the ton whose husbands were adventurers. The closest comparison she could think of was her brother, Julian, and with respect to his marriage, it had, indeed, been Miranda who had acted to make their marriage happen; if she hadn’t taken a decisive step against Julian’s clear direction, the joyful marriage she and Julian shared would simply not have been.

Impulse, observation, and contemplation all urged Edwina to act. If she truly believed—as she did—that her accompanying Declan on this voyage was critical for their marriage to succeed, then it behooved her to make that happen for their joint greater good.

That was a nice, clear, unequivocal conclusion. All she needed to do was convince herself that it was, indeed, the right one.

She was still mentally debating, still absentmindedly fending off subtly worded advances when, across the ballroom, a gilded head of light brown hair caught her eye. She was too short to see the face beneath, but that color, that recklessly windblown style…

Seconds later, the crowd thinned, and she glimpsed Declan moving purposefully in her direction. Her pulse sped up; she ignored all those about her—she had eyes only for him.

It appeared he felt the same way about her; although several ladies attempted to intercept him, and although he cloaked his responses in superficial civility, his gaze barely diverted from her.

And then he was there, smoothly taking her hand and raising it to his lips while his gaze held hers. “My dear, I apologize for my tardiness. Matters took longer than I’d anticipated.” Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, he raised his gaze and allowed it to travel over the group of over-attentive gentlemen.

Declan smiled, coldly, on the group of, at least to him, unwelcome admirers who had had the temerity to gather about his wife. He didn’t like the looks of any of them. An unsettling thought rose in his mind—that with him absent on the Crown’s business, she would have no one to send them packing. “Do introduce me to your”—cicisbeos—“friends, my dear.”

Several of said friends all but deflated.

He managed not to bare his teeth and managed to respond with passable civility to the introductions Edwina was quick to make.

This was the first night he hadn’t accompanied her into the ton, and he was going to be away for at least a fortnight, possibly longer…

He squelched the impulse that rose within him; this was not a venue in which snarling was acceptable.

The introductions were barely complete when the small orchestra at the end of the room put bow to string, and the introduction to a waltz rose above the chatter. He fell on the opening. Closing his hand over hers, he smiled into the widening eyes she turned his way. “I do hope you’ve saved this waltz for me.”

She blinked several times, then somewhat carefully said, “Yes—that is, I believe I might chance it.”

He gave her a quizzical look, but he wasn’t about to argue; she’d accepted and given him the opportunity to remove her from the horde surrounding her. He flashed a smile he fought not to allow to be too overtly possessive around the group, made their excuses, and drew her away.

The open space of the dance floor was only two paces distant; as he turned her into his arms and stepped out, he arched a brow at her. “What was that all about?”

She sighed. “I claimed to have a twisted ankle so I could avoid all their invitations to waltz.”

Happiness bloomed. He grinned. “Clever girl.”

She pulled a face at him. “I feel I should point out that you’ve just shown me to be a liar.”

He arched his brows, considering, then offered, “Most of them probably knew you were lying.”

She snorted. After two brisk revolutions, she admitted, “Most likely.”

That was the last word they exchanged about her court of would-be admirers. Declan set himself to entertain her and not-too-subtly monopolize her time. He saw her mother, her sisters, and several of the older ladies noticing and commenting, but he’d be damned if he was going to leave anyone, gentleman or lady, in any doubt that Edwina was his—and that he intended her to remain so.

As the evening wore on, he took a leaf out of the Delbraith ladies’ book; working on the principle that the most effective way of discouraging any would-be lovers was to demonstrate just how happy he and Edwina were in each other’s company, how steeped in each other they had already become, he did something he’d never imagined he would do and openly wore his heart on his sleeve—and encouraged her to do the same.

What followed was the most enjoyable evening they had spent in the ton since their wedding. He kept his attention locked on her, and hers remained locked on him; the rest of the guests were merely a colorful backdrop for their play.

Gradually, his possessively protective tension faded, soothed by her laugh, her smile, and the openly loving light in her eyes. Earlier in the day, he’d taken time from his search for information to hunt up Catervale and Elsbury and alert them to his impending absence. Both Edwina’s brothers-in-law had readily agreed to do what they could to shield her from any unwanted advances. Of course, it went without saying that both would have to rely on her sisters to alert them to any need for action.

Foreseeing the weakness in that plan, Declan had hailed a hackney, traveled to the house overlooking Dolphin Square, and spoken to her brother. Julian and his wife might not circulate within the ton, but as Neville Roscoe, he had eyes and ears everywhere. Once Julian had shaken off his surprise that Edwina had agreed to remain in London, he’d undertaken to watch over her while Declan was at sea.

Declan had taken every precaution he could. Given that Edwina wasn’t a silly female prone to taking unnecessary risks, when they finally departed Comerford House and settled in the shadows of their carriage to rattle over the cobbles to Stanhope Street, he felt more settled than he had since he’d learned of his mission. Assured that while he was away, all would be well with her, and relieved he’d managed to navigate his way through the marital shoals caused by his unexpected voyage.

Having her seated beside him with one small hand tucked into one of his and her soft shoulder pressing against his arm set the seal on his peace.

As the carriage turned a corner, she glanced at his face. “Do you know at what hour you’ll be leaving the house?”

Her tone was even, the question simply that.

“As soon as I receive the reports I’m expecting, but I suspect it’ll be after midday. Regardless, I’ll have to leave before midafternoon in order to make Southampton before the evening tide.”

“So your ship will sail on the evening tide?”

He nodded. “If we don’t get out then, we’ll have to wait until the next day, and time is of the essence.”

“I see.” A moment ticked by, then she said, “I once went sailing on a yacht in the Solent and saw some of the larger ships pass by. Is it possible for a ship like yours to sail out into the Solent and then wait for people to be ferried from the port before going further?”

“If we weren’t in a hurry, yes. But we need to catch the tide to get out of the Solent itself, and once we’re in the Channel, there’s no turning back—not until the tide turns again.”

She fell silent as if digesting that, then she leaned closer, her head resting against his shoulder, and gently squeezed his hand. “Tell me about your ship. Does Frobisher and Sons have a particular wharf at Southampton? You have that in London, don’t you?”

He returned the pressure of her fingers. “We have two wharves in London—one in St. Katherine’s Docks, the other in London Docks. The office is more or less between them. But in Southampton, all our ships come into one section of the main wharf.”

“What about The Cormorant itself? Describe it.”

He did. As they rattled along the night-shrouded streets, he painted a picture drawn from fond memories, his words colored by emotion, by the joy he always felt on the waves, with the creak of the sails, ropes, and spars above his head, the slap and shush of the waves caressing the hull, and the pitch and roll of the deck beneath his feet. He opened his heart and shared it all with her.

When the carriage drew up outside their town house and he helped her from the carriage and escorted her up the steps, he realized he wanted this evening—this last night they would have together for weeks—to be perfect. For the pleasure they’d rediscovered in each other to remain unmarred by any discord, by any jarring note.

She seemed to have the same agenda. They climbed the stairs to their bedroom, closed the door on the world, and gave themselves up to each other.

Somewhat to his surprise, she took the lead—demanded it. He ceded the reins readily, intrigued as to what she had in mind, only to discover that she’d decided that he should remember this night…vividly.

Her small hands were everywhere, stroking his skin, caressing, then clutching, nails sinking in evocatively when he struck back and ravaged her mouth. But she drew breath and came back at him; with lips and tongue, with her curves clothed in silken, heated skin, with her breathing ragged and her lids at half mast, she seized the tiller of their passions and orchestrated a wave of need, greed, and delirious wanting that all but overwhelmed him.

Then she took him into her mouth and drove him to madness. Her tongue artfully stroked, then she suckled, and he thought he would lose his mind.

Blue eyes bright beneath passion-weighted lids, she played, joyous and bold—more confidently assured in this sphere than he’d ever seen her. Than he’d ever imagined she might be; the sight sent a lustful wave of sheer, prideful possessiveness surging through him.

That she was his had never been in question—not here, like this, with them naked and writhing in their bed. But tonight, she went a step further. Tonight, she lavished a devotion to his pleasure upon him—a commitment so intense, so deep and absolute, it left him giddy.

Giddy and glorying that he had found her, that she had accepted him and consented to be his.

When she finally rose above him and took him into her body, that appreciation, that bone-deep thankfulness thudded in his blood.

Joined, their senses fused, their fingers linking, they set off on their journey, on the long, rocking ride up and over the pinnacle of their desire, straight into the molten heat of their passion.