A Lady at Last. Brenda Joyce

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      Amanda had never been more nervous as she left the bedroom. De Warenne had stated that his intentions were honorable, and oddly, she had believed him. But surely he would accept the use of her body in exchange for her passage. Every man she knew would accept that kind of offer. She could even sweeten the pot by telling him she was a virgin.

      She found herself in a long corridor with white walls; fine, fancy oil paintings; gleaming wood floors and scattered Eastern rugs. At both ends were stairwells with gold brass banisters, each leading to the great hall below. Amanda went to the closest one and started down the stairs.

      Her steps slowed. The front hall was the size of their entire house at Belle Mer. For the first time, she looked up at the high ceiling, which held the largest crystal chandelier she had ever seen. Rich tapestries and more oil paintings were on the walls. The furniture—chairs, benches and tables—was all polished mahogany, with claw feet, velvet or damask upholstery and intricate carving. In the middle of one wall was a pair of doors, and Amanda recognized the front entrance of the house. Open arches led to other rooms.

      She hesitated, uncertain, and then she saw the butler.

      He was entering the hall, an empty silver tray held flat in one hand, as if it still contained refreshments. He saw her at that moment and went pale, halting in his tracks. The tray fell to the floor with a loud clang.

      Amanda marched toward him. “Hey. Where is de Warenne?”

      He gave her a furious look and picked up the tray. “His lordship is entertaining and is not to be disturbed.”

      Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t put on airs with me,” she said flatly. “You’re only a servant.”

      He straightened. “I am the butler, miss, and the most important servant in his lordship’s employ.”

      She rolled her eyes. “I don’t think so. The most important one he’s got working for him is the ship’s carpenter. You want to make a bet?”

      Fitzwilliam huffed. “Might I suggest that you retire to your room and properly clothe yourself?”

      Amanda glanced down at her new favorite possession. “I don’t think his lordship will care how I’m dressed,” she said. The nightgown was certainly as decent as any dress.

      Fitzwilliam flushed. “If you go to your room, I will inform his lordship that you wish to see him.”

      Amanda snorted at him. “You need to take a cruise, my man. That might get that stick out of your arse.” She started toward one of the arches, where she could just barely detect soft conversation. That was where the old fart had come from, too.

      “He will not be pleased,” Fitzwilliam said softly to her back.

      Amanda thought he sounded smugly pleased himself, but she didn’t care. Now she could make out de Warenne’s drawl—and the soft, coy laughter of a woman.

      She paused on the threshold of a large salon with golden walls and more furniture than any one person could possibly use in two lifetimes. Standing at the far end was her host, clad in his usual white linen shirt and a pair of equally white breeches, his high black boots gleaming in shocking contrast. He often wore a heavily embroidered Moorish vest but not that day, and his dagger wasn’t strapped to his belt. He had, however, forgotten to remove his huge gold and ruby spurs.

      Looking at him, her mouth became dry.

      And then she saw de Warrene’s caller and understood why he would not wish to be disturbed. She could not believe her eyes.

      A beautiful, perfectly plump, blond lady was patting his arm and giggling at him. She was elegantly dressed, beribboned and bejeweled. No, she was fat, Amanda decided, but of course, most sailors preferred a meaty woman. And her skin wasn’t porcelain, it was pasty. Her hair was clearly yellow, like straw that had been urinated on.

      Amanda’s fists clenched. Dismay immobilized her.

      The woman was laughing at whatever de Warenne had just said. He was smiling, his expression noncommittal. His gaze did dip when she moved, for her pale green gown exposed huge cowlike breasts, which were in danger of falling out every time she laughed—something she did all the time. She had a glass of wine or sherry in her other hand. She spoke, tossing her blond, tonged curls. “I am so pleased to find you at home, Captain. It is a long, hot carriage ride from Spanishtown. I was so hoping not to be denied.”

      “Yes, it is a very long drive—all eleven miles of it. Do you not care for our Jamaican weather?” he remarked, his tone idle. The gold earring he wore glinted.

      She pressed closer to him. “It is so hard to keep one’s gown stiff in such soggy weather. And my hair! It has to be done at least twice a day.”

      “I imagine it is difficult for the ladies, living in such a clime,” he said flatly.

      “Oh, I am enjoying my visit to the island, Captain. But I should enjoy it so much more if you were to take me aboard your boat.”

      Amanda strode forward. “It’s a ship, not a boat, my fine lady—a frigate, in fact. Fifth rate, with thirty-eight guns, not counting any cannonade.”

      The lady’s jaw dropped, unattractively.

      De Warenne’s eyes widened, their gazes meeting. Amanda wriggled her hips and thrust out her bosom. “Ohh, do take me on your boat, Captain, sir!”

      His face broke into a smile and he choked on a laugh. Then he scowled very fiercely at her. “Miss Carre. You are in your nightgown.”

      Amanda blinked. He had been amused by her. She softened, smiling back. “It’s not my nightgown. I don’t know whose it is. In fact, I can’t even remember how it got on me.” Her gaze narrowed and she looked right at him. “Did you undress me?”

      He turned red.

      The woman gasped. “I can see I have made a terrible mistake! You and…the pirate’s daughter?” She was incredulous.

      De Warenne gave Amanda an odd, private look. It was filled with warning, but amusement tinged his features, too. Amanda could not comprehend what he was thinking. Then his expression became stern and he faced the woman. “I was just about to introduce you to Miss Carre, Miss Delington. She is my houseguest.”

      The woman had turned beet-red. She was no longer very pretty. “I see. I see very well.” She glanced at de Warenne, nodded. “Good day, then.” She left the salon in great haste.

      Amanda watched her go, feeling very satisfied.

      He said from behind, softly, “Pleased with yourself, are you?”

      She whirled and almost jumped into his arms. Instead, she leaped back, strangely nervous now that they were alone. “She’s a fat, pasty sow looking to fuck you,” she defended herself.

      He blanched.

      Amanda knew she had made a terrible mistake, but she didn’t know just what that mistake was. “I mean, you didn’t really want her, did you? She was a fool! She called the Fair Lady a boat.”

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