A Wedding By Dawn. Alison DeLaine

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      She pulled a line with Tommy, one of the youngest of William’s crew, who smirked. “There’s ’is lordship again, going to empty ’is stomach over the side.”

      If there was one thing Nicholas Warre had not done—heaven be praised—it was empty his stomach over the side. “I hadn’t noticed him,” India lied.

      “Got no business on a ship, that one.”

      It took a double effort not to stare. The temptation was a matter of morbid fascination, nothing more. What woman would not stare at a man who was threatening to force her into marriage? She glanced at Tommy, who was much, much too young for her purposes, and looked past him to the other sailors.

      Not one of William’s crew was as exciting as the Egyptian sailor. They were like most other sailors—dirty, coarse, loud. She kept her hair pinned up and her tricorne pulled low and her waistcoat firmly buttoned. For now. But beneath her shirt, her unbound breasts strained against clothes that were not made to accommodate them, awaiting the right moment.

      In another day or two, she would choose one of these sailors and orchestrate a tête-à-tête, as Auntie Phil might say. There was a Lorenzo who wasn’t quite as awful as the rest. And he was Italian, which wasn’t quite as exotic as Egyptian, but it counted for something.

      Nicholas Warre remained at the railing for his usual fifteen minutes or so and disappeared below. He would be in William’s great cabin again—had been there every day and evening since they’d set sail, despite his illness.

      And sure enough, when she went below a while later to find Millie, there he was. She paused in the passageway, out of sight in the shadows, and watched him study a large scroll of paper he’d unfurled on the table and weighted with books at each corner.

      A map?

      Her eyes followed the line of his arm to the large hand splayed out, the solid finger guiding his study.

      Betrothed. The word sliced hotly through her mind.

      Husband. The too-real possibility shot by on its heels.

      She studied the broad shoulders encased in the simple dark waistcoat he favored. The hard line of his chin, the shadow of beard on his jaw, the angle of his nose that was slightly too irregular to be called aristocratic. A quiet, pressing tug made her want to look at him, and keep looking.

      As if Auntie Phil were sitting on her shoulder, a laughing voice invaded her thoughts. I daresay this one knows how to conduct himself in a tête-à-tête.

      He exhaled sharply. India tensed. He rubbed the back of his neck and closed his eyes, then reached for a book that had more papers stuck between its covers than pages. He scratched a few notes with a pencil and returned his attention to the map.

      He looked miserable.

      He frowned at the map, pinpointing something with his finger, making a few more notes with a pencil on a leaf of paper. If only it were as easy as it looked. What would he think if he knew she could not even pen an invitation for tea?

      He might decide she was unsuitable for a wife and return her to Malta. More likely, he would think her a disgrace, curse his increasing bad fortune and marry her, anyway.

      He glanced up. Spotted her in the passageway.

      Her breath hitched. And then she forced herself into the cabin, because the alternative was running away.

      “We’re in the Mediterranean Sea,” she informed him breezily. “South of Sardinia. We’ll be passing along—” It wasn’t a map. It was a giant drawing of some kind of mechanical device—a mill, it looked like.

      “What do you want.” He said it as a statement, not a question, and rubbed his hand across his forehead. He looked at her as though he wanted to murder her—or possibly vomit on her, considering the greenish pallor of his skin.

      “Ideally, I would like to be returned to Malta,” she said even though it was obvious he was short on patience and feeling very poorly. “If Malta isn’t possible, then I suppose Italy would do.”

      “If you haven’t got anything intelligent to say, then I suggest you return to your duties.”

      “Oh, I have many intelligent things to say, Mr. Warre. A great many intelligent things. And not to worry—a lifetime together will allow you to hear every last one.” She hopped onto the table and perched there, crinkling the corner of his drawing.

      “Get down.”

      Instead, she rested her toes on the edge of his chair and studied the drawing. “Surely, if you plan to make your fortune constructing a mill, you don’t need my father’s money.”

      He ignored her and took a measurement, jotting the figure on a chart.

      She leaned closer. “Three and an eighth.”

      His eyes shifted to her, and he stared, expressionless.

      “It was three and an eighth,” she said. “You wrote three.”

      “It was an estimate.” Oh, yes—there was definitely a spark of irritation just now.

      “An estimate. Oh, I see. Do forgive me. One doesn’t estimate aboard a ship, or one could end up in Alexandria instead of Athens.” She dove her brows and cocked her head to the side. “You haven’t been merely estimating the size of your debt, have you? Because I would hate to live beneath my standards even after you’ve pocketed my father’s money.”

      “Get down,” he repeated. “Now.”

      “Such a tremendous effort you’re making to win my hand. Very commendable.”

      He waited for her to obey his command.

      “I must say it is flattering beyond all description,” she went on, “being pined after with such heartfelt devotion and such puppy-dog eyes. It’s only too obvious that you love me to distraction.”

      “Lady India.” He leaned forward. “As much as I burn endlessly for you body and soul, as I suffer in lovesick torment, as I can scarcely keep my wayward mind from composing spontaneous sonnets in your honor—” he pushed to his feet and braced his hands on the table, looming over her “—I must request that you remove yourself from this table else I shall do the removing for you.”

      “Will you.”

      His face was inches from hers. “One.”

      One?

      His gaze touched on her lips, raked across her breasts, returned to her eyes. “Two.”

      “Are you counting, Mr. Warre?” Her pulse leaped a little. Those eyes were nothing like a puppy dog’s. They were predatory and on fire with thoughts that would make Frannie sound like someone reading from a ladies’ companion.

      “Control yourself, Mr. Warre.” She slid off the table and onto unsteady legs, but refused to break his gaze. “Wearing one’s heart on one’s sleeve is dreadful unseemly.”

      “Were I not overcome СКАЧАТЬ