A Wedding By Dawn. Alison DeLaine

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      “Overcome by seasickness, rather,” she scoffed. Trapped in the space between his body and the table, the subtle scent of his cologne teased every breath. “If you’re feeling that ill, I can’t imagine why you aren’t in bed instead of sitting in here.”

      “For the same reason you study every empty barrel and piece of potential flotsam aboard this ship.” He returned to his chair and seated himself.

      “Why, Mr. Warre, if this mill can help me escape an unwanted suitor, you must explain it to me at once.”

      He picked up his ruler, silently took another measurement. Wrote it down.

      One and three-eighths.

      She went to the door. Turned. “Do not insult me by suggesting that we have even a single motive in common,” she said with her hand on the jamb to steady herself. “I merely want my freedom, while you are motivated purely by—”

      The desire to escape? Escape what?

      “—greed.”

      She left him, frowning to herself, and returned to the quarterdeck.

      * * *

      A FEW HOURS later, Nick stood on deck, staring at the horizon as Miss Germain suggested, telling himself it helped when it didn’t, wondering how in God’s name he was going to survive a life wed to Lady India, hating that he had no choice.

      This was what it had come to: an arranged marriage—no, forced. Definitely forced. She was right about that much. A forced marriage to a young woman who had strayed so far from the usual expectations that she was hardly recognizable as a lady.

      A wave of nausea gripped him and he let his head fall. He needed to accept that his life was not going to turn out the way he’d hoped, and that he would be doing well if he managed to save Taggart.

      His shipping operation was defunct—destroyed by storms and pirates in the space of two months. All that remained was his debt, and the deadline he’d agreed to with Holliswell was fast closing in on him. Holliswell had “graciously” given Nick enough time to pursue Lady India and collect the dowry—Nick much preferred to think of it that way—from her father. But if Nick didn’t manage it in...God, a few more weeks, Holliswell would take Taggart. That was the agreement: more time to pay off the debt, with Taggart itself as collateral.

      There would be little left after that, and he would need to make the most of it. He would not risk another investment on the seas. He needed to have the plans for the new mill works ready by the time they reached London, which meant he needed to prepare drawings for each mill site and lay out projections for how quickly the new corporation—if the other men agreed to form it—might turn a profit.

      It wouldn’t be much of a profit. Barely enough to make all the repairs Taggart Hall desperately needed and pay the cost of maintaining Lady India in the standard that the wife of a peer should maintain. He’d already been forced to sell his house in London, which meant he had nowhere to keep Lady India while they were in town, except with James or Honoria.

      What kind of man had to lodge his wife with his siblings?

      Wife.

      The thought made his lungs constrict, a bit like the thought of being locked in prison for the rest of his life. This forced marriage ran both ways. Most of the time he managed not to think about all the things that would be lost to him forever once he married Lady India. But sometimes...

      God, he was a fool for wanting something most people didn’t even have.

      Something like the marriage his brother James had—companionable, passionate, loving.

      You love me to distraction.

      He couldn’t imagine ever loving Lady India to distraction. But he could damn well imagine making love to her, which only made him more furious—mainly at Jaxbury, for releasing her from that cabin when she should have stayed safely locked away. She should not have been allowed to roam the ship. To sit on the table, giving him a view of shapely thighs encased in those breeches. Leaning forward so that her unbound breasts—God, her breasts—moved freely beneath her shirt and peaked against the fabric, scarcely hidden at all beneath her ridiculous waistcoat.

      Even now, her raised voice drifted from somewhere near the bow of the ship.

      He looked up, saw her climbing the yards. Bloody hell. Cantwell would have a fit of apoplexy if he could see her running amok like a common sailor. And Nick...

      He would force her to marry him, collect the money her father had promised, take her to Taggart...and then what? Stand by while she swung from the chandeliers like an ape? While she ran about the estate dressed in a waistcoat and breeches?

      A large wave rocked the ship, and he gripped the railing as his stomach rolled. Deep breaths, deep breaths...a few moments, and the nausea subsided. He reached into his pocket for a piece of the candied ginger Miss Germain had given him.

      Footsteps sounded behind him. “Contemplating a good French wine?”

      “Sod off, Jaxbury.” Nick didn’t bother to turn. But he did glance at Lady India, who was working a line up in the yards. High above in the rigging, he caught a glimpse of long legs and tight buttocks clad in a pair of old breeches. One fall, and his chance at fifty thousand would be gone.

      Jaxbury grinned. “At least you’re enjoying the view.”

      * * *

      IF THE MOON hadn’t been half-full, she would not have been able to see a thing in Nicholas Warre’s cabin. Any fuller, and it would have been too bright.

      His sleeping form was a dark heap on the bed as she tiptoed by. Across the cabin his trunk sat open with his coat and waistcoat draped over the edge. She crept toward it, pausing to make sure his breathing was slow and steady. One of the floorboards creaked with the ship’s rocking. He showed no sign of waking.

      There was nothing inside his coat. Nor his waistcoat, blast him. He must have hidden the contract inside his trunk. The moonlight was too dim to let her see anything but a black pit, so she plunged her hand inside and blindly groped around, feeling for paper. Her fingers touched linen. Silk. Wool. Velvet, covering something—coins! She was no pickpocket, but she would remember this. One might say he owed her, after all.

      A book, then another book. She slipped them from the trunk and fanned the pages, but no papers fell out. She groped some more. Leather—a shoe. Another shoe. Cold metal—

      “Whatever you’re searching for, Lady India,” came a gravelly voice from the bed, “you won’t find it.”

      Damn, damn, damn! She inhaled sharply, and her head whipped around, even as her fingers touched cold metal. He hadn’t moved, and it was too dark to see that his eyes were open, but clearly they were. She felt the length of the metal—a pistol! She closed her fingers around it and smiled.

      “Perhaps not, but you will find it for me.” She stood quickly, taking the pistol with her and pointing it at the bed.

      “I don’t think I will.”

      “I suppose you’ll tell me no ball has been loaded, but I am convinced I could СКАЧАТЬ