Her Master and Commander (13 page)

“Then we will be just as haughty in return.”

If only it was that easy. Memory of her humiliation rose and she hastily stood. “We should plan how we are to spend our time. We’ve none to waste.” She walked past him and to his desk. There, she sat down, pulled forward a piece of foolscap, and uncapped his inkwell.

He turned slightly so that he was facing her once again. “I feel I am not going to like this.”

She selected a pen, examined the nib and, satisfied it was sharpened enough to write without blotting, she dipped it in ink. “I am setting a schedule. It will keep us on task.”

No list, no matter how well thought out or executed, would reduce the attraction she felt for the man across from her. Yet she harbored the vague hope that a paper and ink reminder of her purpose for being in the earl’s lair might give her the strength to hang onto the last vestiges of her pride. That was the one thing she could count on—her pride. And she intended to cling to it with both hands no matter what passionate storms or furious waves he might send her way.

“Tell me the truth, my lovely Prudence—”

She coughed gently.

“I cannot say ‘lovely?’”

“No. Nor can you call me by my Christian name.”

“Not even here, in the privacy of my own library?”

“You would be wise to practice good habits at all times.”

“Prudence—” he ignored her cough “—do you truly believe you can turn a sea captain into a gentleman in only four short weeks?”

“Why not?” she asked, smiling a little. “I am only glad my task is not the reverse.”

He seemed amused at that. “You could perhaps teach a man to sail in such a short time. Not well, of course. But it could be done.”

“But not to lead. Not to command. Not to understand the seas. That is something that would take much more practice.”

He chuckled a little. He gained his feet and found his cane, then made his way to the desk.

She tried not to watch. And failed miserably. He was dressed in smooth well-fitted breeches, his white shirt tight across his chest and shoulders. His clothes hugged him with a closeness that left little to the imagination and certainly sent hers spinning wildly out of control.

He came to her side and leaned a hip against the desk, resting the cane head against his thigh. He was now positioned to read over her shoulder, his hip just brushing her arm.

If she leaned to her right…her gaze slid in that direction and found his muscular thigh, right at eye level. The thought of her fingers on his leg sent a flash of heat through her so strong that it sucked the breath from her.

Her stomach tightened, her skin heated. With fingers that trembled ever so slightly, she smoothed the paper and collected her thoughts. “First, we must ascertain what you already know. And what you do not.”

“Know? About being a gentleman?”

“About general comportment. Gentlemen have perfected the art of politeness, but all people use some rules of comportment in some form or another. I daresay you know more than you realize.”

His lip curled slightly, not a smile, but almost. “Oh I know all sorts of things about comportment, my love.”

My love.
She coughed against her fingers, sending him a warning glance that only earned her a smug, masculine smile. She quickly returned her gaze to the paper, curling her fingers tighter about the pen. “What areas of comportment are you already versed in?”

He leaned forward and she suddenly realized that not only was he within reach of her fingers, but she was within reach of his.

The earl placed his hands flat on the desk, looming above her. “My dearest Prudence—”

She coughed again, sending him a determined stare.

He grinned. “My dear—”

She coughed a little louder.

“Pru—”

She coughed so loudly she thought she might lose a lung.

The earl laughed and threw up a hand. “Pray do not hurt yourself on my account!”

Prudence wrote
Proper address.
“Do you know how to greet an earl?”

“If it was my father, I would just call him—”

“Don’t!”

He shrugged. “I shall not burn your tender ears.”

She wrote
Titles of nobility.
“What about dinner conversation?”

“Here? Now?”

“What topics would you consider of merit if you were having dinner with the trustees?” At the earl’s raised brows, she said, “What do you and your men discuss when you eat together?”

“Ah! Many things. The tides and fish we’ve seen. Last week, Little Petey told us about his first wife and how she dropped children like a dog whelps a pup—”

Dinner conversation.

He scowled at the phrase, his humor evaporating. “I know how to make dinner conversation.”

“Not if you’re talking about whelping, you don’t.” She nibbled on the end of the pen for a moment. “We don’t have any reason to worry about dancing. But what about escorting a lady into a room? Or a carriage. How do you do that?”

The earl looked down at her a moment. He set his cane against the desk. Leaning down, he scooped her out of her chair and into his arms.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, swinging her feet. She still held the pen, though she’d left the paper on the desk. His skin felt warm through the thinness of his shirt. “Put me down!”

“I’m holding you. Very gently. Isn’t that gentlemanly?”

“No! Now release me!”

He put her back in her seat, smiling at her as he did so.

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!”
Companionable skills.
She hoped he didn’t notice how her hand trembled over the letters.

He placed the back of his hand against her cheek. His skin warmed her own. A slow, sensual shiver traveled down her spine at the simple contact. Prudence closed her eyes, pressing against his large warm palm. The air about them grew thick.

“Prudence.”

His voice rose smoky and pure. Prudence stared up at Tristan, at his mouth. He had gorgeous lips, firm and masculine. A heated flush crept through her, prickling across her skin in the most sensual fashion.

Tristan saw every emotion, every thought as it flickered over Prudence’s expressive face. He could see the desire growing in her wide brown eyes, could read the rising passion that softened her mouth and made her lips part ever so sweetly. God, but she was a beauty, this fiery neighbor of his.

His body heated yet more and he found himself leaning down, toward her mouth, ever closer, their lips drawn to each other as a compass needle to the north.

Tristan knew he should stop this madness. Prudence was not the sort of woman to partake in an empty dalliance. He knew it, knew the danger of pursuing this storm-strewn course. Yet all of the raw emotion he’d carried inside of him since being wounded, pressed him forward. Prudence was an uncharted course, an unpredictable adventure on her own. And his adventure-starved soul longed to touch her, to quench his thirst for excitement on the uncharted shores of her lushness. But more than that, there was something wanton about the woman before him, something untamed and untrammeled, that spoke directly to his own restless soul.

A faint sigh slipped from her lips, her eyes half closing as she lifted her face to his. He sank a hand into her hair and he covered her lips with his—

“There you are, my lord.” Reeves’s smooth voice ripped the silence like a storm wind in a too tightly drawn sail.

Prudence whirled away. Tristan straightened, ready to order the butler out of the room, but one look at Prudence’s pink face made him pause. Perhaps it was a good thing Reeves had entered the room when he did. To give her time to recover her composure, Tristan moved so that he blocked her from the butler’s view. “Reeves. Did you need something?”

It was difficult to tell what the butler had seen, for not the slightest expression crossed the man’s face. “My lord, would you and the young lady like a luncheon served here, in your library?”

Paper suddenly rustled as Prudence stepped out from behind the desk, holding the pen and foolscap. “Thank you, Reeves, but I must return home. I—I just remembered something I must immediately see to. I will establish a schedule and then the earl and I can begin fresh in the morning.”

“Very good, madam.”

Prudence waved the paper in the air. To Tristan’s amusement, she still sounded a bit breathy, speaking so quickly it was difficult to understand her words. “I was just making a list of the earl’s abilities. There is much to be done.”

Reeves’s brows lifted. “Abilities, madam?”

Tristan crossed his arms and grinned. “Abilities, Reeves. Mrs. Thistlewaite thought perhaps I might already know some things that would be of use in meeting the trustees, though upon questioning, she has changed her mind.”

“Nonsense,” Prudence said. “Though you
do
need to work on your general comportment. Perhaps we should begin with something simple tomorrow morning. Like breakfast.”

Tristan leaned forward until his face was mere inches from hers. “Mrs. Thistlewaite, I am not a child to be reminded to wipe my mouth with my napkin.”

Her gaze dropped to his mouth, her lips parting again. Only this time, her tongue slipped out and dampened the pink slope of her bottom lip.

Startling heat flashed through him. Damn, but this woman made him feel like the first time he’d set foot on a ship—hot and uncertain and…excited.

Unaware of her effect, she glanced at Reeves, her slanted brows slightly lowered. “I will test his knowledge when I come tomorrow. Playact a few society scenarios.”

Reeves bowed. “An excellent idea, madam.”

“I don’t like it,” Tristan said, feeling as if the world was oddly out of control. “This is so much foolishness. To hell with the damn trustees, every bedeviled one of them.”

“Madam,” Reeves said in his soft voice, “perhaps we should add ‘expletive training’ to the list.”

She waved the list. “It is already on it.”

Tristan glowered. “I don’t need any training in that area, thank you. I know my expletives well.”

She sniffed. “You know them
too
well.”

Reeves nodded. “Perhaps we will find some more acceptable alternative expressions for you to use, my lord.”

“Like what?” he demanded.

“Like ‘Egads!’ or ‘By Zeus!’” Prudence replied. “I should think either of those would be acceptable.”

“Not to me.”

The butler raised his brows. “Perhaps something more colorful, like ‘Green cravats!’ or ‘Blessed spoons!’”

Prudence’s rich chuckle was the only thing that kept Tristan from leaving. “That,” he said sternly, “is the silliest thing I have ever heard.”

She flashed him a grin that made his body tighten. “It is your decision—the funds or your horrid words. Pick one.”

“I refuse to give up every vice I possess at the whim of a pack of froth-laced fools.”

“No indeed, my lord,” Reeves said soothingly. “There would be nothing left of you if we were to demand you give up
every
vice.”

Prudence tried to choke back a laugh and failed. “You should see your face.”

Tristan merely glared.

“Lord Rochester,” Reeves said, “may I point out that any transformation you make is only temporary? After you’ve won the funds, you may return to whatever form of behavior you wish.”

“Just think,” Prudence said smoothly, “you can be as boorish as you wish once you have the funds. People will just think you eccentric.”

Reeves nodded. “Madam, while you work on your list, I shall see to his clothing.”

Tristan looked down at his shirt. “What’s wrong with my clothing?”

“Nothing,” Prudence said, still writing, “so long as you confine it to your study when no one else is about.” She finished writing and read through the list, then glanced at Reeves. “Table etiquette?”

“His table skills are surprisingly excellent.”

“Surprisingly?” Tristan growled. “I do not like being talked about as if I were a child.”

Prudence folded the list in half. She replaced the pen, then walked to the door. “My lord, Reeves and I were not speaking of you as if you were a child, but as a project.”

She paused beside Reeves and looked back at Tristan, her eyes dark with meaning. “Which is what you are; a project.”

Tristan didn’t like that one bit. But with Reeves there, he could hardly protest. So instead, Tristan offered the lady a mock bow and said in his grandest manner, “I may have a project of my own, madam. Until tomorrow.”

She looked him up. Then down. She turned to Reeves. “You will need to help him with his bow, as well. It’s almost as poor as his vocabulary.”

“Wait one moment—” Tristan began.

But she was already gone, the flash of her blue skirt disappearing out the door.

Reeves bowed to Tristan. “I shall see Mrs. Thistlewaite to the door.”

“A lovely idea. Please make certain she does not jerk the handle from the door.”

“I shall endeavor to prevent that.” With a final bow, Reeves quit the room as well, leaving Tristan with a half-empty bowl of rum punch, a settee that looked oddly empty, and the uneasy feeling that nothing in his life would ever be the same.

The cottage lay in utter darkness, a steady rain drumming a thorough tattoo against the windows and roof. A lone rider astride a large gelding rounded the last turn of the treacherous cliff road and pulled up hard at the gate. Water sluiced over the man’s hat and cloak, cascading in sheets down the sides of his horse.

The rider, long since wetted through and through, ignored the downpour, jumped down from his mount and tied the horse to the gate. Hat pulled low to keep the rain from completely blinding him, the man strode to the front door.

Despite the unlikely hour of the night, the door was answered on the first knock by a distinguished-looking gent in a black suit.

The traveler shook the water from his cloak and removed his wet hat, then stepped inside. “Me name is—”

“Please lower your voice,” admonished the gent, his startlingly blue eyes shaded with disapproval. “Everyone is asleep.”