“Minx. We will always have time for this. For us.”
Poppy sighed with happiness as Francis brushed his lips over hers. “I can’t believe this all began with a battle over some silly barrels and rope. And look where it ended.”
Francis grinned down at her. The early morning light shone in his dazzling blue eyes. “I might have lost the war over the barrels, and rightly so, but we won at everything else. And this is not an end; it is only the beginning.”
Epilogue
Late January, 1818
The Empress Catherine, somewhere off the coast of Kent.
* * *
Gideon Kembal, Marquis of Holwell, wanted to die. Death had to be better than how he was feeling right in that moment. His eyes were already closed, so the undertaker would be saved the task.
“That is probably the safest place for you right now. I wouldn’t attempt moving about the boat anymore; you will only find yourself throwing what’s left in your stomach over the side,” said a familiar voice.
He cracked open his eyes. A pale-haired beauty stared down at him. He was still trying to bring her into sharper focus when a ball of white appeared next to her.
“Yes, you don’t look at all well. Poppy, what color would you say Gideon’s face is right now? Putrid green?”
“One does not mock the seasick, Francis. I would have thought you might have at least a little sympathy for your poor cousin.”
The boat reached the top of a wave and gave a little dip as it came down the other side. Gideon gripped the floor of the deck with his fingernails. Flat on his back at the stern of the ship, he was living a nightmare.
He had taken up the offer to join the newlyweds while they enjoyed a short jaunt up the coast to say a final farewell to Poppy’s lion ship. Upon their return to London, the Empress Catherine was going to be handed over to her new owners.
“I thought this would be a nice, easy sail. But I just want to die,” he muttered.
Francis took a seat on the deck next to him. “They say that there are two phases of being seasick. The first is when you fear you are going to die. And the second is when you fear you might live.”
“Francis!” scolded Poppy.
Gideon mustered a laugh for his cousin. When they got back to dry land, he fully intended to kill him, but still, it was a good jest. “It’s a pity I have nothing left in my stomach. Otherwise, I might soil your highly polished boots.”
“Take heart, Gideon. I have ordered the crew to turn for home. You have suffered enough for one day,” said Poppy.
When the ship finally berthed at London Docks late that evening, Francis helped the lightheaded Gideon down the gangplank. The stricken marquis was still swaying as he stepped through the door of the F. and P. Saunders Shipping offices.
Poppy raced and grabbed a chair, holding it steady while her husband lowered Gideon gently down into it.
Once seated, Gideon gripped the arms tightly. “Thank you. I might just stay here until the room stops moving.”
“I shall make you a cup of tea. I know your stomach is churning, but you need to hydrate your body. It will help you to recover faster,” said Poppy.
There was a lot to be said for having a cousin-in-law who understood seasickness as well as Poppy Saunders did.
Gideon gingerly lifted his head. The worst of the giddiness was beginning to subside. Thank the Lord for small mercies. Francis pulled up a chair next to him.
Don’t say it. Please.
“Are you having second thoughts? I mean, after today, no one could blame you if you didn’t undertake the trip,” said Francis.
One short excursion in the English Channel had thrown all of Gideon’s plans into disarray. If this was what a day’s sailing was going to do to him, how would he manage six weeks?
“You’ve heard the rumors. I can’t sit by and do nothing.”
When the Duchess of Mowbray hadn’t returned from her trip to Rome in time for Christmas, the rumor mill had started to whisper.
