Chapter fifteen
“Astroll along the deck will make you feel better in no time,” Marguerite said, and swallowed her guilt.
She had, after all, brought Elsie up here under false pretenses. Or at least . . . incomplete ones. This was an errand. It simply happened to require fresh air, daylight, and proximity to a certain pirate duke.
She pressed the folded paper more firmly into her palm, feeling the reassuring crease of it against her skin.
She was here to acknowledge a kindness. It was indeed a simple courtesy and a necessary diplomatic gesture. She had slept. Truly slept. For the first time in too long, she had woken without cold in her bones. Without having to calculate, before opening her eyes, which creditor, patron, landlord, rumor, or consequence would require management first.
Her scalp still tingled when she remembered the weight of his hands. The careful pressure of his fingers. As if care could be given without immediately presenting its account.
“Why,” Elsie said carefully, “are you wearing your hair down?”
Marguerite did not break stride.
“I am not wearing it down,” she replied with composure. “It simply happens to be unpinned.”
“You never let it ‘happen,’” Elsie said. “You braid it. You pin it. You threaten it with exile if it misbehaves.”
“This is a ship,” Marguerite said evenly. “Practical considerations apply.”
Elsie’s gaze flicked meaningfully to the loose length brushing Marguerite’s back, catching the light as the breeze toyed with it.
“Since when,” Elsie asked, “is that practical?”
Since Tristan had marveled at her hair. She needed more of that feeling. Foolish? Certainly. Practical? Somehow. Off the top of her head, she could not have named why, but it felt so to her.
Marguerite lifted her chin. “There was no one available to assist me this morning. My maid happened to be horizontal and making concerning promises to the sea.”
Elsie’s eyes narrowed. “Is this about the captain?”
“Please, Elsie,” Marguerite said, adjusting her gloves with unnecessary care. “You are imagining motives where none exist.”
Elsie took a long breath through her nose—the sort usually reserved for offensive smells or willful stupidity.
“I am imagining indeed,” she said, “a six-foot-two motive with long black hair and green eyes, who went into your cabin last night and came out grinning like a fool.”
Marguerite’s heart, traitor that it was, gave a leap. “He was—” She stopped herself. Cleared her throat. “—grinning?”
Elsie fixed her with a glare. “That, or he was suffering from a digestive disorder. It’s hard to tell when one is casting up one’s crumpet for the seventh time. I knew it. You are having feelings for the Brit. And it is against your rules. You vowed that if you were ever to develop feelings again, it would be for a man with hot blood.”
Yes . . . The Italian husband. One who would be jealous of her. Who would argue with his hands and make peace with his mouth. One who would not turn every disagreement into a treaty draft, or every feeling into a clause to be debated. One who would not believe love could be reassigned.
The passage narrowed ahead, turning darker where the morning light from the companionway did not reach.
Marguerite took two more steps before realizing the footsteps behind her had ceased. She turned back.
Elsie turned pale. “Oh, the floor’s doin’ it again.”
“We have only just left the cabin.”
“And I already miss it as if it were my childhood home.”
“Elsie, I need to find His Grace.”
“And I need to keep my breakfast from becoming public.”
“Go back,” Marguerite said. “Lie down. Do not expire on the rug. It has only just been introduced to civilization.”
