Page 2 of A Siren for the Duke

Lionel shook his head, black curls framing his face.

“I, too, am worried. But I shall put on a brave face. It was either this, the clergy, or killing my brother, I suppose…” he tried to lighten their mood with a joke …”and as I do not want to kill him, and the clergy seems rather dull… I do not think I could survive as a man of the cloth,” he said, tongue in cheek.

“You are horrid!” she said with a laugh.

“Horace is a fine brother! And I do not desire the dukedom so much as to forcibly take it from him. No, he shall do his duty just fine. Perhaps Edmund will go into the clergy. He’s got the sniveling face for it.”

“Not all clergymen are bad,” Jemima chastened.

“No, they just live off the land of the people they claim to shepherd. Sometimes they might even grace your threshold and say a prayer.”

“Oh, and the Royal Navy does not exploit the English at all?” Jemima asked, an eyebrow raised. It was rare she engaged in political conversation, but sometimes, with Lionel’s penchant for sarcastic comments, she found herself having to reason with him and talk him down.

“An excellent counterpoint,” Lionel said with a sigh.

“Sometimes I wish you had chosen the clergy route, though,” Jemima said ruefully, snuggling closer to him. He wrapped a strong arm around her and kissed her temple. “I think you’d look very smart in that white collar. We could have lived in the countryside, had a little garden.”

“There would be nothing for you to be proud of, though,” he countered.

“Lionel,” she adjusted herself so she was looking directly into his eyes, “I am proud of you no matter what. You do not have to fight foreign enemies at sea for me to care about you. I see the man that you are, and you are noble, kind, and thoughtful. That is well enough for me.”

“I cannot break a promise. I have signed the contract already. I’d be seen as a coward if I broke it,” he said.

“I know. But that will not stop me from worrying about you every single day.”

“And I you,” he said, bringing her delicate hand to his mouth and kissing it gently. “When I return, this… sneaking about, you having to stave off suitors… it will be a thing of the past. We shall do things properly. I’ll ask for your hand, and we shall marry.”

“I will wait for you,” she said solemnly.

There was nothing either of them could add after that declaration of steadfastness, so they sat on the shore until the moon dipped back. Soon enough, the sun would begin to rise. Jemima didn’t want that; it would mean this little fantasy, this happy time, would end. And as confident as he tried to sound, it was still a dangerous posting, and she might well never see him again.

“We ought to get you back. I still hope you’ll be able to see me off at the docks,” he said, rising to his feet and brushing the sand off his breeches, then extending a hand to help her up.

She took it with a sigh, agreeing. If she were to get back home in time, she’d need to be quick about it.

“Oh! I nearly forgot,” she said, fishing a small organza drawstring bag from her bodice. Lionel raised an eyebrow, and she stuck her tongue out at him.

Thankfully it hadn’t gotten too wet, tucked away between her stays and her chemise. When she held it out to Lionel, he looked at it curiously before he realized what it was.

“A lock of your hair?” he asked, holding up the little bag in the moonlight.

She nodded. “So that you keep a piece of me wherever you go,” she explained.

It was hard to tell, even in the light of the moon, but she could swear she saw his eyes tear up at the gesture.

“I… thank you, Jemima. I’ll treasure it always. I have nothing to give you…”

“Give me your cravat,” she said gently, even though the words were commanding. “Say you lost it in a night of drinking before shipping out, if anyone asks.”

He did not need telling twice. Lionel unfastened the rather stifling piece of clothing, still damp from their splash fight earlier, and handed it to her.

“What will you do with it?”

“Embroider your initials on it, then perhaps keep it as a handkerchief. I…I will remember you always, no matter what, but this… it’s you. It even smells like you.”

“That cannot be entirely pleasant,” he teased.

“It is to me.” Her voice was soft and sincere, with no time for jokes.