Page 3 of A Siren for the Duke

There was not a lot he could say in reply to that, and Jemima hated that she’d ruined the mood with such earnestness and worry. The walk back to her home was silent – though not from awkwardness or anger. They were happy just to be with one another, but each thought of the morning and how they’d be parted for some time once the sun rose.

Once they were back at Upton House, all windows still shut and black, all occupants presumably asleep, Jemima knew it was time to go their separate ways.

“I don’t want you to go,” she whispered. They were just out of sight of the house behind the back garden wall.

“I’ll be back. It will be so fast, Jemima. Like the blink of an eye. You’ll hardly even think of me when the Season starts.”

“You know I’ll always think of you.”

“And I you,” he whispered back. As if on cue, they melted into each other in a sweet, passionate kiss. If the night watchman had raised an alarm at that moment, Jemima would not have cared. It would almost be sweet relief to be caught in a scandal, to then have to marry Lionel.

But no one saw, and there was no noise – just the feel of his lips on hers and his hands on her waist.

When at last they stopped, the sun was just beginning to rise. Lionel would have to report for duty in a matter of hours.

“I’ll try to convince Mama to let us join everyone at the docks and see off the ship,” she said breathlessly.

“I’ll look for you in the crowd if you’re there.”

“I love you,” she whispered, so quietly even she was not sure she heard them.

“I love you,” he whispered back forehead pressed against hers. “Keep a weather eye on the horizon.”

After one more gentle kiss to her forehead, he disappeared into the streets of Portsmouth.

At that moment, she knew exactly what she’d embroider on the cravat handkerchief – a rising sun over the ocean waves, as a reminder to do just as he had advised.

CHAPTER ONE

July, 1810

Alas, she never had seen him off at the docks that fateful day.

Lady Upton, Jemima’s strict and imperious mother, had made sure her daughters’ days were full of activities during the social season. They’d said their goodbyes on the beach that night, but somehow, not seeing him off that morning, even in secret, felt like a betrayal on her part. The last time she’d seen Lionel Hunt was just outside the garden of Upton House in Portsmouth.

When they had said adieu, the dim light of the approaching dawn had cast a hushed atmosphere upon the silence of the house. Jemima's gown, previously a lovely pale green silk, was drenched and clung to her like seaweed. The smell of it, and its disheveled state, suggested something wild and clandestine. Her skirts rustled with each movement, the soaked fabric whispering secrets of forbidden desire. The sun had just began to peak over the horizon. Usually, no one was awake at that time but the servants. Jemima had definitely overstayed at the beach with Lionel, so she had had to be careful when sneaking inside. She had tread carefully across the garden toward the rather imposing manor, both her sanctuary and, at times, her prison, with a mixture of trepidation and longing. The warbled glass window panes glimmered with a soft, golden light, a stark contrast to the darkness that had enveloped her outside. But she had not seen any figures moving inside, so she had decided to take her chances.

With a trembling hand, Jemima had reached for the white trellis fastened to the stone exterior. Her bedchamber was on the second floor, but there was absolutely no way she would have entered the house using the front door or any of the side doors, lest she risk being seen. Her fingers had grazed the cold metal, and she had hesitated, a wave of guilt crashing over her. Everyone in the ton thought of her as a graceful woman, conscious of manners, beautiful and polite. She had known the consequences that awaited her once her secret tryst was discovered – surely it was only a matter of time – but she had also known that a love like hers and Lionel’s could not be denied.

She had struggled with the latch on the window. It had made a little too much noise for her liking, and she had fallen into her bedroom with an ungraceful thump after the window had opened. But that wasn’t even the worst part – as soon as her body had hit the hardwood floor, her mother’s voice had cut through the darkness, sharp and demanding.

"Jemima!" Lady Upton had hissed, her face only half-lit with the small candle in the brass holder. She had been sitting in her nightgown and braided hair on the edge of the bed. Jemima had been utterly confused. Why was her mother in her bedchamber at this hour?

“Mama!” Jemima had said softly.

"Where have you been? And why are you dripping wet like some fishmonger’s wife?”

Jemima's heart had sunk, her breath catching in her throat. The woman before her, normally a paragon of poise and elegance in the face of the ton, was a tempest of fury and disappointment.

"I-I..." Jemima had stammered, her voice barely above a whisper, as she had tried to conjure an excuse that might appease her mother's wrath. But the words had caught in her throat, lost amidst the tumultuous emotions that had threatened to consume her–exhilaration, guilt, the anticipation of loss, love… all she had wanted to do was curl up and cry, but clearly, that was not going to happen.

Her mother's eyes had narrowed, her gaze penetrating Jemima's soul with an intensity that made her feel utterly exposed.

"Don’t even think about lying to me, young lady," her mother had spat, her voice laced with disdain. "I can see it in your eyes, the guilt you carry like a scarlet letter."

The weight of her mother's words settled heavily upon Jemima's shoulders, and she bowed her head in shame. The scent of wilted flowers mingled with the acrid taste of regret as tears welled up in her eyes, threatening to spill over.

"I-I was with Lionel," Jemima had admitted, her voice trembling with the admission. "We had to say our goodbyes. He leaves with the Royal Navy at sunrise."