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“You sent my father rather than rescue me yourself? Where is the sibling camaraderie in that?”
Of course, he would send my father. If he found me in a compromising situation, he would face exactly what he is facing: marriage to me.
“You’d best stop thinking of me as a sibling.”
“You should have trusted me to look out for myself.”
His sigh is weary and long.
“I trust you, Kat. Of course, I trust you. Montague is another issue. Did you really promise to marry him?”
“He won’t sue you for breach of promise,” I say, which tells him nothing.
“Does he have reason to?”
“Of course not. Who holds a young girl to her word?”
Focused on our hands, rather than my face, he misses my smirk. I am not, nor have I ever been, a damsel in distress.
“You had promised?” he presses.
Two could play at this game.
“Did you really plan to announce your engagement to Lady Clarissa this evening?” Touché.
He shrugs.
“CeCe will be pleased with the outcome.”
“Will she?” I ask, knowing full well the truth of it.
“You don’t think so?”
There goes his eyebrow again, lifted in challenge.
“Perhaps you don’t know your sister as well as you think.”
I set off without him. We would be wed. A matter of honour for us both.
Oh, CeCe, after all our planning, I’ve made a mess of it.
Chapter Two
Man Overboard
Six weeks later
I’m on the quarterdeck, at the rail, facing the sea with the wind brushing my face. He is behind me. Bentwood now, not Charlie. A small concession wrangled by my father. He deserves better than you. At the least, give him the respect his title affords. That put me in my place.
I know he is there, for no more obvious reason than I feel his presence.
I hate him for this. My feelings are so contradictory and confused, I can’t even relish this trip. I’m the impulsive one, not Bentwood, yet here we are, sailing away over a letter he received the day before. Exactly what I would have done had I received that missive, explaining that CeCe has gone missing. Instead, I argued against our leaving.
I should have argued harder. Our accommodations are dreadful. He, a man used to rank and honour, is bunking with a stranger. I’m sharing a cabin with a woman I only met a few weeks ago.
“Lady Eleanor is asleep.” I turn. He is there, cheroot halted near his mouth. I’d startled him. “Obviously, the perils at the Earl of Longford’s haven’t disrupted her rest.”
Why must I be so petulant? Lady Eleanor has earned her repose, after countless nights ferreting out despicable villains at a wedding we attended, but I am restless and irritable.
