A Different Sort of Perfect (18 page)

He nodded again, wrinkles deepening around his eyes.
Instead of entering the cabin, he handed his bundle to Hennessy.
"Word at the scuttlebutt is," he said, lowering his voice to a
murmur, "you and the captain are dining with the wardroom tonight.
Mayne and I, we thought you might need something a smidgen more
formal than that there everyday gown, so we snatched some time from
our other duties and stitched this'n for you."

Hennessy handed it to her, and she couldn't stop a
squeal as she shook it out. This was no mock uniform; this was
proper evening attire, a round gown of the indigo linen, cut more
full in the skirt and with insets of white to flare into a
demi-train behind as she walked. Some tailoring genius had sewn
distracting little rose-colored ribbons into flower-shaped patterns
across the bodice, into the hem, and at the little puff sleeves'
points. He'd even brought extra ribbons, doubtless for her
hair.

"Oh, it's wonderful! Mr. Wake, this is utterly
delightful and— and—" But words couldn't do her emotions justice.
Clara ran her fingers over the carefully-sewn ribbons. "It's
perfect."

Wake beamed. "Enjoy your evening, me lady." He
touched his forehead and left, his stride suspiciously like a
swagger.

She called her thanks to his retreating back before
Hennessy followed, still grinning and closing the door behind
them.

Drat, she'd had Wake right in front of her. It would
have been the perfect time to ask about the white dress, the
subject had already been raised so it would not have been pushy —
and she'd muffed it. Sweet as this evening gown was, the little
dribs and drabs of white with which he and Mayne had decorated it
could not possibly have used all the cloth the captain had assigned
to her. Oh, well, at some point she'd ask him, and then she'd
know.

Clara slipped off her sailor dress and pulled on the
new gown, twisting her arms back between her shoulder blades to
fasten and pin it into place. The sleeves settled off her shoulders
and she pushed those of her short stays down to match; with luck
they'd stay there, discreetly out of sight. Otherwise she'd be
reduced to resettling them every few minutes and that was hardly
something she wished to do at a table full of men.

Delight soared through her like fireworks. Feeling
breathless, perhaps from the surprisingly tight bodice, she stepped
into the lantern's circle and turned to the looking glass.

Oh, dear.

Oh,
dear
.

Her nimble-fingered personal mantua-makers had
finally erred.

Some trick of the sewing, some stiffening or lining
pressing against her ribcage, pushed her — her
bosom
up
toward her breastbone. The neckline wasn't gathered, but instead
folded into a neat V-shape that plunged far more deeply than any
she'd ever worn before. The combination was shocking to her — never
mind the wardroom.

She looked like— like a—

Like a lady of lubricity, to quote those naughty
berth-deck parrots.

A fichu — she needed a fichu or some other sort of
scarf to fill in that immodest, wide-open space. Tearing a length
off her sailor dress or grey sarsnet was not an option, no matter
what. Those were her only dresses, and even if she had Wake and
Mayne adjust this evening gown, it wasn't suitable for day wear. It
would do her no good to destroy or damage one of the other gowns to
salvage this one.

"Lady Clara?" Captain Fleming's voice, outside the
gun deck door. "Being late is considered an insult to the
wardroom."

Blast.

Blast, blast,
blast!
No time to find a
solution; insulting Mr. Abbot was even less of an option. She'd
just have to brazen it out. "One more moment." She combed her hair,
entwined one of the spare ribbons into it, twisted the tail around
itself until it folded in half, positioned the twist on the crown
of her head, and rammed in hairpins. It nestled discreetly against
her head; the tail and ribbons flowed over her shoulder and brushed
her bare neck. Not fashionable, but rather charming. And
considering everything else, surely no one was going to be looking
at her hair, in any case.

The other ribbon she tied around her neck in a small
bow. Again, not wonderful, but a necklace of sorts. The ribbon's
chevroned ends lay atop her bosom's curves, swelling from below.
Perhaps she should turn the necklace around and put the bow in the
back? No, then it might tangle with her hair ribbon.

It was the best she could do. She was done.

And Heaven have mercy on her soul.

Captain Fleming awaited her beneath the skylight,
between the aft ladder and capstan, wearing an impressive formal
uniform. Afternoon sunlight glittered off two lines of shining
buttons curving down his chest and from crisp gold trim that ran
along both lapels, in complicated swirls around his cuffs, and in a
double row along the raised collar. Pristine white breeches, almost
as brilliant, hugged his thighs, and the stockings — surely silk —
showed strong, rounded calves, more like those of a man who walked
all day instead of a fairly sedentary ship's captain. He seemed
taller, somehow, or perhaps stronger — but that wasn't quite right,
either—

Such jumbled thoughts cluttered her head that she
paused outside her cabin's gun deck door; she really should sort
herself out before beginning a formal evening's entertainment. But
before she could gather her wits, Captain Fleming rocked back on
his heels. His eyes widened and his gaze fixed—

—right where she'd prophesied.

Which wasn't going to help.

Her face flared with warmth, but the heat quickly
shifted lower, flowing down her torso as if drawn by his attention,
then sinking even more deeply within her until it ignited. A little
flame bloomed inside her center and it heated her from the inside
out, along her arms and legs and up into her neck again, and
following closely on the racing flame's heels was a calm, floating
euphoria such as she'd never known before. Such an odd sensation,
so strong and confident, as if she held power over this man that
she'd never suspected. And that was odd indeed, because Phillippe
was the only man who could equal Captain Fleming's natural, blazing
authority, and she couldn't possibly hold power over either.

Satisfied. That was the feeling. She drew
satisfaction from his widened eyes, by his gaze tracing in the most
delightful manner down her bodice.

By his male appreciation.

It was far better than any empty compliment.

This had to be the female allure Diana had tried to
describe, so many times but always to no avail. And it was the most
amazing sensation she'd ever experienced.

Of course, that should be Phillippe standing there
running a bold and wandering eye over her charms, as perhaps they
must be called. Not Captain Fleming. But even despite that flaw,
she could consider the evening a success already.

Captain Fleming lifted his gaze to hers, blinked, and
seemed to awaken from some absorbing thought. A touch of color
invaded his tanned cheeks, and he bowed. "Lady Clara. I see Wake
found you."

That sense of control strengthened and glowed within
her belly. "Indeed he did." She curtseyed.

His eyes followed her down and back up. Then he
cleared his throat and offered his arm. "Well, we mustn't keep the
wardroom waiting."

Content at all levels, she took his arm and allowed
him to escort her to the aft ladder. "Good evening, Morrow," she
said in passing to the Marine sentry outside the captain's cabin.
While of course Morrow didn't answer, standing at perfect attention
with his musket gripped before him, the pleased flicker behind his
eyes said all that was necessary.

It was going to be a wonderful evening.

* * * *

A sheet of thick canvas hung from the rafters,
forming a barrier between the berth deck and the wardroom, and
behind its protection the entertainment flourished. Topaze's
officers had outdone themselves. The opening Sillery had been
gentle and crisp; the table blazed with silver, crystal, pewter
plates, and snowy linen; and cleanly-dressed sailors stood behind
the chairs, serving as footmen for the meal.

They'd opened with consommé, Mr. Abbot ladling it
from the serving bowl at the table's head, and he'd opened the
conversation by asking her how she was enjoying her cruise, an
inspired subject, surely. She'd stumbled over herself trying to do
justice to the ship's beauty and the crew's kindness, reducing the
Marine Lieutenant Pym and Dr. Eckhart to beaming smiles. Only
Lieutenant Rosslyn, who'd flushed at her entrance and thereafter
never raised his glance from his plate, and Chandler, whose scowl
didn't alter, refused to respond to her paean.

By the time they reached the garnet-red Burgundy and
succulent leg of mutton, Captain Fleming's tense shoulders had
relaxed beneath their epaulettes. Difficult to say whether she
should feel insulted by his edginess; surely he'd not suspected her
of a lack of conviviality?

"The decanter stands by you, Mr. Rosslyn." Mr. Abbot
motioned to the sailor behind his chair — a foretopman from the
starboard watch — and the footman began clearing away the dinner
plates. The others followed suit, Mayne hauling away the mutton's
remains, and as they worked Lieutenant Rosslyn topped up his
wineglass and passed the decanter along. They'd all had several
glasses with the meal; she'd do best by letting it pass her by this
round.

"So you believe reading a midshipman's journal has
helped you adapt to the naval life?" Lieutenant Pym only filled his
glass half full before handing the decanter off to Chandler. "Not
to cast aspersions on the navy's method of training young officers,
but I can't say I've ever heard of the journals helping anyone
before."

"Perhaps some of the credit should go to the
midshipman in question." Clara smiled at Mayne as he slid her plate
from the table and brushed crumbs from the cloth before her,
capable as any liveried footman. "Mr. Staunton has a remarkably
scholarly writing style, better than many published books from
experts that I've read."

Chandler ducked his chin, then drank a long draught
of the Burgundy. Drat her choice of answer; she shouldn't have
complimented Staunton without having something nice to say for
Chandler, as well, and she'd never seen his journal. Fanning their
mutual resentment wasn't a safe course.

Mr. Abbot filled his glass to the brim. Astonishing
man, he seemed to have a bottomless capacity for wine, perhaps not
the best example for the two boys. "Mr. Staunton, would you care to
weigh in on Lady Clara's assessment?"

But Staunton shook his head and let the decanter pass
him by, too. "I wouldn't dare."

In the general laughter, Clara hid her relieved sigh
with a sip of wine. Perhaps it would blow over without incident.
But no, Chandler didn't join the mirth. She'd have to keep a close
eye on the midshipmen's relationship in the next few days.
Vexatious, but they were approaching dessert, and that might cheer
him up.

"I certainly can't claim any such credit for my own
pitiful attempts at keeping a journal," Mr. Abbot said. "The
captains passed me for lieutenant in spite of those efforts,
certainly not because of them."

"Not one midshipman in a dozen could claim credit for
his journal." Captain Fleming leaned back in his chair and held his
glass up toward the lantern's light, as if admiring the brilliant
garnet color. "Gentlemen and Lady Clara, I promise you will never
hear me discussing mine."

Another ripple of laughter encircled the table,
missing the far end, where the gunner, purser, and carpenter had
buried themselves in a
sotto voce
conversation. Clara sipped
again, then set her glass aside. She'd been silly to suspect
Chandler of ulterior motives or a mean spirit. The entertainment
was going splendidly, although the conversation could not be called
scintillating, and everyone seemed determined to be pleased and
cheerful. She should relax her own shoulders, where her short
stays' sleeves were behaving themselves perfectly, and enjoy her
evening.

She glanced down and across the table. Chandler still
stared at her, as he'd done all evening, his refilled glass already
empty, and another
frisson
shivered through her. His scowl
hadn't shifted since she'd entered the wardroom; it looked no worse
than normal, but out of place considering everyone else's efforts.
Still, she should give him the benefit of the doubt, rather than
let him worry her evening to shreds. Clara gave Chandler her best
smile.

His eyes narrowed. Deliberately he tapped his fingers
on the tablecloth, and Clara's shudder intensified. His hand didn't
shake and his eyes weren't bleary; alcohol hadn't taken its toll.
But without doubt it had emboldened him. What had Mr. Abbot been
thinking, offering spirits to two inexperienced lads?

"Lady Clara, is it true you're seeking a French
captain you met during the peace and that you intend to marry
him?"

The room froze. From Captain Fleming and Mr. Abbot,
down through Mayne and the other common sailors, nobody moved,
nobody breathed. Heat flushed through her, settled in her face then
drained away, leaving her cold and dizzy. Chandler curled one lip,
hiked one eyebrow. His stare didn't waver, the little monster.

Mr. Abbot cleared his throat. "You know, marriage is
such a personal subject, it shouldn't be attempted at table." He
riveted Chandler with a glare, and whatever he read there sent the
midshipman back into his chair and wiped the smirk from his face.
Clara's next breath came more easily.

One of the sailors carried in dessert, an impossibly
long jam roly-poly smothered with custard, another behind with an
armload of clean plates. A small bustle ensued, slicing, spooning,
serving, little commentaries flowing with the portions. No one, not
even Chandler, specifically looked at her, and by the time Mayne,
thin-lipped, set her plate in front of her, the dizziness had
subsided.