A Lady's Guide to Skirting Scandal (4 page)

“How very progressive.” She had never, in any drawing room or ballroom or music room, heard that sort of sentiment spoken by a man.

Mr. Shaw made a rude noise. “You need to improve the company you keep. I’m not progressive, I’m practical.”

“Practical?”

“As a surgeon, it would be helpful to have a wife who does not swoon at the sight of blood. Who can apply her skill with a needle to skin as well as to fabric. Who will not be afraid to assist me if the need arises.”

Viola’s fingers tightened on the books, her heart skipping. It was tantalizing, that idea. To be needed for something other than polite conversation. “I saw my brother get stitches once,” she said. “In his head.”

“You were allowed to observe?” Mr. Shaw asked.

“Of course I wasn’t allowed to observe. I was twelve. My mother would have fainted if she’d known I was there. I hid behind the curtain in his room and watched.”

“Could you have done it?”

“Done what?”

“Stitched up your brother’s head?” He was watching her with an odd gleam in his eye.

She felt her jaw slacken slightly. What a bizarre question. Nevertheless, she considered it seriously, whether out of curiosity or something else. “Yes,” she said finally. “And I would have done a better job. There are very few men I know who would have a fairer hand when it comes to stitching. God knows how many hours I’ve been forced to endure since I was old enough to hold a needle.”

There was approval in his expression now. “I suspect you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.” There was a reckless joy racing through her veins at the possibility that someone would believe in her like that. Would believe that she could do something that no one else thought she could.

“Well, I sincerely hope your duke gives you the opportunity to try one day.”

A sudden coldness settled and snuffed the joy.

“A duchess may do as she pleases,” Viola said, though it lacked any real conviction. If she truly did as she pleased, no doubt she would end up viewed like the Dowager Duchess of Worth, a fixture in London society and a wildly eccentric woman who had a habit of carrying live chickens everywhere she went. Behind her back, she was ridiculed and mocked incessantly. Viola wouldn’t be able to stomach that.

“If you say so.” Mr. Shaw bent and closed the lid of the trunk, the clasp snapping loudly in the silence. “Well, enjoy your books, my lady.”

He was dismissing her, and she knew it. As though she had disappointed him somehow.

“Would you show me how you do it?” she asked impulsively.

“Do what?”

“Stitch a wound. I can’t imagine it is quite the same as creating a sampler.”

Mr. Shaw was staring at her. “Why?”

“Because one day I might need to know how.”

“I can’t imagine there will be much call for that sort of skill in between parties and balls and dress fittings.”

Viola was silent. She hated that he was trivializing her future.

She hated that he was right.

Mr. Shaw was still watching her, his face unreadable. His hair had fallen over his forehead, and he hadn’t shaved again, his jaw dark with stubble. A faint dusting of mustard was on the front of his shirt, perhaps where he had brushed his hand. He looked so capable and steady. So in control of his life. So sure of what he wanted.

For just one moment, she wanted to know what that felt like.

“So you won’t teach me.” She looked down in defeat at the hem of her skirts.

“I didn’t say that.”

Her head snapped back up.

“Tell me why you want to be a duchess so badly. The truth.”

She reached out and touched the smear of mustard, watching the tiny particles crumble and fall, swirling in the air as they fell. She could feel the heat from his body beneath her fingers.

“I am tired of being judged,” she said. “I am tired of being measured and found wanting.”

“And why do you think you are found wanting?” he asked.

“Because my family wasn’t part of the peerage until very recently. My father was a soapmaker for pity’s sake, when he suddenly became an earl. And when my brother inherited the title, not only did he continue the business, he expanded it.”

“What your brother has done with your father’s soap company is nothing short of brilliant,” Mr. Shaw said. “He has a reputation of being a shrewd, immensely successful businessman. He owns the very ship we are traveling in right now.”

“Exactly!” Viola cried. “But no proper peer is a businessman!”

“Ah. Of course. A proper peer should be content to watch his family fortune dwindle and his estates covertly crumble as time moves on and the landscape changes without him. So long, of course, as he is dressed in the latest cut of tailcoat.”

“Of course not,” Viola protested, irritated. He was being argumentative again.

“Then where does the money come from to support such lavish lifestyles?”

“I don’t know.” How should she know the answer to a question like that? Why should she have to know it?

In the next breath, she wondered how she could not.

“Our family is regarded as less than quality,” Viola sighed, trying to make him understand. “Because of where we came from. Because of what we, or at least my brother, continues to do.”

“Make money?”

“In a very vulgar fashion.”

Mr. Shaw snorted. “There are many vulgar ways to make money, my lady. Soap is not one of them.”

Viola could feel herself flushing. “I just want to belong.”

“Belong where, Lady Viola? And to whom?”

Viola looked up at him, realizing that she no longer had an easy answer.

Mr. Shaw watched her a moment more before he stepped away from her and retrieved a small pencil stub off the counter. He returned to stand in front of her and held out his hand.

“Pass me that book,” he said, gesturing at the heavy anatomy text.

Viola handed it over, and he flipped it open, turning to the first page. In the upper right corner, he drew a tiny square, no bigger than her thumbnail. He handed her the pencil and held out the book in front of her.

“I want you to write the names of the people whose opinions matter most to you in that square,” he said.

“But it’s so small,” she protested.

“Yes.”

“How can I write everyone—”

“Choose, Lady Viola. There is space for two names. Maybe three if they’re not long.”

Viola rolled the pencil in her fingers, the graphite leaving smudges on her skin. “I’m not sure.”

“Then I suggest you think carefully about it.”

Viola stared at the corner of the book and the hands that still held it. Mr. Shaw closed the book and handed it back to her, his fingers brushing hers. She should have pulled away but she didn’t.

“You are better than a mere title, Lady Viola,” he said, “and you’ll be wasted on a duke.”

Viola’s hands tightened on the books. His eyes were on hers, darkened with something she couldn’t quite identify. His fingers, where they still touched hers, were sending ripples of heat over her skin and across her body, and that peculiar ache assailed her once again.

He reached up with one of his hands to smooth a piece of hair back from her face. “You should go back to your cabin, my lady,” he said, and his voice sounded a little hoarse.

“No.” She didn’t want to go back to her empty cabin, where she would stare at the bulkheads alone. Where she would stare at a tiny square on a page and wonder when she had lost herself so thoroughly. “I want to stay with you.” It seemed like the most natural thing to say.

“You have no idea what you are asking,” he whispered.

“Then teach me.”

Very slowly, he lifted the books from her hands, the pencil falling to the floor. He leaned past her, placing the books on the surgery table before facing her again. “My lady—”

Viola reached up and put a finger to his lips. “Just Viola,” she whispered. “I don’t think I want a title right now.” She let her finger trace the outline of his bottom lip before it drifted over the edge of his strong jaw. “And you will be Nathaniel.”

It was impossible, she knew, whatever this was that was arcing between them like lightning released from the sky. Outside of this surgery, this ship, this moment, they would be impossible. But they were here. Now. And Viola wanted everything this man was willing to give her.

He touched her then, his fingers tracing the line of her collarbone to dip into the hollow at the base of her throat. But this time he let his touch continue, over the neckline of her practical dress and over the swell of her breasts. They felt heavy again, aching and tingling, and her nipples had hardened into sensitive peaks that were rubbing against the tops of her stays in an exquisitely tormenting manner. He increased the pressure of his touch, cupping her breasts with each hand, testing their weight and shape. A shiver swept over her, and she arched into his touch.

His thumbs circled her nipples, rubbing them through the layers of fabric, and streaks of pleasure coursed through her, making her thighs clench. She wanted to feel the heat of his hands on her skin, wanted to feel those deft fingers inside her dress and her stays and her chemise. What he was doing was downright torturous.

“Do you like how that feels?” he asked, his mouth against her ear.

“Yes,” she gasped, as his thumb dragged the edge of her bodice lower. He bent and placed his mouth in the valley of her breasts, sending ribbons of fire across her exposed skin. She squirmed helplessly, wanting to be rid of her gown. Wanting to experience what it might be like should he be able to put his mouth anywhere he wished. She shivered again.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured.

“Don’t stop,” she managed. “Just…don’t.”

The brush of his whiskers against the smooth slopes of her breasts sent another current of pleasure through her, and she could feel a dampness gathering in her most private places. His hands delved deeper along the edge of her bodice, and somewhere a dress pin gave way and the fabric slipped, loosening the top enough to allow him full access to her breasts. She squeezed her eyes shut as his hands finally slipped under the fabric of her chemise and touched her where she wanted to be touched, his fingers teasing the sensitive peaks of her breasts.

His mouth was following his hands, and Viola threaded her own fingers through the hair at the back of his head, urging him on. His teeth grazed a nipple, and she made a desperate sound in the back of her throat, enough that it made him pause and lift his head in concern. He was flushed, his eyes intense, and she realized he was breathing almost as hard as she.

“Viola—”

“I told you not to stop,” she rasped, pressing against him. The ache that had been growing in her belly was now a steady throb at the juncture of her thighs. “I need…” She trailed off, having no idea what she needed. Him. His touch.

Nathaniel kissed her then, claiming her mouth and taking what he wanted. There was no teasing this time, just an urgent demand for something she wasn’t sure she knew how to give.

His hands left her breasts and went to her waist, picking her up and settling her on the edge of the surgery’s table. Without a pause, he gathered fistfuls of her skirts and shoved them up her legs, bunching them carelessly at her hips. He nudged her knees apart and stepped in between them, and she could feel the fabric of his breeches rubbing against the skin of her inner thighs. She squirmed, trying to get closer. Wanting to feel more of him against more of her.

“Stay still,” he commanded.

“I can’t.”

His hand went to her stomach, his fingers splayed over the gentle curve as if he could hold her steady, but that touch only made her more desperate. There was a pressure that was building within her, something that had to be released before it consumed her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and for the briefest of seconds, she felt the glorious hardness of his body pushing against her, exactly where it needed to be.

She whimpered, and he shifted, removing that pressure she so desperately wanted, but in the next instant, she felt his hand there, underneath her skirts, touching her where no one had ever touched her before, and she nearly came off the table. He was kissing her again, his mouth swallowing her sounds of pleasure, his fingers circling and teasing her sex with the same rhythm as his tongue. Her hips strained against his touch. The pressure within her had become unbearable, and something was tightening low in her pelvis, something that needed to be released before she flew apart.

Her arms tightened around his neck, trying to hold on. The heel of his hand was rocking against her sex now, and she bore down on it, and in the next second, she felt an exquisite sensation as he slid a finger deep within her. It brought everything to an aching, uncontrollable pinnacle, and as he withdrew his finger and then slid it even deeper again, her world simply exploded. Intense waves of pleasure ripped through her, making her arms and legs seize around him with a force that suggested she might never let go.

She pressed her face against the side of his neck, trying to draw enough air, as the edges of her vision dimmed and then brightened. She could feel the inner muscles of her pelvis squeezing, contracting against the feel of his touch that was still in the most intimate of places. Eventually the waves subsided and settled, leaving her feeling boneless and supremely euphoric.

Nathaniel withdrew his hand, stepping back slightly. Her legs dropped from around his waist, and he settled her skirts back over her legs. He pressed a row of kisses along the underside of her jaw, and she allowed her head to tip back.

“I’ve never…” She trailed off. Never what? Allowed a man to do that? Wanted a man to do that? Understood that such feeling—such pleasure—was even possible.

He was watching her as if he could hear her every thought. His eyes crinkled at the corners, though they were still intense. “I know.”

Above their heads, the sound of feet and the shouts of men throwing their backs into their labors filtered down. Viola wondered what time it was. How long she had been in here. If Bart and the Post would be stalking the passageways looking for her. It suddenly became very clear to her that she wanted to return to this man. But should she be found with him for the second time in as many days, Bart and the Post would be likely to lock her in her cabin.