Her Master and Commander (20 page)

It was all he could do not to lean her back and take her right there. Yet as anxious as he was for her, a part of him savored her, savored the moment. She was offering herself freely, without reservation. Yet, he knew he should not accept her gift. A real gentleman would stop now. A real gentleman—

She ran the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip.

Tristan groaned. “I cannot—”

She leaned forward, and the chemise dropped away from her breasts. He could see the rounded swells, almost taste the tempting tautness of her nipples.

Prudence placed a hand on his cheek and looked directly in his eyes. “Please.”

It was the only word she uttered. A true gentleman did not leave a lady wanting.

Breathing her name, Tristan swept her to him, kissing her madly, savoring the softness of her inside his arms. He worshipped her mouth, tasted her sweetness. Suddenly, she stood, untangling from his clasp, her gown falling to the floor. Only her chemise and stockings separated them, her slippers apparently having been kicked off when he wasn’t paying attention.

He took a shuddering breath, his gaze devouring her. The silky scrap of lace and seductive silk drove his ready excitement ever higher.

As quickly as she’d stood, she now knelt before him, her arms over her head as she slowly withdrew the pins. Within seconds, her hair tumbled down about her, curling and frothing like the waves of the ocean.

Tristan’s heart thundered so hard he thought it would stop. For weeks he’d dreamed of her just like this. Never had he wanted anything more. She was wild and fresh, a rain-kissed sea after a hard storm. And for the moment, she was his. His and no one else’s.

She reached for his foot. “You need to undress, too.”

He grabbed her wrist. “Let me.”

She set back on her heels, watching as he carefully pulled his boot free, then the other. He stood and somehow, in moments he would never recall, he undressed, Prudence’s eager hands assisting him.

As soon as he was bared, he stood before her. Her dark brown gaze traveled over him, lingering with appreciation hither and yon. He did not move when she reached out and gently traced the thick white scar that ran from his knee to his ankle.

She looked up at him. “I’m sorry.”

He wasn’t. At this moment, he wasn’t sorry about one damn thing. He took her hands and hauled her to her feet, swooping her against him, the silk of her chemise sliding against his bare skin. “I don’t give a damn about anything except you.”

She was so beautiful, standing before him, the firelight flickering across her hair, lining it with streaks of gold. He plunged his hand into that silken mass and pulled her mouth to his.

His hands never stilled. Her chemise soon dropped to the floor. Somehow, they were no longer standing, but on the settee, the cushions lifting her hips to his. They came together with a breathless joining that sent a million spirals of pleasure through Tristan’s body. He sunk into her as if he’d never before had a woman. As if his life to this second had not existed. As if all the exultant days at sea had collided into this one, perfect moment.

Beneath him, Prudence shivered and moaned, grasping his shoulders urgently. She moved with the passion and ardor of a woman who loved loving, her hips pressing against his, her lips parted as she gasped with each thrust.

The pace increased and all too soon, Prudence rasped out his name, her legs clenching tightly about him as she rode the waves of pleasure. Her passionate cry undid Tristan. He grit his teeth against the onslaught, but the hot passion tore through him as he slid into her one last time.

For a long moment, they lay there, spent and exhausted. Their harsh breaths mingling. Tristan wasn’t sure how long they held one another, but eventually, Prudence stirred a bit beneath him. Tristan immediately lifted on his arms.

She smiled, a sleepy sort of smile. “I would call that brilliant.”

He grinned. “It wasn’t very gentlemanly of me.”

Her smile faded only slightly before she said with perfect seriousness, “There are times when it is good to be a gentleman, and times when it pays to be a pirate.”

A laugh broke from him and he kissed her swiftly. “You, my lady, are a delight.”

A shadow passed over her eyes. She shifted in his arms and he rolled upright to give her more room. He hadn’t meant for her to leave his embrace, only to lift his weight from her, but she did just that. She stood and collected her clothes, her movements jerky and hurried.

Tristan raised up on one elbow. “What’s wrong, sweet?”

Prudence used her chemise to wipe her thighs. Her mind was a welter of confused thoughts. She hadn’t meant for this to happen, but she could not in all honesty say she was sorry. It had been every bit as fulfilling as she’d imagined it would be. All she regretted was that this was all they had—this moment of closeness—and then it would be back to their usual arrangement. It had to be that way.

Whatever the earl may be now, he would always be a bit of a pirate. She saw it in everything he did and said. Even when learning the rudiments of comportment, there was a barely controlled wildness to him. He was not the sort of man one should marry. He was the sort of man one loved and then, as quickly as possible, left. The thoughts pained her more than she could say.

She finished dressing. He watched, making no move to dress himself. After a moment, she sighed. “Tristan, please. You must dress; someone might come.”

“I don’t care. Prudence, did I hurt you?”

The concern in his gaze was palpable. Prudence had to fight to swallow. “Of course not! It’s just—this cannot happen again. I am supposed to teach you manners, not…this.”

His laughter silenced her. For an instant, she stiffened, outraged that he could take her concerns so lightly.

“Prudence, don’t look at me like that! I have been thinking about you for days now—weeks! Dreaming of this.” His lips quirked into an adorably lopsided smile. “It was even better than my dreams, and that says quite a bit.”

She bit her lip, wishing she could banish the sinking feeling in her stomach. Was that all it had been? A fulfillment of a dream? She busied herself pinning up her hair, all the while wondering at the disappointment that weighed her spirits. She’d wanted their lovemaking to mean—what? What
could
it mean? Tristan had never led her to believe their attainment of pleasure was anything more, but somehow—to her and only her—it meant more. A lot more.

She turned on her heel and walked to the other side of the room, each step a feat of will over want. Each click of her boot heels rang like a nail in the coffin of what-could-be. She reached the window overlooking the garden and pretended to peer out at the bay. “I do so love the sea,” she said rather inanely, struggling to find something to fill the silence.

Behind her, she heard his sigh and then the rustle of clothing as he dressed. It took every ounce of strength she possessed not to turn and run back to him, to throw herself in his arms. She knew he was affected by her as much as she was affected by him; she’d seen it in his gaze, in the way his breath had quickened, in the ardor in his eyes.

They could not give in to this flare of passion. Of all the things they had, a future was not one of them. He was not the sort of man one fell in love with and married. No, Phillip had been that. Calm, logical, practical—none of those were adjectives she’d attach to the earl. She and Tristan didn’t even have a commonality of interests or beliefs or—anything. All they had was passion.

She took a steadying breath and turned. “My lord—Tristan—I am sorry, but we must not—”

The door opened and Stevens bounded in, a silver tray in one hand, a letter in the center. “Aye there, Cap’n—I mean, me lord! Ye’ve a letter!”

Tristan’s expression darkened. He met Prudence’s gaze for a long moment, and then turned away and held out his hand.

Stevens bustled up with the tray, the letter sliding side to side. “It just came this very minute!”

Tristan caught the letter as it flipped over the side of the tray. He held it out at arm’s length, water dripping from one corner.

“I’m not the best with the trays yet, me lord,” Stevens said in a confidential tone. “I spilled a lot of tea on it this morning when I brought in the pot.”

“Next time, dry the tray before you use it again.”

“And dirty a towel?” Stevens looked outraged.

Tristan shook his head and opened the letter carefully. He held it up to the light. “The ink has smudged. I can’t quite read…” His gaze narrowed. “Damn.”

Stevens leaned around the earl’s arm to read the letter himself.

Reeves entered the room, pausing when he saw Stevens.

“’Tis a letter,” the butler/first mate said proudly. “I carried it all the way from the front door on the silver salver like ye told me to!”

“That is very good, Master Stevens. However, it is very rude of you to read his lordship’s mail over his shoulder. The missive could be an issue of a personal nature.”

Stevens’s face fell. “I can’t read
any
of his mail?”

“No. That is one of the sad facts of being a good butler. We never get to read the good mail.”

Stevens sighed. “’Tis a lot more fun bein’ a bad butler.”

Tristan gave a muffled curse. “Blast it to hell. It is from the trustees. They are coming to visit next week.”

Prudence caught her hands together. “So soon?”

Tristan nodded grimly. “I daresay they are anxious to make an end of this. They will be here a week from Thursday.”

“Thursday!” Prudence pressed a hand to her forehead. “That’s too early!”

Reeves pursed his lips. “We will just get ready a bit quicker than we anticipated.” He looked at Tristan. “My lord, I hope you don’t mind, but I ran into Squire Thomas in town. I believe you are acquainted with him.”

“Aye. He’s invited me to his house on many occasions, though I’ve never attended. I don’t need that sort of foolishness.”

“Actually, that is just the sort of foolishness we do need. I made certain the squire knew of your change in circumstances and he immediately requested your presence at his house for a small dinner party early next week.” Reeves glanced at Prudence. “We spoke of perhaps attempting an event of some type, though I had no notion of doing it so soon.”

Prudence nodded, trying her best to look assured when all of her thoughts were jangled by her own impropriety. “Yes. The dinner party would be excellent practice for the earl.”

“I don’t need practice,” Tristan said, his brow lowering.

Reeves sighed. “My lord, the more at ease you feel with your new situation, the more in command you will be with the trustees. I strongly recommend that you go.”

Tristan sent a hard glance at Prudence. “And you?”

“What about me?” she returned, frowning.

“Will you be going as well?”

Reeves cleared his throat. “The invitation did not involve Mrs. Thistlewaite.”

“If she is not going, then neither am I,” Tristan said in a distinct voice.

Prudence blinked. “But—”

“You have been with me through this entire charade. I won’t go without you there. I will need your advice if I run aground.”

“But I was not invited! Reeves, explain things to him!”

Reeves was looking at Tristan, a considering look on the butler’s face. “Perhaps his lordship is correct. Let me see what I can do to rectify this oversight.” He met Prudence’s amazed gaze. “It
would
be good if you were at his side, madam.”

Tristan crossed his arms and leaned back against his desk, looking far handsomer and far more masculine than was necessary. “There. We go to the dinner party together, you and I.” His gaze met hers, a promise lurking there. A promise of mischief and seduction. “We shall both have a fine time. A very fine time indeed.”

That was, Prudence decided, exactly what she was afraid of.

O
n the day of the dinner party, Prudence arrived at the captain’s house at exactly seven. It was already dark, with faint thunder rumbling and lightning flashing in the distance. She paused on the step and glanced behind her at the vivid display, the long forks of brilliant gold streaking over the black sea.

She loved the wild weather. When she’d first arrived in Devon, exhausted after dealing with all of the weighty difficulties surrounding Phillip’s death and subsequent burial, she’d found the weather oppressive. The skies were as dark and gray as her spirits. But little by little that had changed.

Now she welcomed the testy wind and the arrogant thrash of the rain. The wildness of it reminded her that she was alive. As did the earl. Smiling at her own nonsense, she pulled her cloak more tightly about her neck as she lifted her face to the wind and soaked in the frosty breeze.

It was freeing and exhilarating, but it was also cold. She was glad the earl had sent his carriage or she would have been too uncomfortable to enjoy the scenery. Sighing a little, she turned and knocked on the door.

Stevens opened it almost immediately. “There ye are, madam! I’ve been waitin’ on ye!”

Without being asked, he assisted her with her cloak, falling back a step when her gown was revealed. “Coo’ee, madam! Ye look as fine as nine nails, ye do!”

Prudence’s cheeks heated, her hands unconsciously smoothing the blue silk. It was actually one of Mother’s gowns, her best in fact. Prudence had been surprised when Mother had brought it to her room.

It was of shiny blue silk under white netting, and had tiny blue and pink rosettes sporting the tiniest of green leaves. The skirt was deeply set, the white netting split to reveal the sheen of the blue silk at the front. The sleeves went to the elbows, a white ribbon tied at each.

It was a beautiful gown, although the neckline was lower than Prudence had ever worn, the deeply cut edge decorated with a hint of white lace, which drew the eye rather than disguised the lowness.

She’d argued with Mother about perhaps sewing a bit more lace in the opening, but Mother had waved aside such suggestions by pointing out that Prudence was a widow, and no longer “in the first blush of youth.”

Prudence frowned, catching sight of herself in the lone mirror in the front hall. Perhaps Mother was right, even though Prudence was only thirty-one. It
was
far beyond the expected age for missish airs and false modesty. She might as well enjoy that small positive notion any way she could.

“Ye look like a frigate in a full moon on a glassy sea, madam,” Stevens said, looking her up and down, frankly admiring. “The cap’n will be glad to see ye lookin’ so fine.” The butler turned to the hooks by the door and carefully hung up her cloak.

“Thank you, Stevens. Where is the earl?”

“In his room. Reeves is helpin’ him dress. The cap’n—I mean, the earl—looks fine as a galley himself.” He led the way down the hallway. “The cap’n—I mean, the earl—was feeling a bit low about this evenin’s entertainment and I thought perhaps ye were feel in’ the same, so I set some sherry on the sideboard in case ye might want a fair drab to tide ye over.”

“Thank you, Stevens! Sherry would be just the thing.”

Stevens laid a finger beside his nose and nodded wisely. “I can tell these things, ye know. ’Tis me gift. Me mum could do the same thing, she could.”

“Well, whatever spirits whispered in your ears, I am glad they did.”

Stevens puffed up mightily and opened the door to the library, standing to one side.

Prudence noted all of the new and improved touches in Stevens’s manner compared to the first day she’d come to see the earl about the sheep. Funny, she hadn’t thought about it, but the sheep had stopped jumping the gate the second she’d begun tutoring the earl. That was certainly odd—

“Here’s the sherry! I took a swig of it meself, but ’tis a wee bit too sweet.” Stevens went to pour her a glass. “The cap’n—I mean, the
earl
—will be down as soon as Master Reeves convinces him to wear that pink waistcoat.”

Prudence took the glass from the erstwhile butler. “Pink?”

“It looked pink to me and the cap’n—I mean, the earl—but Reeves insisted it was not. He called it ‘puke,’ which is a horrid name to call anything, though in this case it do seem appropriate.”

She choked a bit on the sherry. “I’m sorry. But do you think perhaps the name of the color is ‘puce’?”

“Aye! That be it! Still, call it what ye will, pink is pink and that’s not the proper color fer a man to wear, especially one like the captain. ’Tis rather like seein’ them geld a fine stallion.” Stevens straightened his shoulders. “Speakin’ of which, I had best be goin’ to see if Reeves needs any help. Will there be anything else afore I leaves ye?”

Prudence shook her head, smiling. “Stevens, you have become quite the butler. You sound just like Reeves.”

Stephens brightened, his cheeks glowing with pleasure. “Do ye think so? He’s been teachin’ me how to do things proper, though it has been a horrible burden to bear, puttin’ up with always bein’ wrong.”

“I’m sure it is,” Prudence murmured. She glanced at the clock on the mantle. “I hope the earl won’t be long, or we’ll be late.”

Stevens held up a hand. “Never fear! I’ll light a fire beneath him. Just wait ’til ye see the captain in his new clothes; he will have all the ladies a-twitter.” Stephens appeared much arrested by this thought. “Perhaps the cap’n will find a woman at the squire’s to marry.”

A stab of irritation flashed through Prudence, melting her previous good humor. “We are not going to the squire’s dinner for his lordship to find a wife.”

“Why not? He has a title now, don’t he? And money, if he can pull the wool over the eyes of those trustees. Why shouldn’t he also get a wife? He will need someone to help him spend it.”

Prudence could think of a thousand hazy reasons, but none she could express. Fortunately, Stevens suddenly remembered he’d been on his way to fetch a pin for Reeves when she’d arrived. Bowing quickly, he skittered from the room and left her alone with her thoughts.

Prudence took another sip of sherry. Stevens was right; perhaps Tristan should be thinking of finding a good woman to marry. Once she was finished smoothing out his rough edges…She paused, thinking of the earl smiling at another woman. Of the earl holding another woman. Of the earl kissing another woman the same way he’d kissed her—

“Oh bother,” she snapped, spinning on her heel and facing the door. Her temples suddenly pounded. Which of the local women would want anything to do with the earl? The thought held her. Good God, every blessed one.

“The
earl,
” she reminded herself. Tristan was indeed an earl, a soon-to-be-wealthy earl. A soon-to-be-wealthy earl with startling green eyes and a lopsided smile that could make one’s heart leap. It wasn’t who would be interested in the earl, but rather, who wouldn’t be?

She rapidly reviewed all of the women who would be at the party. Mrs. Reed, of course. The young widow had been pursuing Reverend Olglethorpe diligently, though he had been adamant in his refusal to countenance her interest.

Prudence was certain the vile widow would willingly reset her sights on Tristan. Prudence sniffed. It was a pity the woman was so puffed up with her own consequence or she’d know that her nose was several sizes larger than it should have been.

Then there was Miss Simpson, whose father was the local magistrate. She was reportedly a handsome girl, though Prudence found her unforgivably overbearing. Surely Tristan wouldn’t be interested in such a girl, even if her father was the richest man in the area.

Other names of eligible women flittered through Prudence’s mind. Oh damn. Damn. Damn. Frowning mightily, she poured herself yet another glass of sherry.

Reeves stepped back and surveyed his handiwork from head to toe. “My lord, you look a gentleman.”

Tristan gritted his teeth, enduring the inspection. He felt like a ship with a broken top rudder, adrift in an oily sea, left to the fickle winds and the hands of fate.

Reeves nodded. “You look well, my lord. Very well.”

“I will not wear the pink waistcoat.”

“You are wearing it,” Reeves pointed out gently. “And it is not pink, but puce.”

“Putrid is more like.” Tristan turned to pick up his watch fob when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Tall and broad shouldered, his hair was neatly tied back, and his shoulders were outlined by the black evening coat, the only colors he wore were the pale puce waistcoat and the sparkle of a ruby in his cravat.

Reeves came to stand behind him. “You look just like him.”

Tristan’s hands curled into fists. “It is not a likeness I treasure.”

“Perhaps you should. I’ve often thought it a pity we do not celebrate the good that sometimes comes out of the bad.”

Tristan met Reeves’s gaze in the mirror. “It is a greater pity when there is no good.”

Reeves pursed his lips. “I am afraid I would have to disagree with that, my lord. The old earl left you his title and funds, though he did have other options. He could have legitimized one of his other unfortunate relatives and named another heir.”

“You are right. I should be thankful. And I am.

Only…not to him.” Tristan looked once again into the mirror, into his own green eyes. “Still no word from Christian?”

“No, my lord. We can only hope he is getting his affairs in order so that he may assume his position without—” Reeves bit his lip.

Tristan turned to face the butler. “Without what?”

“There are times one should leave one’s past in the past.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I shall leave it to Master Christian to tell you.”

Tristan regarded the butler with frustration. “You are damned cryptic at times.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“I am aware of that, my lord.” The butler sighed. “I wonder…how old was Master Christian when you last laid eyes on him?”

“We were ten.”

“It has been over twenty years. He might be greatly changed.”

“I would know him anywhere.”

“Given the right lighting and the correct circumstances, I think you would, too.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Nothing. Only…it would be well to acknowledge that the brother you think you knew might no longer exist.”

The thought was unsettling, to say the least. Tristan picked up his cane. “No matter what, I want him back in my life.”

Reeves bowed. “I shall let you know as soon as I hear from him, my lord.”

A knock sounded on the door. Reeves went to open it and Stevens stood there. He brightened on seeing Reeves. “What do ye know! Someone did open the door when I knocked.”

“Amazing, is it not?” Reeves said, shutting the door.

“Sails and oars, Cap’n!” Stevens shook his head. “Next ye’ll be wearing skirts and a bow in yer hair.”

Tristan raised his brows.

The first mate flushed. “I didn’t mean that, me lord! It just slipped out fer I know ye’d never wear no skirt or bow. I just meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Tristan growled.

Stevens sighed. “I was just a mite out of breath from seein’ Mrs. Thistlewaite to the library. She looks a picture, she do.”

“Mrs. Thistlewaite always looks a picture.” Which was annoyingly true. Even red nosed from the cold, her hair wind tossed, her clothes a bit wrinkled from the walk to his house, she managed to look delectable.

“Indeed, she’s a fine woman,” Stevens agreed. “But tonight, she looks a lady born. Ye’ll have yer hands full keeping the beaus from overcoming her on the dance floor, mark me words!”

Tristan frowned. “Beaus?” He looked at Reeves.

The butler nodded. “That is, after all, one of the purposes of a country party. To provide some social opportunities for those looking for a wife…or a husband.”

Tristan didn’t like the sound of that at all. He wondered if the doctor would be there, ready to pant over Prudence and annoy the hell out of Tristan. “Whoever is there, they had better leave Prudence alone.”

Reeves seemed to contemplate this. “Unless she wishes it, of course. Then you cannot, in all honesty, interfere.”

“Interfere? I will be there to protect her.”

“Mrs. Thistlewaite is not a child, my lord. Unless she requests your assistance, you cannot do anything. I only hope she might find someone who will make her happy. She is such a lovely woman.”

To Tristan’s irritation, Stevens nodded. “She’s a trim rig, make no doubt about it. Daresay there are any number of gents willin’ to—”

“Enough!” Tristan glared at Stevens and then Reeves. “I don’t wish to hear another word.”

Reeves bowed. “As you wish, my lord.”

Scowling, Tristan walked out the door and made his way downstairs.

Bloody hell, what did Stevens mean by suggesting that Prudence would have the ill thought of flirting? She was not that sort of woman. He remembered her in his library, of her hair unbound and her mouth swollen from his kisses—well. Perhaps she
was
the type, but only with him, damn it! He glanced down, annoyed to find that he’d hardened at the mere memory of touching her.

She was his. His until he was through with her or she him. And he would allow no one else to broach the subject. If some drunken coxswain thought to jump Prudence’s deck, Tristan would be ready to discourage the jackanapes with a pistol if need be.

He scowled to himself as he reached the bottom of the stairs. It was a good thing Stevens had mentioned such a happenstance or Tristan might have been caught asleep at the helm.

He made his way down the narrow hallway, the light from the library shining into the gloomy passage, a beacon from a dark shore. Less than a month ago, he’d been peaceful here, watching his life drift by, only the concern for his men giving him a reason to rise from bed. Now, things were more clear…more hopeful, somehow.

Tristan paused outside of the library and looked down at his clothing. The cloth was softer than he was used to, though it bound him tighter. He adjusted his cravat for the umpteenth time, using a finger to loosen it a bit about the neck, certain he was creasing it in some way that would horrify Reeves.