Dreams of Desire by Cheryl Holt

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    “First, you will say thank you to Miss Lambert, then you will cover your shoulders to shield yourselves from the chill that has you both so discomfited.”
    They fumed, then muttered an insolent, “Thank you, Miss Lambert.”
    Grudgingly, they tugged on the shawls as he’d demanded.
    As for Miss Lambert, if he’d been expecting gratitude, he was grossly mistaken. She glowered at him, irked by his intervention, but he’d merely tried to help her deal with the pair. Apparently, she’d rather fight her battles on her own. Fine. She could spend the next two months wallowing in misery. He’d be damned if he’d stick his neck out a second time.
    He spun toward Violet and inquired, “Are you enjoying the trip, Violet?”
    “It’s been . . . interesting.”
    It was a tepid response and not anywhere close to what he’d been hoping to hear.
    She’d never sailed before, and he’d been anxious for her to thrive during the voyage. He didn’t know much about her, their courtship having been one of the fussy, stilted ordeals typical of an aristocratic match.
    The engagement had been finalized after extensive discussions with lawyers, bankers, and land agents. The process had taken more than a year to complete.
    Prior to his proposing, he and Violet been allowed a few brief, highly structured conversations, with her chaperones hanging on their every word. They’d danced at several balls and had sat together at three suppers, but that was the sum total of their betrothal interaction.
    The reason he’d had Esther invite Violet to Scotland was so he could become acquainted with her. It didn’t seem as if they had much in common. She was so much younger, and she was very timid. He couldn’t abide nerves or shyness in a female.
    He wanted her to love his Scottish castle, to revel in the history of the place as he did. He wanted her to love his horses and dogs, and he absolutely insisted that she love sailing. If she didn’t, he would . . . would . . .
    He suffered a moment of panic, terrified that he was planning to wed a stranger, someone who might not value what he valued. The thought of it—of entering an empty marriage devoid of camaraderie—filled him with dread, but as fast as the ridiculous notion swamped him, he shook it away.
    He wasn’t like his mother, Barbara, who’d pined for excitement, who’d been ruled by her emotions. His pending union with Violet had naught to do with romance or affection or any such folderol. It was a business arrangement, initiated for the financial benefit of the parties.
    Nothing more. Nothing less.
    He peered over at her. “The moon is out this evening, so it will be very beautiful on deck.”
    “How nice,” she mumbled, looking green around the gills.
    “Will you walk with me later?”
    She sucked in a deep breath, held it, let it out. Inhaled again. Exhaled.
    “I’m not feeling very well,” she said.
    “I’m sorry to hear it.”
    “I don’t think the ocean agrees with me.”
    His heart sank. “It can take some getting used to.”
    “Would you excuse me?” She stood abruptly. “I must return to my cabin.”
    With one hand clutching her stomach and the other covering her mouth, she ran out. He watched her go, struggling not to show any upset.
    If she didn’t care for sailing, they’d just have to find other similar hobbies. It wasn’t the end of the world, but as he pondered their lack of common ground, it certainly seemed like it was.
    His despondent rumination was interrupted by Miss Lambert rising to her feet. She was the only person sensible enough—or kind enough—to chase after Violet.
    “I’ll check on her,” Miss Lambert said to no one in particular.
    “Aren’t you feeling sick?” Melanie asked, appearing hopeful.
    “It’s your first sea voyage, too,” Miranda stated. “You can’t be faring much better than she.”
    “I’m fine.” Miss Lambert threw it out like a challenge. “I’m healthy as a horse.”
    She marched out, and the