How to Be a Proper Lady: A Falcon Club Novel by Katharine Ashe Page B

passive.
    “Early summer storms. You must have sailed these waters a hundred times.” She set a suspicious glare upon him.
    “Not recently. I have spent a great deal of my time during the past several years on the other side of this ocean. Along the coast of England, principally.”
    He spoke with such ease, as he did everything. She’d never met a sailor so competent and purely confident, perfectly settled in who he was and what he intended. It stirred a frisson of memory in her, of a time when the men of her world walked with a sense of entitlement. In her child’s recollection those men treated women not only with deference—as her crew did now—but with consideration. Men who not only did as one told them, but anticipated a girl’s wishes.
    On her seventh birthday, the baron had walked her to the old oak and showed her the swing he’d installed there. Without even asking, he knew she’d wished it above all things. He’d held her hand, her tiny one in his warm palm, and she’d looked up into the smiling face of the man she loved like a father, because he’d been that to her, even though all along he knew he was no such thing.
    Strange how a former pirate should seem familiar to her in the same manner as her former father. But there was something uncannily gentlemanly about Jinan Seton, a manner that bespoke cultivation despite his ungentlemanly profession. Perhaps that was how he’d gotten his royal nickname. And his arrogance.
    He seemed to be studying her, almost as though he were waiting for her reaction. As he did so, his gaze grew oddly intent, and warm, as in the corridor the day before.
    “Whatever the case,” she said, ignoring her tripping pulse, “you know how common sailors can seek to inveigle their captains into doing what they wish despite the negative consequences.”
    His brow creased. “What sort of negative consequences—”
    “Cap’n!” A shout came from the lookout. “Spar’s loose off the foremast.”
    “Again,” she muttered. “It’ll have to be refitted when we dock at Trinidad.” She began to make for the stair.
    Seton put out a hand to stay her. “I’ll see to it.” His clear eyes did not question but looked once again carefully at her.
    She nodded him on.
    He saw to the dislodged yardarm. She watched as best she could between the full sails, impressed as always with his calm command of her men, their ready acceptance of his orders. Difficult task completed, he returned to her post at the helm as though she had called him back. Which she had not, although a demon in her had been wishing it for no apparent reason other than she liked to be goaded. Or simply merely to see him up close. At certain angles, the sight of him made her a little breathless.
    At all angles. She couldn’t ignore his lean physique she’d seen unclothed, his gorgeous mouth. If she were a regular woman, she would probably be falling all over him.
    Her tetchiness redoubled.
    “What do you want, Seton?”
    “Further orders.”
    “No you don’t. You want to annoy me.”
    “Seems like you are taking care of that well enough on your own.” He folded his arms over his chest, and his perfect mouth tilted up at one corner. He wore only a waistcoat over his shirt, and the beauty of pure male muscle stretching the linen tight muddled her wits.
    “It’s the men.” She admitted a partial truth. “Little more than a sennight out and they’re eager to be back on shore.”
    “They have only recently returned from your last cruise. Perhaps you are a bit hard on them?”
    “Well, I may be that after all.” Not much of a retort. But it made his grin broaden slightly. Viola found herself seeking for more not-so-clever ripostes that might stretch that grin into an actual smile.
    “You needn’t deal with any of this.” He seemed to speak slowly. “Ever again. You could cash in the April Storm and say good-bye to grumbling sailors and broken yardarms forever. If you wish.”
    She released a tight