in her eyes.
“Use your wits. You learned to pickpocket, the best in London if I recall your boastful words. Now use your talents for something else. Look upon it as a dare.”
“But what if I can’t do it?” she whispered, eyes wide. Her gaze held his for an instant before she looked away.
“Nonsense. You’ll be an apt pupil, you’ll see.”
With a start, he realized he meant every word. He had been in her company enough to know real intelligence hid beneath those distracting blue eyes.
Too, there was nothing he enjoyed more than a challenge and this promised to be a good one. He pulled open the cabin door. “After you.”
“Thank ye.” She marched in ahead of him, ducking behind the sail that had been tacked to the ceiling to serve as curtain.
He could hear the creak as she sat down on her bunk.
“Simone?”
“Aye?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get it mastered in no time.”
“Aye.”
“Simone?”
“Aye?” Her voice was muffled, as if she were trying to stifle sobs.
“Are you all right?” He reached over and swiped aside the curtain, hooking it behind a nail.
As he suspected, tears streamed down her cheeks. His heart squeezed at the sight and then squeezed again when she managed to pull herself together enough to glare at him.
“Can I have me privacy please?” She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “Good night.”
“Of course. I shall spend my evening elsewhere. Good night to you.”
Simone watched the door close behind him. Golly, he confused her, difficult but kind too, to offer to teach her even though he knew of her dubious background.
But how could he possibly turn her, Mona Dougherty, late of Bishopsgate Street, into Lady Wellington, a lady of quality? Ladies of quality weren’t found in the workhouses and busy streets of Houndsditch and Spitalfields .
Genteel ladies were born that way, born into a life of privilege and protection. They didn’t become ladies as the result of a frivolous wager so how could he expect that of her?
She drooped forward, propping her elbows on her knees to cup her chin in her hands. Two tears balled and slid down her cheeks to drop unnoticed in her lap. She wanted him to be proud of her, wanted him to smile at her in that dark-eyed way that turned her knees into jelly. In short, she wanted to be the very thing she wasn’t: a lady of quality.
She considered what he had said, about using her wits. Although it seemed a Herculean task, he had said she could learn. She sat up and wiped her cheeks.
Learn she would.
And if I don’t?
Chapter Six
Several days later, on the foredeck of the Annabelle , Simone wondered if she had made a serious mistake.
“ Ee -ewe,” she said, face screwed in concentration. Her lips refused to form the word properly and it felt like she had chestnuts tucked in her cheeks.
“No, like this,” Temple prompted. “You.” He said it slowly. “Watch my mouth. You.”
“That’s what I said,” she retorted before trying it again. “ Ee -ewe.” Oy , how many times would she have to repeat it before he was satisfied?
As many times as it would take, she vowed. I don’t want to disappoint him.
“Well, actually, it’s not quite what you said. But you’re getting closer,” he encouraged.
The two sat side by side on the plank bench behind the foremast. Above them, the sails strained against the overcast sky and the lack of sun turned the ocean around them to dull pewter.
The dreary sight didn’t dampen Simone’s spirits for she sat with Temple, basking in his undivided attention. Plus, she wore a new dress made from the periwinkle blue seersucker that Mrs Featherstone had given her. She ran her hands appreciatively across her lap before hugging her borrowed shawl closer against the chill in the air. She turned her head to look Temple square in the face.
“Why can’t I just say ye like I always done? And who makes up the rules anyway,” she added mischievously,
“Use your wits. You learned to pickpocket, the best in London if I recall your boastful words. Now use your talents for something else. Look upon it as a dare.”
“But what if I can’t do it?” she whispered, eyes wide. Her gaze held his for an instant before she looked away.
“Nonsense. You’ll be an apt pupil, you’ll see.”
With a start, he realized he meant every word. He had been in her company enough to know real intelligence hid beneath those distracting blue eyes.
Too, there was nothing he enjoyed more than a challenge and this promised to be a good one. He pulled open the cabin door. “After you.”
“Thank ye.” She marched in ahead of him, ducking behind the sail that had been tacked to the ceiling to serve as curtain.
He could hear the creak as she sat down on her bunk.
“Simone?”
“Aye?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get it mastered in no time.”
“Aye.”
“Simone?”
“Aye?” Her voice was muffled, as if she were trying to stifle sobs.
“Are you all right?” He reached over and swiped aside the curtain, hooking it behind a nail.
As he suspected, tears streamed down her cheeks. His heart squeezed at the sight and then squeezed again when she managed to pull herself together enough to glare at him.
“Can I have me privacy please?” She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “Good night.”
“Of course. I shall spend my evening elsewhere. Good night to you.”
Simone watched the door close behind him. Golly, he confused her, difficult but kind too, to offer to teach her even though he knew of her dubious background.
But how could he possibly turn her, Mona Dougherty, late of Bishopsgate Street, into Lady Wellington, a lady of quality? Ladies of quality weren’t found in the workhouses and busy streets of Houndsditch and Spitalfields .
Genteel ladies were born that way, born into a life of privilege and protection. They didn’t become ladies as the result of a frivolous wager so how could he expect that of her?
She drooped forward, propping her elbows on her knees to cup her chin in her hands. Two tears balled and slid down her cheeks to drop unnoticed in her lap. She wanted him to be proud of her, wanted him to smile at her in that dark-eyed way that turned her knees into jelly. In short, she wanted to be the very thing she wasn’t: a lady of quality.
She considered what he had said, about using her wits. Although it seemed a Herculean task, he had said she could learn. She sat up and wiped her cheeks.
Learn she would.
And if I don’t?
Chapter Six
Several days later, on the foredeck of the Annabelle , Simone wondered if she had made a serious mistake.
“ Ee -ewe,” she said, face screwed in concentration. Her lips refused to form the word properly and it felt like she had chestnuts tucked in her cheeks.
“No, like this,” Temple prompted. “You.” He said it slowly. “Watch my mouth. You.”
“That’s what I said,” she retorted before trying it again. “ Ee -ewe.” Oy , how many times would she have to repeat it before he was satisfied?
As many times as it would take, she vowed. I don’t want to disappoint him.
“Well, actually, it’s not quite what you said. But you’re getting closer,” he encouraged.
The two sat side by side on the plank bench behind the foremast. Above them, the sails strained against the overcast sky and the lack of sun turned the ocean around them to dull pewter.
The dreary sight didn’t dampen Simone’s spirits for she sat with Temple, basking in his undivided attention. Plus, she wore a new dress made from the periwinkle blue seersucker that Mrs Featherstone had given her. She ran her hands appreciatively across her lap before hugging her borrowed shawl closer against the chill in the air. She turned her head to look Temple square in the face.
“Why can’t I just say ye like I always done? And who makes up the rules anyway,” she added mischievously,
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