to gaze out over the harbor once
more, his fingers curling and uncurling.
"Oh, and by
the way, Damon. You should know that Midshipman Owens is getting a little
rough with the prisoners. I would speak to him, but . . ."
Damon shut his
eyes. "Yes, Peter. I'll take care of it."
~~~~
Lady Gwyneth
Evans Simms rapped sharply on the roof of the carriage, and the vehicle came to
a stop in front of the small house she and her sister, Rhiannon, were renting
in Portsmouth.
She was still
boiling with rage at the effrontery of the insufferable Lord Morninghall, and
his rude treatment, his cutting remarks, and worse, his touch, were all fresh
in her mind. She could still feel that hot, practiced hand skimming over her
flesh, could still taste that searing kiss, could still smell the spicy scent
of sandalwood, could still see those eyes.
Those eyes!
The footman
helped her down from the carriage, and, skirts in hand, Gwyneth stormed past
the daffodil beds and manicured hedges into the house.
Rhiannon was
sitting in the parlor, a book in her lap and Mattie curled at her feet. Both
she and the old dog looked up as Gwyneth sailed in.
"Well?"
"I need a
drink, Rhiannon. Something strong."
"That bad, was
it?"
"The man
was an insufferable boor!"
"Really,
Gwyn, how could you have expected him to be anything else? I mean, he runs a
prison hulk, for heaven's sake. We are the company we keep."
"Lord
Morninghall's company is something you couldn't pay me enough money to keep ,"
Gwyneth spat, as their maid, Sophie, brought in a tray containing a bottle of
whiskey and two glasses. "He was positively odious. Awful."
"I hear
he's devilishly handsome."
"He's a
vain, rude, arrogant beast !"
Gwyneth picked
up a glass and, hands shaking with rage, splashed some of the whiskey into it.
She collapsed onto the sofa, letting the liquid fire burn its way down her
throat. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Rhiannon, head slightly
tilted, ginger curls cascading from their loose coil, green eyes bright and
amused.
"So, what does
he look like?"
" You would ask."
"Oh, do
tell! Is he as handsome as everyone says he is?"
Gwyneth's sigh
was long and bracing. Resigned. "His hair is the color of black coffee,
thick and gleaming, with just enough curl in it to give it some interest. He
wears it swept back off his forehead, rakishly cut, longer than is fashionable,
but on him the effect is altogether . . ."
"Appealing?"
Gwyneth stared
hopelessly, unseeingly, into the fireplace. "He is magnificent,
Rhiannon."
Rhiannon sat up
with sudden interest. "Go on!"
"His
shoulders are broad and proud, his physique, a Greek statue with life breathed
into it. But no warmth. He is like animated stone."
Rhiannon raised
an eyebrow.
"His hands
are elegant, his nails clean, his fingers —" masterful — "his
fingers, long and sensitive. Rather like a musician's, or an artist's. I did
not expect that . . . not in such a brute."
"Oh, do go
on, Gwyn!"
"He is
tall. At least six feet. I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes."
"And his
mouth?"
"Sensual."
"His
nose?"
"Every inch
an aristocrat's."
"His
temper?"
"Horrible."
Gwyneth leaned her brow into her hand. "But his eyes . . . they are
without contest his most arresting feature. When he looked at me, I sensed
that he could read every one of my thoughts, could even see inside my head and
know just what kind of effect he was having on me. I felt like he was the
charmer, and I was the snake. It was altogether chilling. Fascinating. Maybe
even a little frightening." She shuddered and looked straight at her
sister. "They are devil's eyes, Rhia."
Silence, with
only the ticking of the clock, went on for a long moment.
"He scares
me, Rhia. I am not used to feeling scared. I — I am not quite sure how to
deal with this emotion, or with Morninghall himself."
"Well, think
of it this way, Gwyn. You have been moaning that you
more, his fingers curling and uncurling.
"Oh, and by
the way, Damon. You should know that Midshipman Owens is getting a little
rough with the prisoners. I would speak to him, but . . ."
Damon shut his
eyes. "Yes, Peter. I'll take care of it."
~~~~
Lady Gwyneth
Evans Simms rapped sharply on the roof of the carriage, and the vehicle came to
a stop in front of the small house she and her sister, Rhiannon, were renting
in Portsmouth.
She was still
boiling with rage at the effrontery of the insufferable Lord Morninghall, and
his rude treatment, his cutting remarks, and worse, his touch, were all fresh
in her mind. She could still feel that hot, practiced hand skimming over her
flesh, could still taste that searing kiss, could still smell the spicy scent
of sandalwood, could still see those eyes.
Those eyes!
The footman
helped her down from the carriage, and, skirts in hand, Gwyneth stormed past
the daffodil beds and manicured hedges into the house.
Rhiannon was
sitting in the parlor, a book in her lap and Mattie curled at her feet. Both
she and the old dog looked up as Gwyneth sailed in.
"Well?"
"I need a
drink, Rhiannon. Something strong."
"That bad, was
it?"
"The man
was an insufferable boor!"
"Really,
Gwyn, how could you have expected him to be anything else? I mean, he runs a
prison hulk, for heaven's sake. We are the company we keep."
"Lord
Morninghall's company is something you couldn't pay me enough money to keep ,"
Gwyneth spat, as their maid, Sophie, brought in a tray containing a bottle of
whiskey and two glasses. "He was positively odious. Awful."
"I hear
he's devilishly handsome."
"He's a
vain, rude, arrogant beast !"
Gwyneth picked
up a glass and, hands shaking with rage, splashed some of the whiskey into it.
She collapsed onto the sofa, letting the liquid fire burn its way down her
throat. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Rhiannon, head slightly
tilted, ginger curls cascading from their loose coil, green eyes bright and
amused.
"So, what does
he look like?"
" You would ask."
"Oh, do
tell! Is he as handsome as everyone says he is?"
Gwyneth's sigh
was long and bracing. Resigned. "His hair is the color of black coffee,
thick and gleaming, with just enough curl in it to give it some interest. He
wears it swept back off his forehead, rakishly cut, longer than is fashionable,
but on him the effect is altogether . . ."
"Appealing?"
Gwyneth stared
hopelessly, unseeingly, into the fireplace. "He is magnificent,
Rhiannon."
Rhiannon sat up
with sudden interest. "Go on!"
"His
shoulders are broad and proud, his physique, a Greek statue with life breathed
into it. But no warmth. He is like animated stone."
Rhiannon raised
an eyebrow.
"His hands
are elegant, his nails clean, his fingers —" masterful — "his
fingers, long and sensitive. Rather like a musician's, or an artist's. I did
not expect that . . . not in such a brute."
"Oh, do go
on, Gwyn!"
"He is
tall. At least six feet. I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes."
"And his
mouth?"
"Sensual."
"His
nose?"
"Every inch
an aristocrat's."
"His
temper?"
"Horrible."
Gwyneth leaned her brow into her hand. "But his eyes . . . they are
without contest his most arresting feature. When he looked at me, I sensed
that he could read every one of my thoughts, could even see inside my head and
know just what kind of effect he was having on me. I felt like he was the
charmer, and I was the snake. It was altogether chilling. Fascinating. Maybe
even a little frightening." She shuddered and looked straight at her
sister. "They are devil's eyes, Rhia."
Silence, with
only the ticking of the clock, went on for a long moment.
"He scares
me, Rhia. I am not used to feeling scared. I — I am not quite sure how to
deal with this emotion, or with Morninghall himself."
"Well, think
of it this way, Gwyn. You have been moaning that you
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