Page 27 of A Dance with the Wayward Duke
“So,” Lorenzo said, “I found the door that was open. I told him I needed employment. He did not let me in, but he let me stay.”
She sighed before she could stop herself.
Lorenzo looked up quickly. “Are you sighing for me?”
“I am sighing because men are exhausting.”
“Ah. Then yes, for me.” Lorenzo studied her for a moment. “So you will keep my secret?”
“It is not my secret to tell.”
His shoulders loosened.
“But you should tell him.”
The looseness vanished.
“Not until he accepts me as a brother. If I tell him first, then he has another reason to send me away. I prefer to remain employed until he accidentally becomes fond of me.”
“That is a terrible plan.”
“It is the only plan he has not yet cut loose.”
Marguerite looked at him and felt her chest squeeze in a place she had not meant to use. She knew something about fighting for crumbs of affection. Negotiating for them. Making oneself useful, agreeable, dazzling, necessary, anything that might cause another person to look up and say, Yes, you may remain.
How fortunate, she thought, that she was not in the market for a Sea Wolf.
“I wish you luck,” she said.
“Grazie, signorina.” Lorenzo’s eyes softened. “Now. Since you are very determined to stay aboard this floating monastery, I should show you something.”
“Must you? I have only just survived the cell. If you reveal a hair shirt or a rack for improving moral character, I may yet take the boat back.”
Shrugging, he crossed the cabin and set his hand against a narrow seam in the wall. He pressed a latch, and a partition swung open.
Behind lay civilization. Folded blankets. A small rug. A cushioned chair wedged sideways. A box of candles. A writing case. A shelf of porcelain cups wrapped in cloth. A kettle. A screen. Two soft pillows. And, gleaming at the back with indecent promise, a copper tub.
Marguerite stared at it all. Then she turned very slowly to Lorenzo. “How do you say rascal in Italian?”
His smile bloomed with shameless delight. “Furfante. Though if you wish to wound me properly, briccone has a charming music. And you must not fear wounding me. I have been called worse by women less beautiful.”
“You showed me the ugliest possible route, the worst of the ship, the starkest possible cabin, and allowed me to believe I would be sleeping inside a wooden sermon. Why?”
He placed a hand over his heart. “You see the lengths Lorenzo the Knight will go to fight gold-digging dragons . . . It is exhausting work, really, and completely unrewarded.”
“You thought I was a fortune hunter?”
“I thought you were a beautiful woman seeking passage with a duke who has a ship, a title, a wounded heart, and the self-preservation of a man who swims toward cannon fire.”
“I am seeking passage to Naples.”
“Yes. And I am seeking brotherhood. We are all innocent here.”
“Go away, Prince Lorenzo, before I box your ears.”
He leaned slightly nearer, lowering his voice to a scandalous softness. “Would you kiss the hurt later?”
Marguerite marched to the door, opened it, and fixed him with a look that would have singed lace.
