Page 23 of A Dance with the Wayward Duke
Marguerite lifted her chin. "The Royal Navy has many faults, but it appears capable of learning from catastrophe."
Elsie eyed the ladder. "I like a man who learns."
Marguerite refused to think of men. Or of one man in particular. Or of one man in particular wearing naval blue, standing somewhere above her on a ship that was now to become her entire country until Naples.
Naples. Yes, she must think of sunny Naples and a court where a woman could succeed.
She placed one gloved hand on the rail.
The wood was dry beneath her palm. Firm. The steps did not swing, slap the hull, or attempt to murder her. Still, the memory of the rope ladder flickered through her body. Her stomach tightened. The sea moved below, green-black and gleaming, making the sort of small, wet sounds one heard from creatures pretending innocence.
“Not today,” she muttered, and climbed.
At the entry port, a young lieutenant offered his hand. Marguerite took it because her knees, though improved by recent experience, had not yet become citizens of a reliable republic. The lieutenant helped her through with impeccable care and immediately released her.
The deck opened before her.
Men moved everywhere in apparent order. Sailors crossed the deck with coils over their shoulders. A marine stood near the rail in scarlet. Above them, ropes climbed in disciplined lines into the masts, where sails hung furled, waiting for command.
And there, near the quarterdeck, stood Tristan Blackmere, Duke of Stormhaven.
He was very handsome. This was unfortunate but not new information.
He wore his uniform with such severe correctness that it seemed less clothing than declaration. Dark blue coat. Gold epaulets. White breeches. Black boots. His long black hair was tied neatly at his nape, his sun-browned face clean-shaven.
Where was the pirate? The man who had grinned in moonlight, stolen her bracelet, and told her to damn the consequences… He seemed much less imposing than this Captain Duke.
She was aboard his frigate, surrounded by his officers, his sailors, his guns, even his ropes. For weeks, her world would be reduced to Tristan Blackmere's authority. The thought tightened her fingers around her reticule.
He bowed. “Miss d’Ailes.”
"Your Grace."
There. Two civilized people could cross a deck, enter a ship, and speak as if one had not once held the other by the waist above the sea.
He did not reach for her. His gaze passed once over her face, paused nowhere, claimed nothing, then moved to Elsie and the small pile of trunks being brought aboard behind them.
Marguerite should have been grateful. She was grateful. Very grateful. A woman crossing the deck of a warship under the eyes of officers and sailors required respect far more than she required green eyes lingering upon her.
And yet.
Her pulse kept reaching for his attention like an idiot's hand in the dark.
Look at me, tell me who you are.
"Your passage is prepared," he said.
"Thank you."
"My officers have been instructed regarding your comfort and privacy."
Privacy.
The word landed with more force than she expected.
"Very considerate."
A second officer came striding toward them with a cheerfulness that appeared entirely unauthorized by the RoyalNavy. He was younger than the duke, though not very young, and handsome in a brighter, less dangerous way. His blue eyes were openly laughing, and he wore his uniform as if it were a costume he admired but did not entirely trust to keep him respectable.
