Page 89 of Cocky August Rake

Likely, he recognized her from The Domus.

Rose’s cheeks warmed.

Reginald turned back to her. “Would you like a tour of her?”

Of her?

The Phantom Gale.

Rose had come to finish this quickly. She had spent the entire journey telling herself there was no kindness in delaying it. And yet, now that she stood beside him, she wanted more time. More moments in which he still looked at her this way.

“Yes,” she said. “I’d like that very much.”

Reginald led her across the main deck, pointing out the new rigging and the repairs to the mast. For a few moments, he was wholly the captain again—certain, at ease, speaking of tides and canvas as though they were things he understood down to the bone.

But his attention kept returning to her.

“How have you been?” he asked. “Did you manage to save the blue gown?”

Rose blinked. She had mentioned the torn hem only once.

“I did.”

“Good.” His hand settled at the small of her back as he guided her around a coil of rope, lingering…

“And the perfume? Did it come out the way you wanted it?”

“Nearly.”

He smiled, but his eyes searched her face again, as though he was hungry for every small thing he had missed.

Rose answered him quietly, memorizing the warmth of his hand, the sound of his voice, the way he kept looking at her as though he could not quite believe she had come.

Soon enough, she would have to say goodbye.

And as he proudly took her around, she tried to listen.

But mostly, she watched him.

She watched the easy way he moved. The way the sailors stepped aside without fear but with unmistakable respect. The way his hand brushed the rail as though the ship were something alive beneath his palm.

This was his Domus.

The place that had taken him in when England no longer felt like home.

Once they’d finished touring the open deck, Reginald led her into the cabin at the back end of the ship—the stern, he said it was called.

His quarters were larger than Rose had expected, though still plain compared to the rooms at The Domus. A narrow bed stood against one wall. Maps and charts covered another. The back wall was composed almost entirely of a series of wide windows that looked out over the Thames. Below it, a desk.

And in the center of the room, two chairs had been placed at a table, where silver covers—and the savory aromas—promised an elegant meal beneath them.

Candles burned in polished holders. A bottle of wine had been opened.

Rose stopped in the doorway.

“You arranged all this?”

“When I got word you were coming…” A faint uncertainty crossed his face. “I had hoped you’d stay long enough to enjoy it.”