A Lady at Last. Brenda Joyce
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regard was frankly assessing. He finally said, “Really.”
“Really. And I would like some wine,” she added.
He poured her a scant finger, then poured himself a large glass.
“And to think I thought you were so generous,” she grumbled, reaching for her glass. Had her ploy succeeded?
“My estimation is that you are sixteen, perhaps seventeen,” he said, watching her closely.
Amanda sighed. She was seventeen and she would be eighteen in August. Instead of responding, she cast her eyes down and took a draft of the wine. Immediately she gasped, forgetting all about her deception. The wine she drank with Papa had been thick and sour; she had always preferred grog. “What is this?” she managed, stunned.
He leaned back in his chair, smiling broadly at her. “I take it that was a cry of approval?”
“This is delicious—like berries and velvet.”
“There is a strong note of blackberry,” he agreed, “and just enough tannin to coat the tongue. It’s from Rioja.”
Amanda was too busy taking another sip to reply. The wine was heaven.
“You’ll get tipsy if you don’t slow down,” he said, but his tone was light. He hadn’t touched his glass; he simply kept staring at her.
She wished she knew what he was really thinking. She smiled widely at him. “I never knew wine could be so delicious. Why are you looking at me so closely?”
He flushed and glanced aside. “I apologize.”
“Is it my shirt? Should I have braided my hair?”
“Your shirt is fine.” His smile was forced. “I was rude. It won’t happen again.”
Amanda hesitated. She twisted her hair into a knot, then smiled grimly at him. “I don’t have any other clothes, except for that nightgown.”
He seemed alarmed. “It’s not your hair—your hair is beautiful—and it’s not your clothes. I would like you to enjoy this meal. My chef is a good one.”
She went still. He liked her hair? Every summer she would chop a foot off with her dagger, but it always grew back by the next season. This summer, she hadn’t bothered—as her hair had not been on her mind, not with her father’s capture. “It’s too long,” she managed.
His color heightened. “Never cut it,” he said tersely.
“Do you really think my hair is beautiful?” she demanded.
His fingers drummed at the tablecloth, long and strong. Finally, slowly looking up, he said, “Yes, I do.”
She stared into his eyes, filled with joy, smiling at him.
He glanced away. “How old did you say you were?”
She was not going to tell him the truth. “I am almost twenty, de Warenne.”
He lifted his gaze, which was impenetrable now. “That is impossible. You are clearly at that awkward stage, at once half child, half woman.”
“You are babbling nonsense,” she said, instantly annoyed. “No one is half woman and half child! This morning you clearly thought me a full-grown woman, not half of one.”
He sat up straighter in his chair, his gaze locking with hers. Amanda stared challengingly at him, waiting for him to respond.
His lips slowly stretched into an odd smile. “You were raised among rowdy sailors. You know the nature of men. I have tried to be a gentleman with you, but I will admit my shortcomings. My nature is a manly one. It doesn’t mean anything, so do not read anything into it.”
Amanda stared at him. She could not decipher his meaning.
He sent her a very direct and sensual smile, one which could melt hearts and instantly melted hers. She forgot about decoding his odd words. Her pulse rioted and her thoughts jumbled, all at once.
He took the wine bottle and filled her glass. “Tell me a little bit about yourself.”
She could barely comprehend him.
“Amanda? When did you and your father come to live on Jamaica Island?”
She inhaled, unable to forget the way he had just looked at and smiled at her. She was still breathless. “I was four,” she exhaled.
“Where did you live prior to that?” he asked, his glass now in hand. From time to time he took a sip, clearly enjoying the red wine.
“St. Mawes. It’s in Cornwall. I was born there,” she said, her scattered wits finally returning.
“St. Mawes…I believe that’s on the eastern coast.”
She nodded. “That is where my mother was born.”
“How did your parents meet?” he asked, his gaze never leaving her face.
He was really interested in her life, she thought, amazed. “Papa was in the navy. He was a midshipman on a ship of the line. He was on leave in Brighton and Mama was there with her mother and sisters on holiday. It was love at first sight,” she added with a smile.
She kept expecting him to evince boredom, but he was leaning toward her now. “I had heard some talk of Carre having been a naval officer. A ship of the line, that is impressive.”
Ships of the line were the greatest warships in the British navy, huge triple-deck affairs with more than a hundred guns and crews of up to eight hundred or more. She was proud. “Papa was very dashing then, I think.”
“And your mother was swept off her feet.” He smiled.
“Yes.” Her smile faltered. “And then Papa turned rogue.”
“After the marriage?”
She nodded. “And after I was born. Mama gave him the boot.”
“I wonder if I know your mother’s family,” he mused. “My brother Rex has an estate in Cornwall, and I have been there, although infrequently.”
“She was a Straithferne,” Amanda said with renewed pride. “They are a very old family—Mama could trace her bloodlines back to Anglo-Saxon times.”
“So your mother is a very fine lady,” he remarked.
“She is a great lady. Papa told me that her airs are perfect and proper, no matter the moment, and that she is a great beauty, too.” She smiled, but some unease had arisen. It was so easy to forget that in six weeks she would be standing at her mother’s door in London. She glanced at de Warenne and saw him watching her intently and she smiled more firmly, as she did not want him to ever guess that going to England scared her more than any sea battle ever could.
“Does the family still have holdings in St. Mawes?” he asked.
Amanda suddenly sat up. “You are asking a lot of questions about my mother.” Her mind sped. De Warenne was an infamous ladies’ man and her mother was a great beauty. Was his interest in Dulcea Carre?
Her heart lurched with sickening force.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She couldn’t smile.
“Amanda?”
“Do you know my mother?” she demanded.
“I’m afraid not, nor am I familiar with the Straithfernes.”
She slumped in her chair in abject relief.
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