A Candlelit Regency Christmas. Louise Allen
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and upend the basket over the top. Will that do?’
‘Very well. I hope he will not miss his mother.’ She worried as she tipped the kitten into Alex’s waiting palm where it snuggled down, obviously feeling safe in the cage of his fingers. Who could blame it?
‘If he cries I will take him into my bed, give him one of my best silk stockings to play with and ring down to the kitchen for some lightly poached salmon,’ Alex assured her, his expression serious.
‘I wouldn’t want to put you to so much trouble. Perhaps I should have him in my room—’ Then she saw the crease at the corner of his mouth and the wicked look in his eyes. Tess drew herself up to her full five feet five inches. ‘You, my lord, are unkind to make a jest of me. Thank you for a delightful supper.’
She took a step to sweep past him in a dignified manner, forgot her sore ankle and twisted sideways with a yelp of pain.
‘Definitely best not to drink the wine. You are quite unsteady enough as it is.’ Alex caught her one-handed.
Her hip was against the table, her nose was buried in the V of his waistcoat and her hands, she discovered, were clenched around his upper arms. All she had to do was let go and straighten up, use the table as a support to make her way to the door. Let go. He felt so good, so warm and solid and...expensive. Fine broadcloth coat against her cheek, silk waistcoat against her chin, fine linen under her nose. Tess wanted to burrow into the luxurious softness with all that masculine hardness beneath it. His chest, those biceps, that big hand pressed against her back, the tantalisingly faint edge of musk.
‘Tess?’ His mouth was close to her ear—he must have bent down. His breath tickled, his lips were so near.
‘Yes.’ Whatever the question is—yes.
From the region of her diaphragm there was an outraged yowl, a wriggle and a small paw reached up and fastened onto the front of Alex’s waistcoat.
‘You little devil, that’s Jermyn Street’s best.’ He stepped back, the kitten hooked to the fabric.
‘I will leave you to deal with your kind present, my lord.’ It was not easy to exit with dignity, not hobbling, pink in the face and with ginger hairs clinging to her drab grey skirts, but at least Alex had the more difficult task of extricating tiny claws from intricate, hideously expensive embroidery. ‘Goodnight.’
Tess closed the door behind her, then cracked it open again at the sound of muttered curses. She’d wished she knew some swear words: now she did.
* * *
‘Did you sleep well?’ Alex enquired. His little nun was decidedly wan as they stood at the foot of the gangplank of the Ramsgate Rose. Come to think of it, he was feeling a trifle wan himself, what with kitten herding and a night spent fighting inappropriate arousal and an unfamiliar guilty conscience. Although quite what he was feeling guilty about he was not certain. He might be feeling an unexpected physical attraction to an innocent young lady, but he was perfectly well able to resist it. He’d come across enough of them in the past and simply diverted any physical needs to the mistress of the moment. It was just that he had never spent so much time with one of the innocents before.
‘Thank you, yes.’ Tess was tight-lipped, her knuckles showing white on the handle of the wicker basket. They had eaten in their own rooms that morning and this was the first good look that he’d had of her in broad daylight.
‘Nervous?’ Alex ventured. A sharp shake of the head. ‘Do you get seasick?’ Oh, well done, Tempest, now she’s gone green. If not green, then certainly an unhealthy shade of mushroom.
‘I was when we came over to the Continent, but that was years ago. I am sure I will be fine. It is simply a matter of willpower, is it not?’
Not in Alex’s experience, not after seeing any number of strong-willed friends casting up their accounts over a ship’s rail. ‘Not so much strength of will, more a question of tactics,’ he offered, taking her elbow to guide her up the steep planks. ‘We stay on deck as much as possible, eat dry bread, drink plenty of mild ale.
‘And don’t try to read,’ he added. Even with his own cast-iron stomach the recollection of trying to study the Racing Chronicle in a crowded, overheated cabin brought back unpleasant memories. Grant’s appropriately named filly Stormy Waters—by Millpond out of Gale Force—had romped home by a head without any of Alex’s guineas on it that week at Newmarket.
Most of the passengers were making for the companionway down to the first-and second-class saloons. Alex steered Tess to a slatted bench under the mainmast and settled her on it with the cat basket, her portmanteau and his boat cloak. ‘I’ll go and see to my luggage, you set the kitten on anyone who tries to take my seat.’
At least that produced a smile, he thought, intercepting an icy glare from a beak-nosed matron as he made his way to the rail to watch his luggage being swung on board. Obviously she didn’t like the look of his face. He shrugged mentally. He hadn’t liked hers much, either.
At first it was easy to keep Tess’s mind off her stomach. The harbour was full of things to look at, the kitten needed tending to and, even when they cast off, the view was entertaining enough, the water sufficiently sheltered. Alex was rewarded with smiles and the colour in her cheeks and found himself experiencing a warm glow of satisfaction.
The chit would have him as sentimental as she was, he thought with an inward grimace, but if thinking avuncular thoughts was sufficient to stop him recalling that she was a grown woman only a few years younger than he was, then so be it. Tess Ellery was an innocent and he was not, which left him back exactly where he started—as an escort to a respectable lady.
She had fallen silent while he brooded. Alex glanced sideways and saw that the greenish tinge was back, the roses had gone and, from the set of her mouth, the smiles with them. ‘It is quite rough, isn’t it?’ Tess ventured.
Not as rough as it is going to get was the honest answer. ‘A little lively, yes,’ Alex agreed. ‘Tell me about your ideal employment. A cosy old lady or a pair of charming children?’ Some must be charming, not that he had ever encountered any for any length of time, other than his own younger siblings. He and Matthew had scrapped and bickered, and his sisters had been, by definition, girls, which meant they were as irritating and mystifying to a youth as females could be. He supposed he’d felt affection for them, he just didn’t feel he knew them.
‘I do not mind.’ Tess showed some signs of animation. ‘Just so long as it is a family.’
‘Otherwise you will miss the convent life too much?’ he suggested as he shook out his boat cloak and put it around her shoulders. Spray was beginning to blow back from the prow. It might be unusual to find himself acting responsibly, but at least he wasn’t being treated to the kind of spoiled tantrums his most recent mistress would have thrown under these circumstances. Which, come to think of it, was why she was no longer in his keeping.
‘Thank you.’ Tess snuggled into the heavy wool with a wriggle that reminded him of that dratted kitten making itself comfortable. ‘Miss the convent? Oh, no. It is worse being lonely in a crowd than by yourself, don’t you think?’
Alex tried to remember when, if, he had ever felt lonely. Alone, yes, but he was comfortable in his own company and always had been. When he wanted human contact he had a wide social circle; when he needed close friends he had them, the other three members of what the dean of his Oxford college had referred to bitterly as the Four Disgraces.
‘I suppose so,’ he agreed. ‘But in the convent, all those Sisters must have been like sisters, as it were.’
Tess gave a little shrug as though the cloak had developed uncomfortable creases. ‘Friendships are not encouraged. The sisters treat everyone the same and the boarders go home for holidays and they make friends within their own group. They all come from very good families.’
‘And you do not?’
‘I am an...orphan with no connections. But