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‘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.’
