Page 58 of Only Scandal Will Do

Duncan stood relaxed on the bridge of the Constanza, gazing at the brooding purple predawn horizon. He would have liked a life at sea. The thought always occurred when he traveled by ship, the only time he ever felt remotely dissatisfied with his lot. But today that sense of dissatisfaction was fleeting; only a single area of his life remained where perfect contentment still eluded him, a situation he hoped this voyage would remedy.

He exchanged a nod with Captain Stratton as he left the bridge and strode to the bow of the ship. Leaning on the rail, he watched with fascination the rush of blue water as the prow cut through the waves. The speed of the ship was more thrilling than the fastest horse.

Mornings aboard ship were his favorite time: the clean salt air, clear and fresh, the wind and spray in his face, the brisk wind tugging at his loose shirt. The exquisite colors of the dawn sky filled the world with unearthly beauty. He could not wait to share it all with Katarina.

He’d half expected her to have appeared on deck already, and glanced around for her. She liked the early morning, and the excitement of their first day aboard ship should have brought her topside by now. He recalled her enthusiasm of the past weeks as they had planned for her training in Italy and smiled to himself. He had great hopes for this voyage.

Of course, he’d also had great hopes two weeks ago. His gaze returned to the splashing waves on the horizon, and some of the joy of the morning abated. Staring at the dull grays and purples, now tinged with pink and orange as the sun raced to appear, Duncan’s thoughts turned to the kiss he’d claimed as forfeit from Katarina. That kiss had been an exquisitely sensuous experience, a breathtaking, soul-shaking eternity that had not lasted long enough. A lifetime would not have been long enough. He still did not know how he’d summoned the willpower to stop. Or how he’d left the room without ravishing her. The memory now brought a flush of warmth to his skin and a rousing of his flesh down below.

He’d escorted her to her bedchamber the next night, held her hand and brushed a goodnight kiss across her lips, and had expected a renewal of the warmth of the previous night. She’d merely smiled and backed away, all but fled into the chamber. An attempted afternoon tete-a-tete in the library had brought pleas of a headache and the need to lie down. After several days of such blatant maneuvering, he’d stopped trying to arrange time alone with her, and begun to question his memory. Had he imagined her response to his kiss? After much contemplation on the unfathomable workings of the female mind, he’d persuaded himself he must wait for the correct moment to rekindle that passion. Surely during an entire month alone at sea with his wife, he could find that one special moment.

He glanced up from his musings; still no Katarina. The sun broke through the thin clouds on the horizon, brilliant clear light transfixing the waves. Indeed, a magnificent display.

Damn, but Katarina should have been here to share this with him. He’d specifically asked her to join him on deck this morning when he’d escorted her to her cabin after dinner. Come to think about it, she had not given him a direct answer, just a slight smile.

Scowling, Duncan turned from the bow and made his way down the gangway to what had been the captain’s cabin. Now refurbished as a luxury stateroom, ostensibly for Katarina, he had hoped by the end of the voyage it would be their joint cabin. He rapped a staccato beat on the door and when it did not open immediately, impatience turned to annoyance. Katarina should at least be dressing by this time. What was the damned delay?

An odd, muffled sound came through the door. He knocked again. “Lady Dalbury? Are you coming up on deck?” he called. “You have missed the sunrise, my lady. Will you miss breakfast as well?” A louder sound, more akin to a groan, issued from behind the stout door. He tried the latch, but it was locked. “Lady Dalbury? Margery? Is something wrong?”

Just as his patience drained to the last drop, the cabin door slid open, revealing Margery in the doorway. Her gray traveling dress was stained down the front with God knew what and her hair trailed from her usual tidy bun in a hundred limp wisps. Her haggard face, set in harsh lines, appeared weary beyond belief.

“Margery! What the hell is going on?” Before the maid could summon an answer, a terrible gurgling sound issued from the room behind her. At the same time, the smell hit him.

“My God, what is that stench?”

Behind Margery, his wife raised her head from a basin that had been placed on the floor beside the bunk. Her face, white as her gown, seemed even paler in contrast to her flaming hair, now plastered darkly to her head. She stared at him as she eased herself onto the pillow. A low moan became the words, “Go away.”

Margery staggered into the gangway, drawing the door closed behind her.

“How long has she been ill?” he demanded. Sweet Christ, why hadn’t they called him?

Katarina looked near to death.

“Since last night, my lord.” The maid’s dull tone revealed the depths of her fatigue. Margery propped herself against the door, the only thing keeping her standing. “She was fine after dinner. We talked as she undressed and got ready for bed, and there was no sign of sickness. Then all of a sudden, she come over queer-like and sat down on the bed. Her face went a funny greenish color, then gray, and she said ‘I’m sick, Margery,’ and started like you just saw, my lord. All night, it’s been.”

He ran his hand through his hair, pulling at the ends. “Did you send for the doctor?”

“There’s none onboard, my lord.”

Damn the captain! He should never have left the hiring of the crew to him, no matter the protocol. What fool would neglect to secure a physician? “Lady Dalbury got no rest all night?”

“We might have dozed a bit now and then, my lord. But no good sleep at all.” The maid yawned, punctuating her words.

“Was it something she ate at dinner? Did something disagree with her, do you think?”

Margery gave him a withering glare. “You ate the same thing yourself, my lord, as did I. And I felt no ill effects. Neither did you, by the looks of you.” She eyed his tall frame with pursed lips. “I’d say, myself, it’s the seasickness. I never had any trouble myself, but there’s folk who can’t travel over the waves without retching like she’s been doing.”

“I wish she had said something about this before we left. We could have taken an overland route instead.” He peered at her sharply. “Was she this ill when she and Manning came over from the colonies?”

Margery shrugged. “I can’t say, I’m sure, Lord Dalbury. I was only engaged as Lady Katarina’s maid after she and her brother came to London. She never mentioned such sickness to me when we were getting ready for this voyage.”

Worry formed a cold knot in his stomach. “Go down to your cabin and get some sleep, Margery. I’ll stay with Lady Dalbury until you’re rested. We can each take a turn tending her and then I’ll--”

A pitiful moan came from within the cabin. “Margery. Oh God.”

He thrust the door open, and Margery almost fell inside the cabin. Katarina again leaned over the basin, moaning as though death were eminent. Rushing to her side, he gently cradled her forehead until it rested limply against his hand then eased her onto the bed. Seated beside her, he smoothed her hair away from her face with a feather light touch. She opened her eyes, two pools of pure misery, took a slow deep breath and managed to whisper, “Please leave.” Then she closed her eyes. Her breathing became short, sharp pants, as though to take a second full breath might incur another bout of sickness.

“My lord.” Margery shook her head and beckoned him toward the door.