Free Almost a Lady by Jane Feather Page A

hands. “No. So, no husband. A correct deduction, sir.”
    “A fiancé?”
    She shook her head. “No fiancé.”
    “A lover?”
    “This grows
very
personal, sir.”
    “My apologies, ma’am, if it’s
too
personal.”
    At that she laughed. “I have no secrets . . . and at present no lover.”
    “Ah.” He absorbed this, most particularly the
at present.
It seemed to imply that Meg Barratt was something of a woman of the world. And that would certainly fit with what he’d observed thus far of her personality.
    A cough came from behind them and they both turned. Biggins said, “Supper’s ready, Cap’n.”
    “Thank you.” Cosimo offered his arm to Meg. “Allow me to escort you to the table, ma’am.”
    It was absurd but she entered the game willingly enough. The quarterdeck had been transformed. Oil lamps hung from the yards, throwing a soft golden glow over a table laid with a checkered cloth, silverware, and glass. A wonderful rich aroma rose from a covered stewpot in the middle of the table. Meg realized she was famished. The sea air, she presumed.
    The table was set for two and as she took the chair Cosimo formally drew out for her, she said, “What about your nephews and the doctor? Will they not be joining us?”
    “The boys have work to do and they’ll mess with the men, it’s good for morale,” he said, taking his own seat opposite. “David has a permanent invitation at my table, but he rarely accepts it. He has a fondness for his books and his own company when at leisure.”
    “I see.” She shook out her napkin and lifted her face to the night sky, now a mass of stars with the three-quarter moon throwing its light across the water. “What a glorious night.” There was enough of a breeze for her to be glad of her cloak over her shoulders, but not enough to need to wrap herself up in it. Gus came to land on the deck rail beside the table, cocked his head intelligently, and uttered something that sounded remarkably like agreement.
    “Nights at sea usually are beautiful,” Cosimo observed, ladling stew into her bowl.
    He passed her a loaf of bread and she took it and broke into it hungrily. It was still warm. How did they bake bread on the open sea? She didn’t need to know the answer. There was a crock of golden butter that melted into the wheaten bread and the mingled scents were enough to make her light-headed.
    Cosimo poured wine and for a while they ate and drank in a silence that gradually, insidiously became charged. When he reached over to refill her glass his hand brushed hers and it happened as she had known all along that it would. A current of arousal crackled between them, jolting her belly and making her toes curl. It was not an unfamiliar sensation but always before she had been in control of the situation, had been able to play it according to her rules. With the exception of the gondolier, she amended. That had been way beyond her control and she hadn’t really understood what was happening.
    But this was different. She knew perfectly well what was happening, knew that Cosimo knew it too. And she was not in control of any part of this situation. Well, that was not entirely true, she reminded herself. She could control her own body. Not her reactions, her lust, her arousal, but what she did about them. The question quite simply was:
what did she want to do?
    He leaned over and brushed an errant curl from her forehead. “I was afraid of that,” he said.
    It made it worse that he made no attempt to pretend he didn’t notice that charge of lust or to deny it. It was very ungentlemanly of him, Meg decided, but even as she thought that, she couldn’t help a soft laugh at her own hypocrisy. She didn’t fall into lust with
gentlemen
. Never had, and she suspected never would.
    “Why afraid?” she demanded.
    He leaned back in his chair again and cupped his wineglass between his hands. “Wrong choice of word, perhaps.”
    Meg twirled the stem of her wineglass. “Maybe not,” she