Free The Duke of Olympia Meets His Match by Juliana Gray Page B

Olympia’s long frame. A pair of polished boots plopped over the bottom edge, well below the utmost reach of the blanket. “Ah, that’s the business. Brisk March wind, healthy salt air, lively company. What more could a man ask for?”
    The steward disappeared. Penelope said, “Privacy, perhaps?”
    â€œNow that’s a fine thing to say, after I went to so much trouble to gain an audience with you.”
    â€œI can’t imagine why.”
    â€œWhy, you said you couldn’t be seen with His Grace, the Duke of Olympia, that poor aristocratic duffer. I thought perhaps Mr. Elias Penhallow of Buffalo might be more the thing.”
    â€œYou can’t possibly mean to fool anyone with your wretched disguise.”
    â€œCan’t I?” His voice slipped into a confidential murmur. “I have always found, my dear Penelope, that people invariably see what they expect to see. In fact, the more obvious the disguise, the more heartily they fall for it.”
    â€œI didn’t
fall for it
, as you so charmingly put the matter, for a single second.”
    â€œSo I observed. Which means you must have been expecting me. Or else . . .” He paused, and Penelope looked up to see the steward approaching once more, this time bearing a silver tray on which a pair of thick ceramic cups teetered dangerously. “Here we are,” the duke said cheerfully. “One for me and one for the lady. No, don’t bother leaving the tray. Only slide overboard.”
    The cup was placed between Penelope’s palms, allowing her no possibility of refusal. The steward bowed and left. She bent her face over the hot steam and felt her nose thaw. “Or else?”
    â€œOr else you already know me better than anyone on this earth. Cheers, my dear.” He clinked her cup with his.
    Penelope sipped and sputtered. “My God!”
    â€œIs something amiss?”
    â€œThis isn’t coffee!”
    â€œOh, I had the chap add a splash of additional fortification to keep the blood warm.” Olympia set the cup to his lips. “I see they followed my instructions with enthusiasm.”
    â€œThere are
spirits
in my coffee? At this hour of the morning?”
    â€œSpirits? Only the finest cognac on board this ship, my dear. An ancient mariner’s remedy for the bitter March wind. Drink up, drink up. In a minute, you won’t feel a thing.”
    â€œIs that supposed to recommend it?” But she sipped again anyway, and this time the warmth tingled pleasantly along her rib cage, matching the tingle that had begun in her fingertips when she spotted those lively blue eyes underneath the woolen cap, sharing a secret only with her. He smelled of cigars and cognac, a sturdy masculine scent that went well with the salty air. “I suppose, for form’s sake, I should ask why you went to all this trouble,” she said. “Did you have something important to communicate?”
    â€œMe? No, not at all. I wanted to hear more about you.”
    He was still speaking in that low and confidential voice, English tones rather than American, and the intimacy of the moment—bundled up side by side on a deserted ocean liner at dawn, sipping twin cups of fortified coffee, breathing in each other’s particular scents (what did she smell like to him? she wondered), speaking in these private voices—sank into her bones.
    â€œHow ridiculous,” she said. “There’s nothing to tell. I lead a life of unrestricted dullness. You, on the other hand . . .”
    â€œMe?” (Innocently.)
    â€œYou, Mr. Penhallow
.
I imagine your adventures began early and haven’t let up since. We have led very different lives.”
    â€œHow curious. I have just been reflecting—last night at dinner, as I watched you across the table, and afterward during the music—how
similar
a course our lives have taken. An early marriage, followed by early widowhood,