She’d sailed into passion with a questing heart, buoyed by confidence in her own desirability.
No woman could have asked for more on her wedding night.
And from that night on, they’d embarked on a joint exploration of what engagements such as this could bring them.
She’d devoted herself to learning all he would teach her and all she might of her own volition learn. And every night, although the destination remained blessedly the same, the journey was different, the road subtly altered, the revelations along it fresh and absorbing.
His lips supped from hers, his tongue teasing hers. She responded, using all she’d learned to tempt and lure. She hauled his shirt from his waistband and freed the last button closing it. Anchored in the kiss, in the heat and the passion that rose so strongly—with such reassuring hunger—between them, she blessed him for his innate elegance, which ensured he used a neat, simple knot in his cravat. The instant she unraveled it, she drew the long strip of linen free. With gay abandon, she flung it away.
Finally clear of obstacles, she pulled his shirt wide, set her hands to the sculpted planes of his chest and joyfully—greedily—claimed, then she pushed the garment up and over his shoulders. He refused to release her lips but broke from the embrace enough to shrug off his coat and waistcoat. Then he opened the shirt’s cuffs, stripped the garment off, and let it fall to the floor, and she fell on him, fell into his embrace, and gave herself up, heart and soul, to learning what tonight would bring.
Shivery sensation. Heat.
Knowing touches that claimed and incited, that excited and lured and drew them both along tonight’s path.
The whisper of silk. The rustle of the bedclothes.
Fingertips trailing over excruciatingly sensitive skin.
Muscles bunching and rippling, then turning as hard as steel.
Incoherent murmuring.
Naked skin to naked skin, body to body, they merged and, together, fingers linked and gripping, lips brushing, heated breaths mingling, followed the path on.
Journeyed on through the enthrallments of desire, through passion’s licking flames, faster and faster they rode and plunged, then surged toward the glorious end.
To where a cataclysm of feeling ripped through reality and sensation consumed them.
Then ecstasy erupted and fractured them, flinging them into oblivion’s void…
Until, at the last, spent, hearts racing, blinded by glory, they sank back to earth, to the pleasure of each other’s embrace, to the wonder of their discovery.
When her wits finally re-engaged and she could again think, she found she was still too buoyed on triumph—on multiple counts—to, as she usually did, slide into pleasured slumber. She wasn’t sure Declan was sleeping, either; wrapped in his arms, her head pillowed on his shoulder, she couldn’t see his face—couldn’t be sure if he was sleeping or not without lifting her head and disturbing them both.
In that moment, she was at peace, sated and safe, and felt no need to converse. And, it seemed, neither did he; the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek soothed and reassured.
Her mind wandered, instinctively cataloguing—where they now were, where she wished them to go.
The path she wanted them to follow—the marriage she was determined they would have.
Her assumption that it was up to her, her responsibility to steer them in the right direction, wasn’t one she questioned. She had her parents’ marriage and that of her late brother as vivid examples of how terribly wrong things could go if a lady didn’t institute and insist on the correct framework. And putting that correct framework in place was much easier if one acted from the first, before any unhelpful habits became ingrained.
She knew what she wanted; she had several shining examples to guide her—her sisters’ marriages, Julian and Miranda’s marriage, and, more recently, what she’d seen of the relationship between Declan’s parents, Fergus and Elaine.
That from his earliest years Declan had been exposed to such a marriage, one that was founded on a working personal partnership—that he would have absorbed the concept, seen its inherent strengths, and, she hoped, would now expect to find the same support in his own marriage—was infinitely encouraging.
Throughout their teens, she and her sisters had spent hours in their parlor at Ridgware discussing the elements of an acceptable-in-their-eyes marriage. Both Millie and Cassie, each in their own way, had set out to achieve that ideal in their marriages and had succeeded. Both Catervale and Elsbury openly doted on their wives, were strong and engaged fathers to their children, and shared everything; they included their wives in all areas of their lives.
Edwina was determined to have nothing less. Indeed, with Declan, she suspected she wanted more. Compared to Millie and Cassie, she was more outgoing, more curious and eager to engage with life and actively explore the full gamut of its possibilities.
She wanted their marriage to be a joint venture on all levels, first to last.
With their position within the ton now established and their physical union so vibrantly assured, she could now turn her mind and energies to all the other aspects that contributed to a modern marriage.
On the domestic front, she had all in hand. Together, she and Declan had chosen this house to rent for the Season, and perhaps longer, but he’d ceded the tiller entirely to her with respect to selecting and hiring their staff. She’d been lucky to find Humphrey, and Mrs. King, their housekeeper, and the new cook were settling in nicely. The small staff met their needs more than adequately; other than deciding menus, she needed to do little to keep everything running smoothly in that sphere.
Which left her with one outstanding issue, that of how to merge the rest of their lives—how to align their interests, activities, and energies when they weren’t in the bedroom, or at home, or socializing within the ton.
All the rest.
Thinking the words brought home just how little she knew of the details of Declan’s business—how he occupied himself, what role he played within his family’s shipping empire, or any particular causes he espoused. He’d told her he didn’t expect to sail again until July, or perhaps later; that left her with plenty of time to question and discover all she needed to learn so that she could work out the details of how he and she were going to work together. How she could and would contribute to his career.
A working partnership such as his parents had was what she wanted, one where she contributed as she could, where appropriate—a partnership that allowed her to understand the demands made on him and the pressures those brought to bear. Despite her predilection for active engagement, such a partnership didn’t necessarily require her to be actively involved in each and every facet, but rather to always be in a position to understand what was going on. She was immutably convinced that such an arrangement was critical to them having the marriage she was determined they would have.
Sleep drew nearer; her already relaxed muscles lost what little tension they’d regained.
Even as she surrendered to slumber’s insistent tug, she sensed a nascent swell of eagerness, optimism, and determination. She was free to start her campaign to create the marriage they needed first thing tomorrow morning.
Declan didn’t succeed in summoning his wits—in being able to think worth a damn—until Edwina finally fell asleep. Until then, caught between worlds, he knew only the tumultuous emotion that welled and swelled within him. It had flared to life on their wedding night; he had assumed it would fade with time, that exercised daily—nightly—it would gradually lose its power. Instead, it had burgeoned and grown.
But, at last, the soft huff of Edwina’s breathing deepened, and she sank more definitely against him, and his senses finally ceased their fascination, withdrew from their complete and abject focus on her, and allowed his wits to resurface.
And that overwhelming emotion subsided, but the effects lingered, leaving him unsettlingly aware of just how much she now meant to him. He dwelled on that reality f
or a moment, then buried the understanding deep. The only consequence he needed to consciously grasp was that, now, putting her—or allowing her to put herself—in any danger whatsoever was simply not on the cards.
For several moments, the potential conflict between that consideration and her as-yet-undefined unconventionality—underscored by their recent activities—and how that might impinge on the way their marriage would work cycled through his mind. His only clear conclusion was that establishing the practical logistics of their marriage was shaping up to be significantly more complicated than he’d assumed. He would need to establish boundaries to keep Edwina separate from the other side of his life, to keep her safely screened from it.
He tried to imagine how he might achieve that, especially given the understanding that niggled deep in his brain—that given his own character, it was her adventurous soul that had from the first drawn him.
Yet adventuring of any sort invariably led to danger. How was he to suppress that aspect of her personality while simultaneously preserving it?
He fell asleep before even a whisper of a suggestion of a plan bloomed in his mind.
CHAPTER 2
The following morning, her marital challenge in the forefront of her mind, Edwina swept into the breakfast parlor to find her handsome husband frowning over a letter. She halted. “What is it?”
He glanced up. His gaze rested on her for a second, then he shook his head. He folded the letter and tucked it into his coat pocket. “Just a note calling me to a meeting. Company business.”
The tip of Edwina’s tongue burned with the urge to press him for more; for a second, she flirted with the idea of offering to accompany him just to see how he would react. But… It was too early for that. Frontal assaults rarely worked with men like Declan; they instinctively resisted any pressure, which later made convincing them to change their stance all the harder. She needed to pave her way.
She turned to the sideboard, sent a smiling nod Humphrey’s way, and accepted the plate he handed her. As she sampled the various delicacies in the chafing dishes, then went to the table and slipped into the chair Humphrey held for her, she reflected on her glaring lack of knowledge of her husband’s business. While she might not yet be in a position to demand to know the details of an upcoming meeting, there were other questions it was patently time she started asking.
She reached for the teapot, poured herself a cup, then lifted it and sipped. Looking over the rim, she studied Declan; he appeared absorbed with making inroads into a mound of scrambled eggs. “I know you captain one of your family’s vessels, but I don’t know what you actually do.” When he looked up, she caught his eyes and arched her brows. “For what reasons do you sail? What tasks do you accomplish for Frobisher and Sons?”
Declan regarded her. He was happy enough to answer that query, if only to distract her from those facts he didn’t wish to share. Rapidly, he canvassed his options to most effectively—engagingly and distractingly—satisfy her. “In order to do that, I have to explain something of the structure of the family’s fleet.”
When she opened her eyes wide, indicating her interest and that he should continue, he smiled and complied. “The fleet has two principal arms. The first is comprised of traditional cargo vessels. They’re larger—wider, deeper, and heavier—and therefore slower ships that carry all manner of cargo around the globe, although these days, we concentrate on Atlantic routes. At present, our farthest port on routes to the east is Cape Town.”
He paused to fork up the last bite of his scrambled eggs, seizing the seconds to consider his next words. She took the chance to slather jam on her usual piece of toast, then lifted the slice to her lips and took a neat bite. The crunch focused his gaze on her mouth; he watched the tip of her tongue sweep the lush ripeness of her lower lip, leaving it glistening…
Quietly, he cleared his throat and forced his wayward mind back to the issue at hand. After remarshaling his thoughts, he offered, “It’s the other arm of the family business in which my brothers and I are actively engaged. We each captain our own ship, and it would be accurate to say that we still carry cargo. But our ships are by design faster and also, again by design, newer and better able to withstand adverse conditions.”
With a soft snort, he set down his knife and fork and reached for his coffee mug. “You might have noticed that Royd is somewhat obsessed with our ships’ attributes and performances.” Royd—Murgatroyd, although no one bar their parents ever dared call him that—was his eldest brother and, these days, more or less in charge. “He’s constantly redesigning and updating. That’s why The Cormorant has been out of commission over these past weeks. She’s been in dry dock in the shipyards at Aberdeen while Royd fiddles, implementing his latest ideas, which I’ll eventually get to test.”
Declan paused to sip, then wryly acknowledged, “I have to admit that the rest of us are usually very grateful for his improvements.” Often those improvements had tipped the scales between life and death, between freedom and captivity.
“When you say ‘the rest of us’”—Edwina brushed crumbs from her fingers—“who precisely do you mean?”
“The four of us—Royd, Robert, me, and Caleb—and several of our cousins. Still other cousins captain several of our merchantmen, but there’s a group of family captains, about eight all told, who sail for the other side of the business.”
“Last night, some gentleman mentioned a treaty your family had assisted with. Was that an undertaking you were involved with?”
“No. That was Robert. He tends to specialize in meeting the more diplomatic requests.”
She frowned slightly. “What is the nature of this other side of the business? What sort of requests, diplomatic or otherwise, do you undertake?”
Declan considered for a moment, then offered, “There are different sorts of cargoes.”
She arched her brows. “Such as?”
Fleetingly, he grinned. “People. Documents. Items of special value. And, most valuable of all, information.” He paused, aware that it would not be wise to paint their endeavors in too-intriguing colors. “It’s a relatively straightforward engagement. We undertake to transport items of that nature quickly, safely, and discreetly from port to port.”
“Ah.” After a moment of consideration, she said, “I take it that’s the motivation behind Royd’s obsession.”
He set down his coffee cup. He hadn’t consciously made the connection before, but… “I suppose you could say that the fruits of Royd’s obsession significantly contribute to Frobisher and Sons being arguably the best specialized shipping service in the world.”
She smiled. “Specialized shipping. I see. At least now I know how to describe what you do.”
And that, he thought, was as much as she or anyone else needed to know.
Before he could redirect the conversation, she went on, “You said that you only sail for about half the year. Do you sail at any time, or are your voyages always over the same months each year?”
“Generally, our side of the business operates over the summer and into the autumn months, when the seas are most accommodating.”
“But you don’t expect to set out on The Cormorant before July or thereabouts?”
He nodded. “There was no”—mission—“request falling between now and then that I, specifically, needed to handle. The others took it upon themselves to cover for me.” He grinned and met her eyes. “I believe they thought of it as a wedding gift.”
“For which I am duly grateful.” She set down her empty teacup.
Before she could formulate her next question, he swiveled to glance at the clock on the mantelpiece above the fireplace at the end of the room. As he had hoped, she followed his gaze.
When she saw the time, her eyes widened. “Great heavens! I have to get ready for Lady Minchingham’s at-home.”
He rose and drew out her chair. “I’ve this meeting to attend, then I think I’ll call in at our office, purely to keep abreast of what’s going on in the w
orld of shipping.” The Frobisher and Sons office was located with many other shipping companies’ offices near the Pool of London.
Distracted now, she merely nodded and led the way from the room. “I’ll see you this evening, then.”
She stepped into the hall, then paused. “I had planned for us to attend Lady Forsythe’s rout, but I rather feel we’ve moved beyond the need.” She glanced at him and smiled, one of her subtly appraising—and frankly suggestive—looks. “Perhaps a quiet evening at home, just the two of us, might be a better use of our time.”
He saw nothing in that suggestion with which he wished to argue. Halting on the parlor’s threshold, he smiled into her wide blue eyes. “A quiet evening spent with you would definitely be my preference.”
Her smile blossomed with open delight. She stretched up on her toes, and when he dutifully bent his head, she touched her lips to his.
He locked his hands behind his back to rein in the impulse to catch her to him and prolong the caress; aside from all else, both Humphrey and the footman were within sight.
If the commiserating quality of her smile as she drew back was any guide, she’d nevertheless sensed his response; while the look in her eyes suggested she shared the temptation, her expression also stated that she approved of his control. She lightly patted his chest, then turned away. With an insouciant wave, she headed for the stairs.
He remained where he was and watched her go up. Once she’d passed out of the gallery in the direction of their room, he reached into his pocket and drew out the folded note that had been burning a hole there. His smile faded as he reread the simple lines of the summons. They told him little more than that he was expected at the Ripley Building as soon as he could get there.
Glancing up, he saw Humphrey waiting by the side of the hall. “My hat and coat, Humphrey.”
“At once, sir.”
As Humphrey helped him into his greatcoat, Declan reflected that his summoner wasn’t a man it was wise to keep waiting. Seconds later, his hat on his head, he walked out and down the steps. Lengthening his stride, he headed for Whitehall.