Mingling proved a lesson in futility—and a study in patience. Everyone they spoke to had heard of their “engagement” and had far more interest in asking questions than answering them. No one had met a doctor—of course they didn’t get to talk to everyone—or they assumed either Alastair or Claire was under the weather and suggested the ship’s doctor. Eventually they had to give up. Even his mother, who had demanded he come by her cabin, told him she’d see him in the morning instead.
He and Claire had no choice but to retire as well.
“That was brilliant,” he remarked drily as he removed his cravat in their cabin. “I’ve never talked about myself so much in my life.”
“They all think we’re going to be married.”
He had wondered how long it would take her to come back to this. “What did you want me to do—tell my mother you were my mistress? That would have humiliated her in front of all those people.”
“Don’t you think that was what she assumed?”
“If she assumed that, she never would have publicly approached. Mother has more sense than that.”
“Too bad you didn’t inherit any of it.”
They were both exhausted and vexed, and old enough to know better than to have a conversation when what they wanted was a fight.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I put you in an uncomfortable situation? Forgive me, Miss Brooks, for not wanting to cause my mother pain. Forgive me for not wanting to embarrass you. When this is over and I have to tell people we’re not engaged, I will have to be the one left, you understand. That never looks good for any man, certainly not one with any degree of honor. I will be the one who will have a broken engagement attached to my name, because unlike Claire Clarke, I actually goddamn exist!”
She blinked. “This is the 1890s. Surely no one would have thought twice at your traveling with a lover.”
“You’re welcome!” he yelled before stomping to the small bar in the corner of the cabin. He poured himself a measure of scotch and downed it in one fiery gulp. Then he poured another. Christ, he couldn’t even get twenty feet away from her.
“Did—did you really not want to embarrass me?”
He scowled at her before taking a drink. “Of course I didn’t. No one deserves to be humiliated like that.” Like he had been by Sascha and her lover.
She came to him, cupped his face in her hands, and held tight when he tried to pull away. He frowned. “What?”
Claire sighed, looking at him with sad green eyes. “No one has ever cared about my feelings. You are such a good man.” She came up on her toes and pressed her lips briefly to his.
It wasn’t enough, yet it was more than sufficient to make his body stand to attention. “No,” he murmured. “I’m not.”
Her smooth brow wrinkled. “Why would you say that?”
“Because I wanted to come inside you the first time I saw you. I was determined to despise you, and I still wanted to feel you wrapped around my cock. Good men don’t think that way.”
A slight smile curved her lips. He thought he saw gooseflesh on her arms. “Of course they do. They just don’t act on it.” She moved closer, her hips brushing the tops of his thighs. “Did you really wonder what it would feel like to be inside me?”
Alastair shivered. Gooseflesh. This was a dangerous conversation, and they had more important things to worry about. “Yes,” he rasped. “God help me, I still do.”
Her gaze locked with his, dark lashes a coy veil. “I think about it, too. This attraction between us, it’s new to me. I think it’s new to you as well. What do we do about it, Alastair?”
This was an invitation if ever he’d been given one. He wanted to bruise her lips with his, wanted to shove his tongue in her mouth, undress her and take her in every position they could try without injuring themselves. He wanted to forget about Stanton Howard and what was going to happen when this was over. He wanted to know how she’d managed to get under his skin so very quickly.
And he wanted to know if she would look into his eyes when he was inside her.
“I’m going to get cleaned up,” he said, stepping back and putting distance between them before he did something he’d enjoy but later regret. “The bed’s all yours. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
And then he walked away.
Alastair Payne was the first man to ever turn her down. This realization kept Claire awake for a good portion of the night, and it was the first thing she thought of when she woke early in the morning.
Damn him for being so good. And damn her for wanting him so much more because of it. Why were things she could never have so damn attractive?
It was obvious he was just as attracted to her—people didn’t alternate between friendly banter and all-out verbal war unless there were some high emotions involved.
She stretched, recoiling when her flesh encountered the cold sheets on the other side of the bed. The sun hadn’t been up for long, but a bright finger of it shone through the window above her head.
Slowly, quietly, she sat up. Against the wall, beneath a bank of drawn curtains, Alastair slept on a sofa that seemed to struggle to contain the entirety of his impressive self. He’d gone to sleep in those flimsy trousers he seemed to favor, and one pant leg rode up to reveal the entirety of one muscular calf. The blanket had slid from his shoulders, leaving an expanse of skin bare for her viewing pleasure. He was all copper and gold where the morning sun touched him as he lay, so peaceful in his sleep.
She wanted to walk over and dump a bucket of ice water over his head ov ov ov—that, or start kissing various parts of him until he woke up and gave in to her. Then maybe she’d stop thinking about it so damn much. Maybe then she’d be able to concentrate on Howard, because since she met the Earl of Wolfred, she hadn’t been able to think about much other than him.
A ridiculous female she was not. Of course she had her moments where sense seemed to abandon her, but she was not one to obsess over a man—unless she planned to kill him. Then along came a man who kissed her as if he were dying of thirst and she were water, who told her he’d rather stick his privates in a rudder than in her, and who then told her he thought about being inside her. . . .
Alastair Payne, she decided, was a man determined to deny their attraction. She supposed he had good reason—his last dalliance with a Company agent hadn’t ended well for either of them. And she had to admit, a fling between the two of them wasn’t going to end up much better.
Still, she’d like to go on to whatever awaited her in the afterlife, having given a little of herself to a truly decent man. Never mind that sometimes he opened his mouth and was an ass—who wasn’t? Everything he said and did—even the mistakes—was because he was trying to do the right thing.
Claire liked to do the right thing as well—the right thing for her.
And right now she had to do right by her brother. That meant getting into the passenger list and seeing if there were any doctors on board. Perhaps she’d get lucky and find one of Howard’s known aliases, though the very fact that they were known made it unlikely.
She slipped out of bed and into the bath, where she cleaned up; then she dressed in the clothing she’d laid out the night before. The gown was a dark wine-colored soft wool that would be both warm and fashionable and had shucked any wrinkles during the night. She’d prefer a pair of trousers, but with the number of society dames on board, it wouldn’t be a wise idea. And as much as she hated to admit it, she didn’t want to embarrass Alastair.
She brushed and pinned her hair up so that a little bit hung around her face, applied a little color to her cheeks and lips, darkened her lashes, and slipped into the gown. It had a corseted bodice that buckled in the front, making it easier for her to manage.