Page 635 of From Rakes to Riches

Marcus had had enough of being stared at from behind fans—nothing made his missing arm ache like feeling useless. Just because he was a fish well out of seawater didn’t mean he had to flop ignominiously about the deck. He was now the bloody Duke of Warwick—he could do as he damn well pleased.

And what he pleased was to find a snug harbor to moor up in and have—as his naval steward used to say say—a bit of a wet.

He found the quiet library with a mercifully full decanter of brandy and poured himself a heavy measure before cracking the window to let in some fresh, clean air.

He had settled comfortably into a wing-backed armchair before the hearth, and was contemplating which of his sins had got him condemned to such a purgatory, when the sound of the library door latching shut made him sit up and take notice.

Across the room, a tiny, flaxon-haired young woman in claret-colored velvet was attempting to shove a large chest of drawers across the door.

He had to ask, even though he could plainly see the answer. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The young lady in question let out an oath so old, so Anglo-Saxon and so familiar that Marcus feared he must have misheard her, for he had never heard it uttered anywhere but between the decks of a ship.

Fuck him, indeed.

But then she said, “Oh, good Lord. Beech? Is that you behind that beard?”

Everything within him eased.

“It is.” Only one female of his acquaintance had ever called him Beech—Miss Penelope Pease, daughter of a local squire, Sir Harold Pease. And Marcus, in his oh-so-tedious and unimaginative youth, had called her, “Pease Porridge?”

“Dear Beech!” She came forward with her hands extended, all astonished happiness. “What an unexpected pleasure! If you aren’t a welcome sight for sore eyes.”

He could only think that he would be a sore sight for her welcome blue eyes.

Devil take him, but she had grown into a beautiful young woman, whose hand he gladly took. She was the first real humancontact he’d had since he'd returned—he felt the warmth of her grasp all the way from his fingertips to places better left unmentioned.

“Why Pease Porridge Hot—how is it possible you are no longer ten and three years old?”

Her smile lit up her heart-shaped face, all mischievous, laughing imp. “More like Pease Porridge Cold these days, my friend. And you are no longer the gangly lad of our gloriously mis-spent youth, either, Beech. Gracious, but you’re a long drink of water.”

Marcus was both pleasantly embarrassed and pleased at such a frankly positive assessment of his person. He found his mouth curving into his first real smile in days.

“Well, the passing decade has clearly not dimmed your hoydenish tendencies one bit.”

“It’s not as if I haven’t tried.” She returned his smile two-fold, all arch happiness. “But surely you’ve heard?—”

Behind her, the door latch rattled, and she sprang back to action, lowering her voice to an urgent whisper.

“Help me!” She motioned for him to join her as she laid a determined shoulder to the chest of drawers.

Marcus stood firm. “I don’t think I should.”

Even he knew barricading them in alone was definitely not the done thing.

“I’ll explain if you’ll only help,” she promised. “You’re supposed to be a bloodyhero, Beech. Come act like one.”

And just like that, Marcus was fourteen again and drawn in her mischief by her wayward charm. Just as he always had been.

“My dear Pease Porridge, whatever have you been doing with yourself these many years?”

His question went unanswered while he snugged in beside her to lay his good shoulder into the chest of drawers—careful soas not to spill his drink—and shove the heavy piece of furniture the necessary remaining inches to bar the door.

“Thank you.” She blew out a gusty breath before she smiled up at him and patted his lapel in an absent gesture of casual intimacy that nearly rocked him back on his heels.

“Good Lord, Beech, you smell divine. What are you drinking?” She swiped the snifter of brandy from his hand and took a hearty sip. “Mmm. Thanks.” She kept possession of the glass as she all but flung herself into the other armchair opposite the hearth. “I’m meant to be good and stay well clear of trouble, but to do so I’m in need of some fortification. You?”

“As you see.” Marcus decided he rather liked the offhand, ordinary way she treated him, much like his brother officers had—as if there were nothing wrong with him.

---