Page 32 of Heiress Gone Wild

“Do you, indeed?” Marjorie stopped and turned to face him. “I’m also under orders to stay in my room from the end of teatime onward, did you know that? I am not even to come down to dinner in the dining room.”

“I can see,” he said, glancing over her figure, “that’s a dictum you don’t intend to obey.”

“Why should I? It’s absurd. She says I can only dine in our suite. Anything I own that’s even remotely pretty, I can’t wear. I can’t play shuffleboard, or cards, or games of any sort. I can read—but no novels. Provided, of course, she and her friends don’t need me for other things. Because her maid’s busy ruining all my undergarments, I’m expected to act as stand-in, threading needles, winding wool, and fetching and carrying without so much as a please or a thank-you. When did I become Lady Stansbury’s second maid, second seamstress, and general dogsbody?”

“Such tasks are probably meant to provide you with acceptable ways to occupy yourself during the voyage, not because she thinks you are a maid.”

“Forgive me if I’m not willing to give the countess the benefit of the doubt on that score.”

He tried again. “Marjorie, I realize that Lady Stansbury may seem overly strict, and she may not have approached taking over as your chaperone in the most tactful way. And I grant you, she and her friends are bound to be rather dull company, but—”

“Dull?” she interrupted with a groan. “Dull isn’t the word! I know you think I’m difficult, and maybe a bit willful. But,” she went on before he could concur with that assessment, “I hope to heaven I’m not dull.”

“No,” he conceded, and this time he just couldn’t stop a smile. “I don’t think I shall ever be able to say that about you, Marjorie.”

“If that woman and her friends had anything interesting to discuss, I might be willing to sit and wind wool and embroider tea cloths with them, but all they seem able to talk about are gardens, dog breeding, and the latest scandals.”

“Of which I do not want you to be one.”

“I realize that, but—” She stopped, lifting her arms in utter frustration and letting them fall. “There has to be some middle ground here.”

“Sadly, no. Even the most trivial thing can hurt your reputation, and I am not about to let that happen. A week of strict supervision won’t kill you.”

She set her jaw in a mutinous line. “If anyone’s dead by the time we reach Southampton, it’s going to be Lady Stansbury, not me.”

He studied her face, realizing that if she was pushed too hard, she might rebel outright. What he needed was an incentive, something that would show her all that she could look forward to later on if she behaved with proper decorum now. “Wait here,” he said on impulse and turned to pull his jacket from the back of his chair.

“Where are you going?”

He slid into his jacket and walked to the door. “Lock the door behind me, and for God’s sake, don’t let anyone in. I’ll be right back.”

He left the cabin, returning about ten minutes later.

“I want to show you something,” he said as he relocked the door of his stateroom behind him and pocketed his key. “Come with me.”

He walked into his bedroom, beckoning her to follow. “Sit here,” he said, pulling out the chair in front of his dressing table as she came through the doorway.

“You’re always talking about proprieties,” she murmured, perching on the edge of the offered chair. “Being in your bedroom seems terribly improper to me.”

It was an absolute scandal, but there was no point in underlining the fact by saying so. “It’ll be our secret. And this won’t take long. Close your eyes.”

“Oh, very well.” With the indulgent air of a schoolteacher humoring a pupil, she gave a sigh and complied. “I can’t imagine what this is about.”

“You’ll see.” He paused behind her chair, stretched out his arm, and tilted the mirror on his dressing table down so that when she opened her eyes, she’d have a full view of her reflection. Then he pulled the rectangular box of robin’s egg blue from his breast pocket, set it on the table, and opened it.

“No peeking,” he told her as he removed the necklace from its velvet background and lifted it over her head, then he paused, dangling it just under her chin without allowing it to touch her. “Keep your eyes closed.”

“They’re closed, they’re closed,” she muttered, wriggling on the seat. “But you might hurry a bit.”

He ought to, he knew, but as Jonathan looked at her reflection, her dark lashes like tiny fans against her cheeks, her hair piled high and gleaming like fire, he felt compelled to take his time.

“Remember I told you that when you finished your mourning period, you’d have a season?” he asked.

“Yes. A year from now.”

She sounded so aggrieved that he couldn’t help smiling. “I know that seems like a long time away,” he murmured, leaning down until his face was beside hers, until a loose tendril of her hair tickled his cheek and the lavender scent of her skin was in his nostrils. “But patience is a virtue, Marjorie.”

She gave a derisive sniff, but she didn’t open her eyes. “Having exercised patience throughout most of my life—something which is very much against my natural temperament, by the way—I find it overrated.”

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