Page 25 of Better Love Next Time
Kitty St.Clair, soon to be Madame Féline, stood at the ship’s forecastle, the wind cold on her cheeks. Around her, men scrambled over the deck and dangled from the masts, trimming sails, calling in short bursts to one another. Even engaged with the serious business of entering port, they made time for lively jests and ear-scorching oaths.
She wrenched her gloved hand on the railing.
Before her lay a new beginning with a purpose and a dream reclaimed. She excelled at figures and, with a father who had cared for hunting and hounds to the detriment of all else, was also first-rate at making ends meet. True, Julian was the imaginative genius, the designer and builder, the boy who had refused to follow his father’s plans.
Kitty shivered in her cloak, drawing it farther up her neck. The Earl of Tindall despised a puppet who did not dance to his tune.
Her contribution was to be prosaic compared to Julian’s, but it was still worthy. As a girl, she had scoured books and pamphlets on business and its philosophies. Sat for hours and hours listening to Georgiana’s father lecture long on finance and negotiation. Saved Julian’s allowance and winnings and placed him on a slim budget.
She suspected Julian had accepted her offer to return to England because he expected her to fail. Since the ship’s departure from Genoa, she had tried to engage him in discussion. He had admitted he owned a small shipyard upon the River Itchen, which excited her so she had almost smiled. But any further questions on its operations were met with silent mockery.
She grated her teeth at her bottom lip. What moisture the wind failed to carry away with a gust she brushed off with her fingertip.
Yes, she was sailing toward her purpose and if she failed, which she deemed impossible, she would also be free. A widow, free from pitying looks from women who coveted her husband, free to mourn her marriage openly.
Free to mourn her son, Andrew.
Four years and three days ago, he had taken his last breath in her arms.
The shame she worked ever hard to hide, scoured her insides. If only… Damn theif onlies. She had spent years with them. She was going to end this with happiness.
She closed her eyes at the looming Isle of Wight. With each dip of the bow into the choppy bay, the unease she fought, grew. No, she wasn’t sorry for returning to England. She was anxious. The past two days, the wind had carried them due north and all the crew had had to do was trim the sails slightly windward and they were racing toward Hampshire.
She curved her lips lest anyone detect her sickening nerves. She was still that frightened girl. And her body at once craved the release of laudanum, to tuck herself into the numbing, euphoric trance. Wind bit at her face, and cold tears seeped from their corners. Hastily, she dashed them from her temples as footsteps approached.
“Ah, merry old England,” Julian said at her right. His tone was, as usual since their agreement, tinged with mockery. “Happy to be home?”
She trained her gaze to the coast. “Most happy.”
His arm wrapped about her shoulder, pulling her in. Kitty stiffened. A painful need stirred unwanted in her chest.
“Julian, please. I am nothing to you now save your partner. If someone from the ship were to see you touch me so, they would question my repute and in turn, tell others in town.”
He cocked a brow. “You are serious.”
“I am a widow of high moral standing.”
“One who has gone in trade.”
“My husband, Etienne, was in trade.”
He jutted his chin into his cravat. “Etienne, is it?”
“Yes. And widows are known to continue their family’s trade.”
“But are encouraged to find another husband. What of Madame’s father?”
“His name is Thomas,” she replied. “I provided you a summary of my life. Have you read it? If not, I suggest doing so. I also have a more detailed biography if it interests you.”
“Do you have any children?”
She splayed her palm against her stomach.
Julian followed the motion. “Ah, you do.”
“I do not.”
He grinned. “Did the little bugger die?”
