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A Lady Dares
Bronwyn Scott


A LADY IN A GENTLEMAN’S WORLDAccording to Society, I, Elise Sutton, haven’t been a lady for quite some time – a lady couldn’t possibly run the family company and spend her days on London’s crowded, tar-stained docks. And she most certainly wouldn’t associate herself with the infamous Dorian Rowland – privateer, smuggler and The Scourge of Gibraltar himself! But I need Rowland and his specialised expertise – especially with the wolves circling, waiting for me to fail. I yearn to feel alive and Rowland, who can kiss like the devil, inflames my senses and makes me dare to break free…Ladies of Impropriety… Breaking Society’s Rules!










Dorian softened his tone. ‘A lady doesn’t build ships. Therefore Miss Sutton isn’t a lady. Indeed, she can’t be a lady by the very definition of what Society says a lady is. Do you see my point?’

A furrow of twin lines formed between her eyes, the look not unattractive. It stirred him to want to do something about it, to erase the consternation. He wasn’t used to such chivalrous feelings.

‘I understand your meaning quite well and I respectfully disagree.’ Elise’s chin went up a fraction in defiance.

‘You will have to choose,’ Dorian insisted. ‘My being here or not is the least of your worries if you’re thinking about your reputation. Building your yacht is enough to sink you in most circles. No pun intended.’

Instinctively, he moved close to her, his hands going to her forearms in a gentle grip to make his point, to make her see reason.

She swallowed nervously, the pulse at the base of her throat leaping in reaction to his nearness. ‘Again, I disagree,’ she said with quiet steel. ‘I think this yacht will be the making of me.’

‘If it is, it will be the making of a lady most improper.’ Dorian gave a soft chuckle, breathing in the tangy lemongrass scent of her just before his mouth caught hers.




About the Author


BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children (one boy and two girls). When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling— especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages.

Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website,

www.bronwynnscott.com, or at her blog,

www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com—she loves to hear from readers.



Previous novels from Bronwyn Scott:

PICKPOCKET COUNTESS

NOTORIOUS RAKE, INNOCENT LADY

THE VISCOUNT CLAIMS HIS BRIDE

THE EARL’S FORBIDDEN WARD

UNTAMED ROGUE, SCANDALOUS MISTRESS

A THOROUGHLY COMPROMISED LADY

SECRET LIFE OF A SCANDALOUS DEBUTANTE

UNBEFITTING A LADY† (#ulink_e6927ea9-a209-5e0e-a0b0-cd072deddbf4)

HOW TO DISGRACE A LADY* (#ulink_800301ef-871f-5197-98fa-e7e343ae2290)

HOW TO RUIN A REPUTATION* (#ulink_800301ef-871f-5197-98fa-e7e343ae2290)

HOW TO SIN SUCCESSFULLY* (#ulink_800301ef-871f-5197-98fa-e7e343ae2290)

A LADY RISKS ALL** (#ulink_d365bd26-919b-569c-a48a-aea73a24893c)

And in Mills & Boon ® Historical Undone! eBooks:

LIBERTINE LORD, PICKPOCKET MISS

PLEASURED BY THE ENGLISH SPY

WICKED EARL, WANTON WIDOW

ARABIAN NIGHTS WITH A RAKE

AN ILLICIT INDISCRETION

HOW TO LIVE INDECENTLY* (#ulink_800301ef-871f-5197-98fa-e7e343ae2290)

† (#ulink_029e379c-0869-5068-a716-b4920aa1f591)Castonbury Park Regency mini-series

* (#ulink_c72e1fd9-8b47-5844-887c-975b1ba74def)Rakes Beyond Redemption trilogy

** (#ulink_10a422f5-24dc-56eb-b1c2-ed7953cfab6b)Ladies of Impropriety

And in M&B:

PRINCE CHARMING IN DISGUISE

(part of Royal Weddings Through the Ages)

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks?Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk


AUTHOR NOTE

Yachting is nearly as English as horse racing! The Royal Thames Yacht Club has a rich history. For locations of race courses and information regarding 1838 club officers I drew from the records contained in Captain A.R. Ward’s The Chronicles of the Royal Thames Yacht Club. 1838 was also an exciting year for yachting, as serious racers began transitioning from river racing to open water racing on the Solent.

I should add a final note about locations used in the story: the Sutton Shipyards at the Blackwell Docks and the restaurant foray to the Italian trattoria. To determine the locations I consulted the excellent book London: A Life in Maps by Peter Whitfield. This is one of my favourite books and I consult it over and over. The Blackwell Docks had become the West India Docks by 1838, but were often still referred to as the Old Blackwell Docks, so I did take a bit of licence there. However, Soho was indeed a thriving immigrant neighbourhood that took advantage of the ‘new’ fad to dine out. And the tavern, The Gun, where Elise first meets Dorian is real! You can still visit it today, and maybe if you’re lucky you’ll meet your own sexy ‘almost’ pirate too, just like Elise.

Stop by my blog at www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com to see what else is coming!

Enjoy!




A Lady Dares

Bronwyn Scott

















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


DEDICATION

For Amber and Scott in commemoration of our great day sailing Commencement Bay. And for the Lindsleys who took me on my first and only sailboat ride.




Chapter One


Blackwell Docks, Sutton Shipyard, London—mid-March 1839

She was screwed! Absolutely royally screwed in the literal sense of the word; the word in question being ‘royally’, of course. Elise Sutton crumpled the letter in her hand and stared blindly at the office wall. Like the other investors, the royal family had finally withdrawn their patronage. And like the other investors, they’d politely waited a ‘decent’ interval to tell her. They were very sorry to hear of her father’s death, but the result was the same. The Sutton Yacht Company was on the brink of bankruptcy, brought to its knees by the sudden and tragic death of its founder, Sir Richard Sutton, six months earlier.

In truth, the idea the company had survived its owner by six months was something of an illusion. It had likely died with her father, only no one had bothered to tell her that. Apparently, courtesy demanded she be allowed to rise at dawn every morning and spend the next sixteen hours a day poring over account books, cataloguing inventory and lobbying investors who had no intentions of staying. She’d worn herself out all for naught and what passed for courtesy let her do it.

Well, courtesy be damned! It wasn’t a very ladylike thought, but according to the ton, she hadn’t been a lady for quite some time. By their exalted standards, ladies didn’t work side by side with their fathers in the family business. Ladies didn’t design yachts, didn’t spend their days adding up columns of numbers and most certainly didn’t set aside mourning half a year early to try to save sinking businesses. ladies meekly accepted the inevitable with hands folded in their laps and backs held rigid.

If that’s what ladies did, she most definitely wasn’t one. She’d spent the last seven years working with her father. The yacht company was as much hers as it had been his. It was part of her and she would not let it go, not without a fight.

At the moment she had admittedly few tools to fight with. The investors had gone, unconvinced the company could produce a worthy product without her father at the helm. The craftsmen and master builder had gone next. The presence of females had long been anathema in the nautical world and no reassurance on her part could induce them to stay. Even her mother was gone. Playing the devastated widow to the hilt, Olivia Sutton had retreated to the country after the funeral and simply disappeared.

Elise had told enquiring souls that her mother was taking her father’s death very poorly. Secretly, Elise thought her mother was managing quite well, too well for her personal tastes. In the months since the funeral, her mother’s letters from the country had become increasingly upbeat. There were quiet card parties and dinners to attend and everyone was so kind, now there was no longer an often absent husband to consider.

Her mother had loved Richard Sutton’s title; Sir Richard Sutton had been knighted two years prior for services to the Royal Thames Yacht Club, but Olivia Sutton hadn’t loved the work that had driven and absorbed him, taking him away from her. The marriage had been a convenient arrangement for years. Olivia had been more than happy to leave her daughter and son to manage the business of coping with solicitors, creditors and the other sundry visitors who hovered over a death like vultures.

The pencil in Elise’s hand snapped, the fifth one today. The sound drew her brother’s attention from the window overlooking the shipyard. ‘Is it as bad as all that?’

Elise pushed the pieces into the little pile on the corner of her desk with the remains of their fellow brethren. ‘It’s worse.’ She rose and joined William at the window. The normally bustling shipyard below them was silent and empty, a sight she was still having a hard time adjusting to. ‘I’ve sold anything of value associated with the business.’

There hadn’t been that much to sell, but that was only partially true. The shipyard itself was a valuable piece of property for its location on the Thames. She wasn’t sure she could face the prospect of giving up the business entirely. This had been her life. What would she do every day if she didn’t design yachts? Where would she go if she didn’t come here? Giving up the yard would be akin to giving up a piece of her soul. In society’s eyes she’d already done that once when she’d chosen to follow her father and not the pathway trod by other gently reared girls with means.

William sighed, pushing a hand through his blond hair, the gesture so much like their father it made her heart ache. At nineteen, William was a taller, lankier version of him, a living memory of the man they’d lost. ‘How much are we short?’

‘Twelve thousand pounds.’ Just saying the words hurt. No one had that kind of money except noblemen. Elise thought of the crumpled letter. She’d been counting on that. Royal patronage would have sustained them.

William whistled. ‘That’s not exactly pocket change.’

‘You could always marry an heiress.’ Elise elbowed him and tried for levity. William didn’t love the business as she did, but he’d loved Father and he’d been her supporter these past months, taking time away from his beloved studies to visit.

‘I could leave my studies.’ William said seriously. He was starting his third term at Oxford and thriving in the academic atmosphere. They’d been over this before. She wouldn’t hear of it.

‘No, Father wanted his son educated,’ Elise argued firmly. ‘Besides, it wouldn’t be enough.’ She didn’t want to be cruel, she appreciated her brother’s offer, but the money would hardly make a difference. Since it didn’t, it seemed unfair for William to make a useless sacrifice even if it was a noble offer.

‘What about the investors—perhaps they would advance funds?’ William suggested. The last time he’d been home, there’d still been a few remaining who had not yet discreetly weaned themselves from the company, still hoping there might be a way yet to continue with the latest project.

Elise shook her head. ‘They’ve all pulled out. No one wants to invest in a company that can’t produce a product.’ They’d more than pulled out. It was largely the investors’ faults she was in such a pickle. Her father had not been debt ridden, but neither had he been wallowing in assets. The investors had withdrawn their support and asked for their money returned, unconvinced the latest project they’d financed would see completion.

Said project lay below them in the quiet yard—the half-completed shell of her father’s latest design for a racing yacht, planned with new innovations in mind, lay dormant. For the last several weeks, the investors were proven right. Supplies purchased with the investors’ money from the outset lined the lonely perimeter, tarp covered and forgotten. ‘A pity the investors didn’t want to be paid in timber and pitch,’ Elise muttered. ‘I’ve got plenty of that.’

William’s eyes settled on her, brown and thoughtful. ‘All the supplies have been purchased?’

‘Yes. Father buys—bought,’ Elise corrected herself, ‘everything up front, it makes production faster and we don’t have to worry about running out at a crucial point.’

William nodded absently, his mind racing behind his eyes. ‘How much would the yacht have brought?’

She smiled wryly. ‘Enough. It would have been plenty.’ It wouldn’t have been just about the yacht. There would have been other orders, too. This yacht was meant to be a prototype. Rich men would have seen it and wanted one for themselves. But it was no use now counting hypothetical pounds.

‘You could finish the boat,’ William suggested.

Elise furrowed her brow and studied her brother carefully. Was that a joke? Had he been listening to anything she’d said? Her temper snapped. ‘I can’t finish the boat, William. I don’t know the first thing about actually using hammer and nails. And in case you haven’t noticed, there are no men down there, no master builder.’

She regretted the sarcasm immediately. William looked hurt. It wasn’t fair to take her agitation out on him. He was suffering, too. He knew what people had said about him behind their hands at the funeral. ‘There’s the son, but he’s too young to take over the company. If only he was a couple years older, then things might have come out all right.’ That was usually followed up by the other unfriendly speculation. ‘Too bad the daughter doesn’t have a husband. A husband would know what to do.’ Husbands solved everything in their little worlds.

‘I’m sorry, William.’ Elise laid a conciliatory hand on his sleeve. ‘It’s a nice theory. Even if I had the men, I couldn’t finish that yacht. The innovations require the knowledge of a master builder. More than that, I’d need the best.’ They would have managed without a master builder if her father had been there to oversee the project, as he so often had been, but no workers were going to take orders from a woman even if she had been instrumental in the boat’s design.

She needed a master builder more than anything else to finish that boat. Beyond her father, she didn’t have a clue who the best was when it came to ship design. Her own talent notwithstanding, she was female and thus excluded from that circle. It had not bothered her unduly in the past. She’d had her father and he’d given her every opportunity she’d desired to advance her skill even if it was often anonymously. She’d never thought further than that. Why should she have? Her father had been in his late forties, in excellent health and at the top of his game. She’d not appreciated by how slim a thread the privilege to indulge her passion had hung until it had been destroyed in one precarious accident.

‘What if I could get you the best?’ William persisted in earnest.

Finish the yacht? He was absolutely serious. It was crazy. The idea started to take hold along with the most dangerous of games, what if? If she had a master builder, workmen would come. If those men came, she could pay them with the proceeds from the sale of the yacht. It could be done. There was less than a month’s worth of work to finish. It was March now, the yacht would be ready by the time society came to town for the Season. Elise’s mind was whirring. Most of all, if they finished the boat the investors would come back. If that happened, the possibilities were as endless as her imagination.

‘I’d say we were back in business,’ Elise said slowly, reining her thoughts back to the present. Finishing the boat had suddenly become the gateway to the future, a future where the company was saved, where she was saved. But there was still this crucial step to accomplish. Everything hinged on the master builder. ‘How soon can we meet?’

William flipped open his pocket watch and studied the face. ‘I’d say right about now, but you’d better bring Father’s pistol from the safe.’

‘His pistol? Whatever for?’ Warning bells went off in her head. What sort of master builder had to be met with a gun? The shipyard was relatively protected. The docks were surrounded by high walls with guards posted to discourage intruders. Inside the walls, a person was fairly secure. Outside those fortressed walls was a different story for the unwary, but not for her. The docks were her territory. She’d walked them with her father, much to her mother’s complete and regular dismay.

If her brother wanted to be protective, she’d let him. Elise checked the gun to see that it was primed. ‘Again, why do I need to bring the gun? I’ve never needed one before.’

William merely grinned at her objection. ‘Well, this time, you might.’

Elise took the pistol more to humour him than out of any genuine belief that she’d actually need it.

She was, however, seriously rethinking that position half an hour later when their carriage pulled up in front of a tavern on Cold Harbour Lane ominously named The Gun. Like most streets in London’s East End, this one was crowded and busy, full of the dock and industrial workers that generated so much of the city’s wealth through the strength of their backs.

The crush and smell of the crowd did not daunt Elise, but what happened next nearly did. They’d barely stepped down from the carriage when the door of The Gun flew open in a violent motion. A man crashed into the street, his careening form barrelling straight into her. She might have fallen entirely if the carriage hadn’t been at her back, a rather hard bulwark against the assault. It stopped her from falling, but certainly didn’t cushion the blow. As it was, the force of the man’s exit bore her against the carriage, his arms braced on either side of her to stop his own flight, his body pressed hard and indecently to hers, his blue eyes taking a moment to register he was quite obviously staring at her bosom as they both struggled to find their equilibrium. He found his first and let out a whoop that nearly shattered her eardrums for its closeness. ‘What a day! You’re the prettiest pillow I’ve yet to lay my head on.’

‘You’ll be laying nothing of the sort,’ Elise replied coolly, bringing the pistol up and holding his eyes with an unflinching stare. It was a deep-blue gaze, dark midnight like the sea itself, and the press of his body was not entirely unpleasant. There was muscle and strength beneath his rough clothes and the hint of morning soap mingled with the faint whiff of whisky. All very manly scents when presented in the right proportions. Still, she could not stand there and ponder his masculine aesthetics. Propriety demanded his removal from her person. Immediately.

‘Please step away.’ Where was her brother? Hadn’t he been right beside her?

‘That’s not who you want to shoot.’ Was that laughter she heard in her brother’s voice? If he wanted to be protective, he was a bit late.

‘Maybe I should shoot you instead, William,’ Elise said through gritted teeth, tossing him a sideways glance over the man’s notably broad shoulder. She shoved at the blue-eyed stranger, who’d made no move to distance himself. Her hands met with the steely resistance of a muscled chest. ‘Are you going to get off?’

‘Probably at some point. Most women don’t like a man who gets off too early, though, if you know what I mean.’ He finally moved away, laughter crinkling his eyes as he studied her. She knew exactly what he meant and she would not give him the satisfaction of blushing over his crass remark. Years on the docks had immured her from taking offence at such colourful references. To be sure, such remarks weren’t allowed in her father’s shipyard when she was in earshot. Her father had been protective in that way, but the language and innuendo of the docks were hard to escape altogether.

‘Elise—’ William stepped in ‘—allow me to make the introductions. This is Dorian Rowland,’ he said with a flourish as if the name alone explained it all.

She eyed the man speculatively, taking in the tanned skin, the long tawny hair loosely held back by a strip of leather and streaked from the sun of faraway climes—England never had enough sun to achieve such a look. She was momentarily envious of such artless beauty until the import of her brother’s words sunk in. This was the man who was supposed to save her business?

The door to the tavern opened again, ejecting three tough-looking men with clubs. Her stranger shot a look over his shoulder. ‘Could we finish introductions in your carriage?’

The three men were momentarily dazzled by the sunlight as they searched the area for something. Someone, she realised too late. Their eyes lit on her stranger. ‘There he is! You’re not getting away from us! Halsey wants his money.’

‘Come on, Elise, let’s go.’ William hustled them into the carriage, giving a shout to the driver before the door was shut behind him and they were off, navigating the traffic with as much speed as possible.

‘Who are those men?’ Elise hazarded a glance out the window, recoiling when a rock hit the carriage as they pulled away. They were going to ruin the paint, yet another expense she could ill afford.

‘Suffice it to say, they don’t like me very much.’ Dorian Rowland, whoever he was, smiled as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Then again, it wasn’t his carriage being chipped.

She threw an accusing glare at her newly acquired companion. William had clearly made a mistake. ‘Well, that makes four of us.’

He laughed, a loud, clear sound that filled the carriage. ‘Don’t worry, Princess, I’ll grow on you.’




Chapter Two


In Dorian Rowland’s opinion, the ruckus outside the carriage was entirely unnecessary. Some people were simply unreasonable. Yes, he was late with his payment but he was good for it and Halsey knew it. Another cargo, which he’d been trying to negotiate when he’d been so rudely and violently interrupted by Halsey’s bullies, would have seen it right within the week.

The carriage hit a mud-filled rut in the street and sent a spray of water up, dousing his pursuers. Dorian could hear their curses outside as they gave up the chase. It served them right. They’d got what they so richly deserved and so had he. He was sitting in a plush town coach across from a finely dressed lady and her brother.

He definitely didn’t know the woman. He remembered pretty women and he’d have remembered her: all that inky black hair, alert green eyes and a bosom to die for. As for the young man, Dorian didn’t quite recall him, although there was something of the familiar about him. He was apparently supposed to know him from somewhere. He racked his brain for the last decent party he’d been to. In these cases of questionable identity, he’d found it worked out well to play along, especially when he sensed he was on the brink of an exciting new opportunity. Halsey could wait.

‘So you’re the best?’ The princess was talking, words forming from those kissable pink lips of hers. What a lovely mouth she had, far too lovely for that tone of voice. The way she said it made it sound like an accusation. The princess struck him as a bit high in the instep.

Dorian grinned and slathered his response in innuendo. He might have even shifted his posture ever so slightly to better display the ‘goods’, not that he’d admit to such feeble vanity. ‘Depends on what you want, Princess.’

Her pretty mouth set in a firm line and he knew a moment’s regret. Perhaps he’d pushed things a bit too far.

‘Stop the carriage, William,’ she said sharply to the young man before turning back to him with a cold politeness that suggested she could rise above the situation.

‘I am sorry…Mr Rowland, is it? It seems my brother has made a mistake. I’m glad we could assist your escape from imminent danger, but now it is time to part ways. I’ll have our driver put you down at the next corner.’

The brother—what was his name again? She’d just said it. William? Wilson?—intervened patiently. ‘Elise, wait. I tell you he is the best. If you would just listen to me.’ Ah, so she was definitely not in the market for a little blanket hornpipe, because her brother would have absolutely no knowledge of his skills in that regard. His wind didn’t blow that way.

‘Give him a chance to explain himself, please.’ The brother waved a hand towards him, tossing him a beseeching look. Feel free to intervene at any time. Dorian opened his mouth to assist, but too late.

‘He has explained himself,’ the haughty princess fired back. ‘Just look at him! He’s unkempt, he was in a public house in the middle of the day and he was brawling. That’s just in the last fifteen minutes. Who knows what else he’s been doing?’

It was on the tip of his tongue to say ‘the captain’s mistress’. But then he thought better of it. A becoming colour was riding her cheeks. The princess had been provoked enough already.

‘You would entrust our future to that? I don’t even want to know how it is that you know him, William.’ Too bad. He was counting on her making William explain the connection. Now, he’d just have to keep guessing. But that last comment set him on edge. Pretty princess or not, no one could talk about him as if he weren’t in the room, or worse, as if he were an object in the room.

‘I hate to interrupt this lovely example of sibling quarrels, but please note, I’m still here.’ Dorian stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles. ‘I think it would be best if you tell me what you really want and then I’ll tell you if I’ll do it. I find business is usually much simpler that way.’

The carriage turned on to the docks and stopped before a barred gate. His haughty princess shot him a glare as she leaned out to give a password to the guard. ‘You might as well see what I have in mind.’

First pistols, now passwords. This was growing more interesting by the moment. What was a young woman doing down on the docks, throwing around entrance codes like she belonged here? For that matter, what was she doing roaming Cold Harbour Lane in search of him? She wasn’t his usual type, that type being a bolder, brassier woman, a less-well-dressed sort. Not that she wasn’t bold. She had come armed, after all. Hmm. A girl with a gun. Maybe she was his type. By the time she led him into the shipyard his curiosity, in all its healthy male parts, was fully engaged.

‘There it is,’ she announced with a proud wave of her hand, indicating the hull of a racer. ‘That’s the yacht I need finished.’

She needed a finished yacht? It just so happened he needed one, too. That meant the shipyard was her place. Very impressive. Dorian began a slow tour around the yard, attempting to assimilate the various pieces of information. He made note of the supplies lining the perimeter: the casks of pitch, the piles of timber, the buckets of nails. He peeked under heavy tarps. Everything was new and well organised. These were not supplies that had lain in the weather so long they were rotten or rusted.

He took in, too, the silence and the absence of men. Whatever had transpired had brought work to a halt, an interesting concept of its own given the scarcity of jobs. Plenty of men were out of work these days. It made one stop and wonder.

‘There’s no one here. Why is that?’ He stopped in front of Miss Elise Sutton, his tone far more serious than it had been in the carriage. This was no longer a laughing matter. ‘I think it’s time you tell me what you really need and why.’

That got her attention. She stepped back instinctively, but her eyes were as unflinching as they had been outside the tavern. Lord, she was magnificent. ‘My father passed away recently and left this boat. I want to finish it and sell it.’ It was a succinct tale, but Dorian took nothing at face value. In his world it was best not to if one wanted to live long enough to collect payment.

‘Let me guess—the work crew left because there was no one to run the company?’ Dorian surmised immediately. Things were becoming clearer: a brother too young to assume responsibility and a woman with too much on her hands. He was starting to remember the lad, too. Sutton. William Sutton. That elusive first name of his was more familiar when paired with the last. There’d been a house party near Oxford last autumn. Perhaps they’d met there during one of his own brief forays into the fringes of society?

‘Yes, but I assure you I am more than capable, I—’

Dorian held up a hand and shook his head. ‘Enough, Miss Sutton. I am sure you are very capable, but men won’t work for you. However, they’ll work for me for the simple fact that I am male, although they’ll be glad enough to take your money. I trust you’ve thought about how to pay them?’ He’d bet his last piece of gold she wanted to sell the yacht because she needed money.

‘From the proceeds of the sale,’ she said shortly, irritated by his insights.

‘I might know some men who’d be willing to work for a future profit.’ Dorian shrugged, but his mind was racing. He’d need five men who knew what they were doing and another dozen skilled in carpentry. The promise of delayed payment meant he might have to look harder and in less-savoury places for seventeen adequate workers.

‘Would you care to see the plans before you take this any further?’ Elise offered coldly. ‘This is not just any yacht. It’s been designed with several new innovations in mind. It will be important that you understand them.’

Dorian smiled. There wasn’t a ship he couldn’t build, couldn’t sail and couldn’t steal, for that matter. ‘I can build your yacht, Princess. You can innovate all you like. The bigger question is—why should I?’

Elise put her hands on her hips and a wry smile on her lips. ‘Because you need money. The bullies at the tavern intimated as much. Who is it you owe? A Mr Halsey?’

Dorian stifled a laugh. ‘Black Jack Halsey hasn’t been called “mister” his entire life, Princess. He’s been called a lot of other things, but not that.’

‘I’ll pay you one hundred pounds from the sale to finish the yacht on time.’

‘Five hundred,’ Dorian countered. A man had to live and pay his debts. If he could make a little extra that was fine, too. It wasn’t his fault part of his last cargo had been confiscated for non-payment of port fees. He’d told Halsey they’d not pass inspection and he’d been right.

‘Five hundred! That’s highway robbery,’ Elise retorted, outraged by his exorbitant fee.

‘Have much experience with highway robbery, do you?’ Dorian chuckled.

Elise chose to ignore his question and stood her ground. ‘I’m asking for one month’s worth of work, Mr Rowland. You can’t earn that much in three years of honest labour.’

‘Honest being the key word there, Miss Sutton.’ He’d make more than that on his next cargo, but he wouldn’t attest to those goods all being legal.

‘All right, two hundred.’ The sharp point of her chin went up a fraction.

‘Let me remind you, you came looking for me.’

‘Two-fifty.’

‘Three hundred and I get three meals a day and that shed over there.’ He jabbed his thumb at a wide lean-to on the perimeter of the yard.

Her eyes narrowed. ‘What do you want with the shed?’

‘That is none of your business.’

‘I won’t tolerate anything illegal on these premises.’

‘Of course not.’

‘Or illicit.’

‘Now, you’re parsing words, Miss Sutton. Do you want me to build your ship or not?’ No doubt they could disagree on the nature of ‘illicit’ all day.

‘We still haven’t established why I should let you,’ she challenged.

‘Because I’ve built boats for the pashas and the Gibraltar smugglers that rival anything your Royal Thames Yacht Club can put on the water. Have you ever heard of the Queen Maeve?’ He was gratified by the flicker of recognition in her eyes. So the princess wasn’t just desperate for money. She knew something about boats, too. ‘Fastest racer on the Mediterranean and I built her.’

Built her and lost her, much to his regret. She’d been his dream, but in the end he’d had to let her go. There would be other boats, other dreams. That’s what he told himself anyway, although there hadn’t been that many opportunities since coming back to England. Not until now. This boat could be his ticket back to Gibraltar, back to the life he’d built there. But that life was based on having a fast ship.

Dorian ran his hand over the smooth, sanded side of the hull where it was finished. The yacht had good lines. The familiar magic started to hum in his veins; the itch to pick up tools and shape something into sleekness thrummed in his hands. Best not let the princess see that longing. It was better they assume she was the only desperate party here.

‘You built the Queen Maeve?’ she queried in sceptical disbelief.

‘And others, but she was my favourite.’ An understatement.

‘I told you, Elise, Rowland is the best,’ her brother said, entering the conversation for the first time, apparently happy enough to let his sister handle negotiations. Dorian wished he could remember the young man more clearly.

Miss Sutton studied him. She was weighing hope against desperation. Dorian could see it in her eyes. Could She afford to let him go? She had to know already she could not. Who else would take her deal? She knew the answer to that as well as he did. She’d had a look at reality. Still, caution carried some weight with her. ‘You’ve spent a lot of time in the Mediterranean, an area known more or less for its lawlessness on the seas.’

‘Less these days,’ Dorian muttered under his breath. If Britain hadn’t been so steadfast in taming the seas, he might still be there, but tamed seas were bad for business, his business at least. Tamed seas forced a man to be more creative in his ventures.

She huffed and raised an eyebrow in censure over the interruption. ‘I must ask, are you a pirate, Mr Rowland?’

‘If I can build your yacht, does it matter?’ He winked. ‘That’s a rhetorical question, Miss Sutton—we both know I’m your last best chance. I’ll start tomorrow.’ He didn’t give her a chance to respond. He strode across the yard to the shed, calling over his shoulder as he opened the door to the lean-to, ‘If you need me, I’ll be in my office.’




Chapter Three


He was the last thing she needed! And if he needed her, which would be the more likely case, she’d be in her office, a fact Elise demonstrated by loudly stomping up the stairs and slamming the office door, an effect which was ruined by her brother immediately opening the door and quietly shutting behind him when he entered.

‘Did you see how he just came in here and tried to take over?’ Elise steamed, pacing the square dimensions of the office with rapid steps. ‘He’s the builder, not the owner. Five hundred pounds, my foot. This is my yard and he’d better remember that.’

‘He’ll build the yacht, Elise, you’d better remember that.’

The firmness of her brother’s tone stopped her steps. William had never spoken to her harshly. ‘What do you mean?’ Elise faced him slowly. He lounged against the wall, casual and elegant, a subtle reminder that he wasn’t the adolescent boy she was used to after all these years. The mantle of manhood was starting to settle about him in the sternness of his features. Why hadn’t she seen it before?

‘I mean, I will be away at university. Mother is gone. There’s no one to help you if you lose Rowland. Pay him what he wants, get the boat finished and let’s be done with this.’

Elise struggled to keep her mouth from falling open. ‘Let’s be done with this? What does that mean?’ She suspected she knew, but that was not at all what she wanted to hear.

‘It means let’s clear the debt and start a new life.’

Oh, that was better. She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘A new line, yes, of course. I have a lot of ideas about yacht lines and how we can branch out into sailboats. I think racing will fully shift from rivers to open sea in the next few years. We might even think of relocating to Cowes to be closer to the Solent.’ She was babbling excitedly now, reaching for a tube containing rolls of her drawings, but a shake of William’s head stopped her.

‘No, Elise, I don’t mean to redefine the company. I mean we should close the book on the company once the debts are paid. There will be a little left over for you until you marry and you can always stay with me. I hope to find a living somewhere or take an associate’s post at Oxford.’

It took a moment for William’s words to sink in. ‘Close the company?’ She sat down behind the desk, stunned. Had her brother been thinking this all along?

‘Well, what did you think we’d do after the yacht was finished?’ William pressed.

‘I thought we’d build more boats. You’ll see, William. After people view this yacht, there will be other orders. This yacht will relaunch us. It will show everyone we can turn out the same superior product we’ve always turned out. The investors will come back.’ It made so much sense to her. Surely William could see the logic in that?

‘How many master builders do you think I know?’ William gave a soft laugh.

‘I’m not sure how you knew this one.’ Elise put in tartly. ‘Care to explain?’

William dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. ‘It was just a house party put on by the parents of a friend of mine. A few of us went to help balance out numbers and Rowland was there. One night, we started talking and discovered we both had a common interest in yachting.’

Elise wrinkled her brow. ‘He hardly strikes me as the Oxford house-party type.’ Whatever Dorian Rowland was, she didn’t imagine he was the scholarly sort. Tan, blond and hard-bodied, he definitely didn’t spend his days poring over books in libraries.

William was growing impatient with her prying. ‘Look, I don’t know what he was doing there. He said he’d made a delivery, brought something up from London. How I know him is not the point. The point is, I was lucky enough to know this one. He’ll finish your boat, but he won’t stay. You’ll be right back where you started.’

‘I’ll pay him more,’ Elise blurted out, looking for an easy solution. But inside her heart she knew her brother was right: Dorian Rowland wouldn’t stay. He’d made it clear he was a man who did what pleased him, when it pleased him. Her proposition suited him for the moment. That was the only reason he’d taken her offer.

‘Money won’t always be enough for a man like him,’ William said with a maturity that surprised her. ‘I’ve bought you time, Elise, to wrap up business and clear the bills, nothing more. Besides, you need to get on with your life, get out to parties and meet people.’ By meet people, he meant meet men who would be potential husbands. Elise frowned in disapproval. She’d seen those men and been disappointed with them and by them.

When she didn’t respond he paused awkwardly, his tone softening. ‘Not every man is Robert Graves,’ William said quietly.

Elise wasn’t quite ready to relent. ‘Well, thank goodness for that.’ Robert Graves, the biggest, worst mistake she’d ever made. She’d thought William might have been young enough to not remember him, or at least to not understand the depths of her mistake.

‘Charles Bradford has expressed an interest in you,’ William cajoled. Charles was the son of one of her father’s former investors. ‘He’s a very proper fellow.’

‘Sometimes too proper,’ Elise said briskly. She began looking needlessly through some papers on the desk, wanting to bring this conversation to a close. She wasn’t interested in a suitor. She was interested in building a yacht and getting the company back on its feet.

William coughed awkwardly, taking her rather broad hint, once more the younger brother she knew. He made a stammering exit. ‘Errm…um…I have some errands to run. I’ll see you at home, don’t stay too late.’

Elise sank down in the chair behind the desk and blew out a breath. Welcome to the world of men, you can begin by following our orders and forgetting to think for yourself, Elise thought uncharitably. In the last months she’d become heartily tired of men.

She was starting to understand all the ways in which her father had shielded her and she’d been unaware. Oh, how she missed him! She thought the missing would get easier with time, not harder. But everywhere she looked, everywhere she went, she was reminded of his absence. Even here, the one place where she’d felt truly at home.

When she’d been with her father at the shipyards no one had questioned her opinions on yacht design; no one had contradicted her numbers in the ledger. People did what she told them to do. Right up until his death, she’d believed they’d done those things because she’d earned their respect with her hard work and intelligence. Then they’d deserted one by one: the workmen, the investors. The message could not be any more concise. We listened to you because we wanted to please your father so he’d build us fast boats and pay our salaries. Listening to you was just part of the game. Elise put her head in her hands. It was a cruel blow.

Today had been more of the same, just to make the point in case she’d missed it the first time around. Dorian Rowland had walked in and assumed an attitude of control as if he had a right to this place in his rough shirt and trousers. Her brother had stealthily issued an edict—she was to give up yacht design after this boat and resign her life to one of three unappealing options: marriage, keeping house for her brother or living with her mother. She was to be passed from man to man, father to brother, brother to husband. She’d had fun playing at design, but now it was time to put away her childish things.

She wouldn’t do it. Elise squeezed her eyes tight, pressing back tears. Closing the company would be like forgetting her father, as if his life hadn’t mattered. This place was his legacy and she would not discard it so easily. There were more selfish reasons, too. She needed this. She never felt as alive as when she was designing a model and watching it come to life from her ideas. What would she be without that? The answer frightened her too much to thoroughly contemplate it for long. Well, there was nothing for it; if she wasn’t going to contemplate it, she’d simply have to conquer it.

Alone at last! Dorian flashed a lantern up in the direction of the dark office window as he shut the heavy gate to the yard behind him and breathed a relieved sigh. Elise Sutton had finally gone home for the evening and he’d returned successfully from his little foray on to the docks. After the day he’d had, he couldn’t ask for much more.

Dorian set down the heavy bag he carried and rubbed his shoulder. When it had become apparent Miss Sutton planned on staying either because she didn’t want to go home in a snit or because she didn’t want to leave him alone in her shipyard, he’d decided to go out and take care of his business in the hopes it would convince her he’d gone home or wherever it was she imagined he went when the sun went down. Whether the princess knew it or not, this was his home now—that nice little shed in the corner of the lot.

He’d gone back to his now-former room, paid the landlady his paltry rent with the few remaining coins he had and gathered up his clothes and tools and made arrangements for his trunk to be delivered in the morning. It was far too heavy and too conspicuous to haul through the streets. No matter, it didn’t contain anything he considered absolutely essential. Those items were already packed away in a black-cloth sack. Still, between a single trunk and one black satchel, it was humbling to think they made up the sum of his worldly goods in England, but it had made packing easy.

It also made getting away easy. The last thing he wanted was to be noticed by Halsey’s thugs. On the way back, he’d stopped at a few taverns, looking for likely workers. In this case, ‘likely’ meant whoever would be willing to show up and work for future pay. He just had to get them here. Once they saw the yacht, the project would speak for itself.

Dorian raised the lantern higher to cast the light on the boat. It was showing itself to be an absolute beauty. Longer and leaner than most yachts, it would be fast in the water. He recognised the influence of the American Joshua Humphreys in the design.

He hung the lantern on a nearby peg and reached into his sack for a drawing knife with its two handles and slender blade. The tool felt good in his hands as he slid it against the hull, scraping roughness away from the surface of the wood. There wasn’t much to catch—the finished portion of the hull was smooth already—but it felt good to work. Dorian let the rhythm of the drawing motion absorb him. The only thing better was standing at the wheel of a boat feeling the water buck beneath him like a woman finding her pleasure—perhaps a particular black-haired woman with green eyes.

When he’d awakened this morning, he’d never dreamed he’d be building a ship by evening. The arrangement might be a good one. He could hide out from Halsey until he made back his money or until Halsey forgot he owed him. In the meanwhile, he could work a new angle. There was plenty of potential here in the shipyard. Dorian ran a hand over the surface he’d finished scraping. He could make plans for this boat. If the finished yacht was as promising as the shell, he might just find a way to talk Miss Sutton out of selling. It might mean cosying up to the ice princess, but he’d never been above a little sweet talk to get what he wanted. With a boat of his own, he’d be back in business and the possibilities would be limitless.

The possibilities should have been limitless, Maxwell Hart mused dispassionately as he listened to young Charles Bradford report his latest news concerning the Sutton shipyard. Elise Sutton had become a thorn in his side instead of bowing to the dictates of the inevitable. Her father was dead, her brother not prepared or interested in taking over the business, investors withdrawn and no obvious funds to continue on her own. All the pieces were in place for her to abdicate quietly, gracefully, to those with the means to run the shipyard. Instead, she had not relinquished the property, had not sought out a buyer for the plans to her father’s last coveted design. In short, she had done nothing as expected. Now there was this latest development.

‘There were lights at the shipyard tonight,’ young Charles Bradford told the small group of four assembled.

‘Do you think it could be vagrants?’ Harlan Fox suggested from his chair, looking around for validation. Fox had pockets that went deeper than his intelligence. Those pockets were his primary recommendation for inclusion in this little group of ambitious yachtsmen. ‘It’s been several months, after all. It’s about time for the vultures to settle, eh?’

Maxwell shook his head. ‘No, she’s been going to the office regularly. She probably worked late.’ He spat the pronouns with distaste. The best thing to do with thorns was to pluck them.

Charles Bradford interrupted uncharacteristically. ‘I beg your pardon, sir. It couldn’t have been Miss Sutton. She left around five o’clock and she was the last to leave. There were two other men, her brother and a man I didn’t recognise. But they’d both gone by then.’

Damien Tyne, the fourth gentleman present, said, ‘Any of them could have come back.’

‘It wasn’t likely to have been her or the brother,’ Charles pressed. ‘There was no carriage. Whoever returned came back on foot.’

‘I still vote for vagrants,’ Fox insisted.

But Damien Tyne leaned forwards, curiosity piqued. When Damien was intrigued, Maxwell had learned to pay attention. He and Tyne had made a tidy profit off those instincts and they were unerringly good. ‘What are you thinking, Tyne?’

Miss Sutton needed to be prodded in the right direction and in short order. He wanted that shipyard. It held a prime spot on the Thames and he’d coveted it for years. It would be the perfect place to move his own more obscure yacht-building operation and his warehouses. A good location would garner him the notice which to date had eluded him from his current locale in Wapping.

Obtaining the shipyard would just be the start. Hart also wanted to get his hands on the plans to Sutton’s last yacht just as badly for the future of his more private, less legitimate side of business with Tyne. Tyne could have the yacht. He wanted the plans. The key to any business venture was the ability to reproduce success.

‘I’m thinking,’ Damien drawled, his dark eyebrows looking particularly satanic in the coffee house’s uneven lighting, ‘our Miss Sutton is not going quietly. Nothing she’s done in the last months has suggested she is closing up the business as we’d hoped.’

‘She has to, there’s no money, no workers,’ Charles protested. Young and smitten with Miss Sutton, he was also a bit obtuse, a literal fellow who saw only the obvious. ‘I should know. My father was a former investor. We were at the funeral.’

Damien smiled patiently at the young cub. ‘We know that, but does she? Maybe there’s something she knows that we don’t, which seems likely.’ He nodded towards Maxwell. ‘She’s held on to the two things that matter most right now: the property and the last yacht. It seems to me that she means to try something before the end.’

‘Impossible. The yacht isn’t finished,’ Charles argued sceptically. ‘There’s nothing to try.’

‘Unless she has a builder,’ Maxwell put in bitterly. That would drag things out. He had no doubt Miss Sutton would fail in the end, but prolonging that end didn’t help his cause. The group had wanted to be in position by the time yachting season opened in May. Back in October when the opportunity had first presented itself, the objective to take over the shipyard had seemed perfectly reasonable. Now, with a month to go, it seemed far more unlikely.

Maxwell pushed a hand through his hair and sighed. ‘We have to be certain. Charles, of all of us here, you are closest to the family. Perhaps it’s time to pay a friendly visit to see how the daughter of your father’s friend is coping with her grief?’ He winked at the young man. Everyone in the group knew Elise Sutton had set aside mourning weeks ago, but the subtle sarcasm had flown right over Charles.

Maxwell hoped Charles’s decent good looks and refined manners would encourage Miss Sutton to disclose her plans. Even beyond that, he hoped Charles would be able to give Miss Sutton a gentle nudge in the right direction through whatever means of persuasion possible.

Maxwell preferred to accomplish his goals subtly and without any overt force. He was happy to play nice until it was time not to, and that time was rapidly approaching. He and Tyne had money, time and pride wrapped up in this venture the others knew nothing about. He meant to see it succeed. Failure meant he’d lose a lot more than his shirt.




Chapter Four


His shirt was off! It was the first thing Elise noticed when she arrived at the yard late in the morning. For the first time since her father’s death, she’d actually slept late. And look what happened. Her master builder was running around without his shirt on. Her mother would have shrieked it wasn’t ladylike to notice, but how could she not? The sight was just so riveting.

Elise knew she was staring, but she could hardly look away. His chest was nothing like the average Englishman’s. Gone was the pasty skin and skeletal lankiness, replaced by a smooth, tanned expanse of torso. It was quite possibly the most perfect chest she’d ever seen. Not that she was a connoisseur of men’s chests, but working around the shipyard, she’d caught accidental glimpses on rare occasions.

She might have been able to pull her gaze away if that had been all, but it wasn’t simply his chest. There were arms and shoulders to consider, perfectly moulded with muscle, to say nothing of his lean hips where his culottes hung tantalisingly low on his waist, revealing the secret aspects of male musculature and hinting at even more. All this masculinity had been pressed against her yesterday. It was somewhat shocking to see it on such bold display without the buffer of clothing to mute the reality. She was still gaping when he sauntered over, an adze dangling negligently from one hand, that impertinent grin of his on his face.

‘Good day, Miss Sutton. Is everything to your liking?’ He motioned towards the yard, the veneer of the gesture narrowly saving the comment from being outright indecent. She knew very well he’d caught her staring, and ‘liking’ hadn’t only referred to the yard. Elise looked around for the first time, trying hard to ignore the distraction beside her.

There were workers! There was the noise of industry. Not nearly as much as the yard was used to, but it was better than the silence that had marked the past months. ‘Where did you find them?’

Rowland shrugged, thrusting the adze through the rope belt holding up his culottes. ‘Here and there. It hardly matters as long as they know their job.’

In other words, don’t ask, Elise thought. She shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Men were here, willing to work on her boat and willing to take future payment. That should be enough. It was more than she’d had yesterday.

‘As you can see, all is well in hand. Is there anything else I can help you with, Miss Sutton?’ Rowland said briskly, impatience evidencing itself in the shift on his stance.

Elise bristled at his tone. He wanted her gone. ‘Are you dismissing me from my shipyard?’ His audacity knew no bounds.

Rowland lowered his voice and jerked his head to indicate the workers beyond them. ‘They’re starting to look, Miss Sutton. They’re wondering what a woman is doing here. You’re distracting them.’

Elise was incredulous. ‘I am distracting them? I’m not the one strutting around the yard half-dressed. You might as well be naked the way those trousers are hanging off your hips.’

‘You noticed? I’m flattered.’ Rowland, damn him, grinned and crossed his arms over his chest. ‘And here I was thinking you didn’t like me.’

‘I don’t like you,’ Elise said in a loud whisper. People were starting to look, but she would not take responsibility for that. She wasn’t the one dressed like…like him. No wonder society demanded a man wear so many layers over his shirt. No one would get anything done otherwise; they’d be too busy staring.

Rowland laughed. ‘Yes, you do, you just don’t know what to do about it.’ The man was insufferable.

‘I want to see what progress you’ve made.’ Elise tried to put the conversation back on a more professional level. It was just her luck her brother had found the best-looking shipbuilder in London. She’d come down here with the express purpose of overseeing the project. She wouldn’t leave until she’d done that, half-naked master builder or not.

Rowland had other ideas. He took her arm, drawing her complete attention to the strong tanned hand that cupped her elbow and steered her out of the yard. ‘If you want to watch,’ he drawled with a grin that made watching sound like a decadent fetish, ‘I suggest you adjourn to the office. You, Miss Sutton, are bad for business.’

Elise shot Rowland a hard look. She’d had enough of these games. ‘I am their business.’ The slightest shake of his head caused her to reassess.

‘These men answer to me, Princess. They’ll build your boat because I tell them to.’

Elise entrenched, ready for battle. She’d let such reasoning go yesterday. But it would not work twice. ‘Is that your mantra? I should accept your decrees simply because you’re building my yacht? Do you think that puts paid to any questions I have? This is my shipyard and everything that happens in it is definitely my concern.’

‘Upstairs, now,’ Dorian growled. It was all the warning she had before a firm hand gripped her arm and propelled her up the stairs to the office. The door slammed behind them. Dorian Rowland’s blue eyes blazed with a temper she’d not suspected. His grip on her arm tightened. ‘How long do you think these men will work if they think they’re working for you? You are the owner’s daughter and nothing more as far as they’re concerned.’

‘You lied to them!’ She saw all too clearly what he’d done. He’d set himself up as the boss, the chief. The man with all the power.

He raised a blond eyebrow in exaggerated query. ‘You are not the owner’s daughter? Did I misunderstand yesterday?’

‘No, but—’ She didn’t get to finish.

‘So you are the owner’s daughter. Good, then I’ve told no lies,’ he said as if this were the worst sin he had to worry about.

‘I’m more than someone’s curious daughter. Did you tell them that? Without me there’d be no project.’ Elise wrenched her arm free and stepped away. She needed space where her logic wouldn’t be distracted by more masculine charms.

‘Allow me to be blunt. With you, there will be no project if you don’t let me do this my way. I am trying to help you. You have nothing without me.’

He advanced and Elise fought a losing battle to retreat. Her back hit the wall. He leaned forwards, one arm bracing himself on the wall over her head. He seemed bigger at close range, not menacingly so, but overwhelmingly potent. Even the smell of him, fresh lumber and salty sweat, was all man—all nearly naked man. It was hard to forget that one thing with his bare chest mere inches from her. She’d like to forget it, though. Handsome men had proven to be her weakness in the past.

Elise tried to look anywhere but at him. She could see every intimate detail of his skin: the fine dusting of blond hair, the thin white scar beneath his right breast. Lord, it was hard to concentrate! Even her breathing seemed more erratic.

‘Have I made you nervous, Miss Sutton?’ He smiled. ‘I can’t help but notice the inordinate amount of time you’ve spent staring at my chest.’

Did she imagine it or did he puff that chest of his out intentionally just then?

Elise opened her mouth to respond and then shut it. Had she really just seen his breast jump? Flex? Whatever one wanted to call it. ‘Stop that!’

‘Stop what?’ Pop! There it went again. He was doing it on purpose.

‘That thing you’re doing with your chest!’

‘Oh, this? Flexing my muscles?’ He straightened up and treated her to a bawdy show of alternately flexing each side of his chest.

‘Yes, that.’

He laughed. ‘Do you know what your problem is, Princess? You don’t know how to have any fun.’

Elise crossed her arms over her chest to make a barrier of sorts between them. How dare he think she was a stick in the mud just because she wore all of her clothes to the office? She knew how to have fun. ‘And I suppose you do?’

Another smile split his face. ‘Absolutely.’

Elise felt her breath catch. His eyes lingered indecently on her mouth. She was acutely aware of his nearness, that he still bracketed her with his arm leaning against the wall. She licked her lips self-consciously. ‘I’ll have you know I’ve had plenty of fun.’

‘Really?’ he drawled, doubt evident. ‘Well, maybe you have. I suppose I could be wrong. Let’s see, hmmm. Have you kissed a man?’

‘I most certainly have,’ Elise said indignantly, although why it should matter what he thought was something of a mystery. There’d been a few safe kisses in gardens after dancing, but that had been before society had made her choose between it and the shipyard. It had been before Robert Graves, with whom she’d done far more than kiss.

‘Unh-unh.’ Dorian wagged a finger. ‘Let me finish. Parlour games don’t count. Have you kissed a man just for fun in the middle of the afternoon in a public place where you might be caught at any moment?’ He was definitely flirting now, the images conjured by his words causing a slow heat to unfurl low in her belly.

She fought it, trying to sound more affronted than aroused. No good could come from letting him see how he affected her with his teasing. ‘What, exactly, are you suggesting?’ No gentleman would imply her virtue was in question.

A slow, wicked smile curved on his lips, his voice low and intimate in the small gap of space between them. ‘I’m suggesting you try it. With me.’ His mouth took hers then, without waiting for a reply, the press of his lips gently insisting that she give way to his greater experience. His tongue flicked over the seam of her lips and she opened to him, to the heady pleasure rising inside her at the leisurely decadence he invoked: mouth on mouth, tongue to tongue, body to body, cloth to skin. This was a naughty exploration indeed. Of their own volition her hands went to his shoulders, kneading the exposed muscles. He was right; she’d never been kissed, not like this. Those other kisses seemed childish by comparison, nothing more than play, pretend. But this was real, this man was real. And the consequences would be real, too. She’d been down that road before.

That was enough to wake her senses. Elise pulled away. She would not repeat the mistakes of the past; this had to end now. She had scandal enough to worry about without being caught kissing her master builder. ‘Mr Rowland!’ She hoped her exclamation carried enough chagrin for more words to be unnecessary.

‘How about we dispense with the “Mr Rowland” bit?’ He made no move to back up and release her. ‘You can call me Dorian and I’ll call you Princess.’

‘My name is Elise,’ she snapped, realising she’d been manoeuvred too late.

‘Well, Elise it shall be, then, if you insist.’ He shoved off the wall. ‘Now you can say you’ve had fun.’ He winked. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I must be back to work if you want your yacht done by the deadline. Have a nice rest of the afternoon, Elise.’

She could not stay in that office a moment longer. It took all her patience to wait until Dorian was safely engrossed in his work before leaving. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d succeeded in driving her off her own property.

How dared he? Elise strode through the crowded streets surrounding the docks, burning off her excess energy and anger, if that’s what it was. He’d kissed her in broad daylight and for no apparent reason other than the fun of it. One thought overrode even that: he’d been audacious, but she’d liked it! Hadn’t she learned her lesson with Robert? Handsome men were not to be trusted. They knew they could barter on their looks to take what they wanted unless a woman was careful. Elise was so wrapped in her thoughts, she nearly ran into Charles Bradford before she noticed him.

‘Miss Sutton. I was just on my way to see you.’ Charles righted her after their nearcollision, tucking her hand through his arm. ‘Whatever are you doing out here in the street? It’s no place for a decent lady.’

‘Lunch,’ Elise improvised, pulling her skirts to one side to avoid a barrel being rolled to a nearby store.

‘Out here?’ Charles had to shout to be heard above the street din. ‘Might I suggest a quieter venue? My carriage is just the next street over. Perhaps I could escort you?’

There was no gracious way to refuse and perhaps it would be better to be with someone instead of fuming alone over her latest interaction with Dorian Rowland. In no time at all, Elise found herself ensconced in Charles Bradford’s open barouche. Of course, it was open. Being alone with a man in a closed carriage was unheard of for an unmarried woman and Charles was first and foremost a gentleman. He’d known he was coming to see her and had planned accordingly. Unlike certain other males of her recent acquaintance, came the unbidden comparison. She doubted Dorian Rowland planned accordingly for anything or even planned at all. He just did or said the first thing that came to mind.

‘I must confess to being surprised to find you here,’ Charles began as the barouche started to move. ‘I stopped at your house first and your butler told me where you were. I didn’t think there’d be anything more to do at the shipyard. If there’s still business to take care of, you should have contacted me. My father and I would have handled it for you.’ There was reproach in the comment.

The Bradfords had offered as much earlier when the tragedy had first happened, but she’d insisted on overseeing it all on her own. She knew what Charles meant. There wasn’t that much to do if she was closing the yard. ‘You might be surprised at what a girl finds to amuse herself with,’ Elise answered vaguely, her thoughts going straight to shirtless men and afternoon kisses. Charles might be all that was proper in a young man with his well-cut clothes, fashionable hair and polished manners, but he wouldn’t understand her latest endeavour or the need behind it. If he had understood, he and his father would never have pulled out.

It occurred to her that this might be a prime opportunity to pull them back in. What if they did know what she was doing? They might re-invest and there would be money again. She wouldn’t have to wait until the yacht was finished. That thought only lasted a moment. Charles was looking at her with his calm, brown eyes and she almost blurted it out. But caution held her back. It had only been a day and Dorian Rowland had amply demonstrated he was uncertainty personified. What if he suddenly quit? What if he lacked the skill to finish the yacht? She’d do better to wait and see if her project could be completed before she told a soul. It wouldn’t do to be seen as a failure just now. If she was to fail, she wanted to do it in secret.

Charles found them an acceptable tea shop where they could have sandwiches and a quiet table. He was solicitous, asking after her wellbeing, her brother’s plans to return to Oxford and her mother’s time in the country. The more solicitous he was, the more the contrast grew. He was nothing like Dorian Rowland. To start with, he wore all of his clothes and he was unlikely to steal a kiss in a public place. Charles was safe. Charles was comfortable. But she couldn’t help but wonder—would Charles’s chest be as muscled beneath his linen shirt? It certainly wouldn’t be as tanned. She blushed a little at the thought. It was most untoward of her to be picturing gentlemen without their clothes on. She could blame that, too, on Dorian.

‘Miss Sutton? Are you all right?’

‘Oh, yes. Why do you ask?’ Elise dragged her thoughts back to the conversation.

‘I asked you a question.’ Charles smiled indulgently. ‘What are you planning to do with the shipyard? My father would be able to help you arrange a sale. I’m sure you’d rather be off to join your mother.’

Actually, that was the last place she wanted to be. How to answer without lying? She opted for part of the truth. ‘I’m thinking about keeping the yard, after all,’ Elise offered quietly, waiting for his shocked response.

To his credit, Charles kept his shock to a minimum. He didn’t disagree with her, but merely voiced his concern. ‘Miss Sutton, your fortitude is commendable. But you have no one to run the place. Surely you can’t be thinking of doing it on your own?’ She knew what he was thinking. To do so was to invite social ostracism for the last time. She’d already skated so near the edge on other occasions. With her father gone, there’d be little pity left for her.

‘I have someone.’

‘Who?’ Charles reached for his tea cup.

‘A Mr Dorian Rowland,’ Elise said with a confidence she didn’t feel.

The tea cup halted in mid-air, never quite making it to his mouth. ‘Dorian Rowland? The Scourge of Gibraltar?’ The tea cup clattered into its saucer with an undignified clunk. ‘My dear Miss Sutton, you must be rid of him immediately.’

She’d hired someone called the Scourge of Gibraltar?

Elise was glad she wasn’t holding a tea cup, too, or it might have followed suit. ‘Why?’ she managed to utter.

The horror in Charles Bradford’s eyes was so exaggerated it was almost comical and it would have been, too, if it wasn’t aimed at the one man she’d pinned all her hopes on.

‘Don’t you know, Miss Sutton? He isn’t received.’




Chapter Five


‘I was not under the impression craftsmen were in the habit of being received at all,’ Elise answered coolly, some irrational part of her leaping to Dorian’s defence. Perhaps it was simply that she wanted to defend the shipyard and her own judgement, or her brother’s judgement for that matter. He’d been the one to recommend Dorian.

Charles smiled indulgently. ‘Oh, he’s not a craftsman, not by birth anyway.’

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to explain that.’ Elise mustered all the bravado she could. With a label like the Scourge of Gibraltar she could guess the reasons without the specifics, though details would be nice.

Charles set his jaw, looking fiercer than she’d ever seen him, a look at odds with his usually calm demeanour. ‘Of course you don’t know and understandably so. It’s hardly a topic of discussion worthy of a lady. I will say only this: he’s not fit company for you.’

The fervency in Charles’s eyes should have warmed her even if his sentiments did not. She ought to overlook his condescension in light of its motives: he was putting her honour first. He was thinking of her, concerned about who she associated with, even if the tone with which that care was voiced sounded a bit high in the instep. Her father had been a self-made peer, knighted for his efforts, and Charles’s own father was a baronet, neither family far removed from the efforts of work that had attained such positions. Yet she could not warm to Charles’s efforts with more than polite kindness. Her own body and mind were still engaged in recalling a less-decent gentleman with blunt manners and a blind eye for scandal.

‘I appreciate your concern, although it’s hardly fair to tell me he’s unsuitable and then not tell me why.’ As if she needed reasons other than the ones Dorian had already provided this very afternoon with his unorthodox kissing episode. Out of reflex and remembrance, Elise’s eyes dropped ever so briefly to Charles’s lips. She couldn’t imagine Charles behaving so outrageously. The thought was not well done of her. There could be no true comparison between the two. Charles was all a gentleman should be and Dorian Rowland simply was not. Charles would be eminently more preferable. Wouldn’t he? He was precisely the sort of man her brother wanted her to find: attractive, steady and financially secure. But even with all these credentials, Elise couldn’t help but feel Charles would still come out lacking.

Charles seemed to hold an internal debate with himself, his features suddenly relaxing, decision made. He leaned across the table in confidentiality. ‘He is Lord Ashdon’s son, second son,’ he offered in hushed tones as if that explained it all.

It certainly explained some, like how William might have encountered him at an Oxford house party. Even after William’s explanation, she’d been hard pressed to believe William had stumbled across a master shipbuilder in the course of his usual social routine. But the one word her brain kept coming back to was scandal. It was the very last thing she needed. Her father’s death had been sensational, but not scandalous. Dorian Rowland, however, was both. If society had seen him today, one of their own, half-naked and toting tools around the shipyard, shouting orders, it would be outraged. Then again, it already was. If Charles could be believed, Dorian’s transgressions preceded this latest. This venture into the shipyard was just one of many escapades for him. But she would be the one who suffered.

It was slowly coming to her that Dorian Rowland simply didn’t care who he perpetrated this fraud on. He could have told her who he was and he hadn’t. He’d let her believe he was a craftsman. And why not? He wasn’t received. He had nothing to lose, whereas she had everything to risk.

Her place in society was tenuous. She was the daughter of a dead man who possessed a non-hereditary title. Society had to acknowledge her father. It didn’t have to acknowledge her, especially if she put herself beyond the pale. She had only her virtue and reputation to speak for her if she wished to remain in society’s milieu. To be honest, her reputation wasn’t the best to start with and this latest effort to keep the shipyard open wouldn’t help, with or without Dorian Rowland’s presence.

Oblivious to the tumult of her thoughts, Charles leaned across the table ready to impart another confidence ‘Enough of such unpleasant things. I confess I had other reasons for seeing you. I wanted to ask if you might consider going for a drive some afternoon? I know you’re in mourning, but a drive wouldn’t be amiss.’

Hardly. Elise thought of her mother’s version of mourning in the countryside. A drive was nothing beside her mother’s card parties and dinners at the squire’s, and Elise had made no secret that she’d set many of the trappings of mourning aside. All right, all of them. She did wear half-mourning, but that was the only concession she continued to make and even that transition had been rushed by society’s standards. She returned Charles’s smile, but the offer raised little excitement. ‘I’d like that.’ She really should try harder to like him, to see him as more than a comfortable friend.

They finished lunch in companionable conversation, the subject of Dorian Rowland discarded until Charles dropped her off at the town house. He saw her to the door, his hand light at her elbow. ‘It was good to see you, Elise. I’m sorry if the news about Rowland disturbed you. Now that you know, I trust you’ll manage the situation appropriately.’

Somehow, Elise thought as the door shut behind her, she didn’t think ‘managing appropriately’ included afternoons pressed up against the office wall kissing her foreman with all the abandon of a wanton.

Dorian had abandoned all pretence of being in a good mood since the previous afternoon. The encounter with Elise had left him aroused with no hope of immediate satisfaction save that which he’d had to provide for himself. At the sight of a haphazard nailing job, he ripped the hammer out of one worker’s hand with a snarl. ‘Take it out and do it right.’ The others gave him a wide berth.

He didn’t blame them. Kissing Elise had put him out of sorts even though he’d got what he wanted. He shouldn’t have done it. Technically, he knew better but that had never stopped him before. He took what he liked and he’d liked her, a princess with her temper up, her professional reserve down. She’d been furious with him and it had done fabulous things to her, turning the green of her eyes to the shade of moss and staining her cheeks to a becoming pink. In his arms, she’d become a woman of fire, burning slow and hot, desperate to prove herself.

That made him chuckle. She’d not wanted him to think she was entirely inexperienced. Most decent girls were just the opposite, wanting to prove their virtue. Even so, there was no question Elise Sutton was a lady in spite of her adventurous streak. Men like him didn’t mess with ladies. Ladies came with expectations while a man like him came with none.

‘Lover girl’s here,’ one of the men called out, a surly fellow named Adam. He was not the sort Dorian preferred to hire, but choices had been few and he’d been eager to get the project under way.

‘Shut up and show some respect,’ Dorian growled. He looked up from his work on the hull to see Elise crossing the yard. The princess in her was intact this morning, helped along no doubt by a careful choice of dress. He knew very well that clothes were a woman’s armour. Elise was turned out to perfection in a lavender morning dress of figured silk, complemented by the soft grey of her shawl and the matching lace trim of her Victoria bonnet. The ensemble was very demure, very respectful, although not quite up to the standard for a daughter’s mourning. He wondered briefly if she’d forgone mourning altogether. Yet the subdued qualities of the outfit did not diminish her. Perhaps that was due to her walk, Dorian mused, watching the sway of her hips and not necessarily her clothes.

She crossed the yard with a purpose, hardly deigning to give any attention to the eyes attracted by her movement. Her superior attitude was for the best. Dorian felt a twinge of guilt over the sort of men he’d hired. These were rough men unaccustomed to ladies. But also he’d not expected her to make herself a daily fixture in the shipyard.

‘Clearly my message yesterday eluded you.’ Dorian set down the wrung staff he was using to attach planking on the hull.

‘Good morning to you, too.’ Elise smiled cheerily and ignored the cool greeting. ‘I’ve some things we need to discuss. Do you have a moment?’

The comment elicited a mean chuckle from Adam Bent. ‘Are you going to take orders from the little woman? You’re not so big now.’

There were other nervous laughs. He had to nip such conjecture in the bud. These men would never respect a man who appeared to be at a woman’s beck and call. But he’d dealt with men like Bent before on his ships. With a quick movement, Dorian divested Bent of the racing knife in his hand and pressed it against his throat. ‘It’s sharp and it will hurt, in case you’re wondering,’ Dorian said with savage fierceness, leaving no doubt he was not bluffing.

Bent’s eyes bulged in fear. Behind him, Dorian heard Elise gasp at the sudden violence. Around them, men stopped their work to stare. Good. Let them. Let them be very sure they knew who was in charge here and what he was willing to do to prove his claim. ‘Say you’re sorry,’ Dorian pressed.

‘Really, is that necessary?’ Elise stepped forwards, picking a rotten time to intervene.

‘It damn well is.’ Dorian locked eyes with the frightened Bent. The man was a bully. He would cave. Bullies always did at the first sign of real terror and there was nothing as terrifying as a blade against one’s throat. A racing knife, whose purpose was to trace a shape before cutting it out with its thin blade, could leave an especially wicked line. A small bead of red began to show.

‘I’m sorry, boss,’ Adam stammered.

‘Say it won’t happen again.’

‘It won’t happen again.’

Dorian released him with a shove. ‘You’re right it won’t. Now, Miss Sutton, if you’ll follow me up to the office?’

Perhaps the office wasn’t the best of locations with the memories of yesterday still so recent and hot, but there was no other place to take her.

‘Is this how you run your shipyards, Mr Rowland? At knifepoint?’ She didn’t wait for him to begin the conversation once the door was shut.

‘When I must.’ Dorian folded his arms. ‘I told you yesterday your presence was a disturbance and yet you persist in making appearances.’

‘I needed to see you,’ she said evenly. Dorian admired her aplomb. There wasn’t an ounce of apology in her eyes.

‘You could have asked me to call on you at your home. This is no place for a woman.’

‘I wasn’t sure you’d put your shirt on,’ she replied, her implication clear. ‘I can’t have you scandalising the butler.’ she shot him a sideways glance that made him uneasy. ‘Although, it’s probably too late for that,’ she said cryptically. ‘I doubt a shirt will make much difference at this point.’

‘Shirt on, shirt off, it’s all the same to me, Princess,’ Dorian drawled. She hadn’t slapped him or any of the other things ladies did when they were too ashamed to admit their passions had been provoked and they enjoyed it. He would take it as progress.

‘It is all the same to you, isn’t it?’ She gave him a wry, intelligent smile. ‘You’re not received. What do you care? You could run around naked if you wanted. Oh, wait, you do.’

So that was the bee in her pretty bonnet this morning. She’d found out who he was. He did wonder how she’d come by that information. It wasn’t something a lady would know. ‘There are a few homes where I’m welcome,’ he offered in his defence.

‘Enough to have met my brother.’

‘Ah, yes, the house party outside Oxford. It was nothing, just an invite from a friend of a friend I hadn’t seen in a while,’ he admitted. Meeting William had been a fluke really. Decent society had shut their doors ages ago on him once conjecture of his Mediterranean activities reached them. ‘Does it matter? I assure you being received has nothing to do with my ability to build your ship.’

She huffed at the response. ‘You seem to think your ability to build my ship excuses all nature of things. I disagree. I think you should have told me you were Lord Rowland, son of the Duke of Ashdon.’

He smiled and leaned his hip against the desk, half-sitting on its edge. ‘But then you wouldn’t have hired me and we both would have missed out.’ His eyes drifted purposely to her mouth, letting her guess on what they would have missed out.

‘You’ve brought scandal to my business simply by being here. If anyone finds out, I’m finished.’

Dorian’s smile faded. ‘Only if you care about such things.’ This was dangerous ground. Had she come here to let him go? The thought sat poorly with him. It had only been two days, but he’d invested effort in this proposition of hers, beating the docks for any worker he could find. He fiddled with her paperweight, a pretty amber piece with an insect inside, giving her a chance to think. ‘And do you, Miss Sutton? Do you care?’

He had her there. The look on her face suggested she wasn’t sure how to answer. He answered for her, pushing off the desk and pacing the floor like an Oxford professor delivering a lecture. ‘That’s the thing about scandal, Miss Sutton. It only has teeth if everyone playing agrees to give it power. Frankly, I don’t see how you can care and pursue this line of work you’ve put before yourself. Surely you see the dichotomy, too?’ He rather worried that she didn’t, though. She was the sort whose boldness came from a combination of naïveté and ideals, a deadly mixture once society got a hold of them. Somebody was going to have to tell her the truth. This venture of hers simply wasn’t going to work. It couldn’t.

Dorian softened his tone. ‘Are you familiar with syllogisms, Miss Sutton? A lady doesn’t build ships. Miss Sutton builds ships. Therefore, Miss Sutton isn’t a lady. Indeed, she can’t be a lady by the very definition of what society says a lady is. Do you see my point?’

Her dark brows were knitted together, a furrow of twin lines forming between her eyes, the look not unattractive. It stirred him to want to do something about it, to erase the consternation. He wasn’t used to such chivalrous feelings.

‘I understand your meaning quite well and I respectfully disagree.’ Her chin went up a fraction in defiance.

‘You will have to choose,’ Dorian insisted. ‘My being here or not is the least of your worries if you’re thinking about your reputation. Building your blasted yacht is enough to sink you in most circles. No pun intended.’ Instinctively, he moved close to her, his hands going to her forearms in a gentle grip to make his point, to make her see reason.

She swallowed nervously, the pulse at the base of her throat leaping in reaction to his nearness. ‘Again I disagree,’ she said with quiet steel. ‘I think this yacht will be the making of me.’

‘If it is, it will be the making of a lady most improper.’ Dorian gave a soft chuckle, breathing in the tangy lemongrass scent of her just before his mouth caught hers.




Chapter Six


‘Rowland’s back.’ Maxwell made a grimace before taking a swallow of his brandy. He and Damien Tyne had the corner of the coffee house to themselves in the late afternoon. He preferred it that way. The conversation he wanted to have with Tyne might possibly become too dark for the others.

Tyne raised slender dark brows in interest. ‘Really? I wonder if his father knows? Gibraltar must have finally got too hot for him. Still, it’s gutsy of him to come back here where he’s got a number of enemies waiting for him, you and me included. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t mind a shot at him after what he did?’

Maxwell gave a thin smile. ‘We will get our chance. It will be an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.’ He dangled the thought before Damien like bait.

‘And how is that? We’re rather busy with the Sutton project at the moment. It doesn’t seem like the right time to go after Rowland.’

Maxwell’s thin smile turned into a grin as he dropped the news. ‘He’s working for our Miss Sutton. She told Charles herself over lunch.’

‘And he scampered back here like a good boy and told you.’ Tyne leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming on the table top beside him. Maxwell could almost see the thoughts running through Tyne’s mind.

‘You were right,’ Maxwell offered, wanting to be included in those usually lucrative thoughts. The fastest way to get Tyne to open up was to compliment him. Tyne was a smart man and a bit of an egomaniac. Tyne liked others to recognise his intelligence. ‘Miss Sutton does mean to give it one last gasp. She’s hired Rowland to do something.’

‘But we have no idea what that is?’ Tyne asked.

‘She wouldn’t tell Charles.’

Tyne snorted. ‘She probably didn’t get the chance. Charles would have been too busy lecturing her about Rowland’s unsuitability. I do hope he told her to fire the reprobate.’

‘Charles served his purpose today,’ Maxwell reprimanded lightly. Tyne thought Charles was a silly young pup. ‘He’s our best connection to the inner workings of Miss Sutton’s life at the moment without spending money on people to watch her. Charles is happy to do it for free.’

‘He’s infatuated with her,’ Tyne grumbled.

Maxwell idly stroked the short stem of his snifter. ‘Yes. If he’d marry her it would be all the better for us, get her out of the business for good. For the record, Charles did tell her to let Rowland go, but I doubt she’ll listen to his advice. She hasn’t listened to anyone so far.’ Certainly not the investors who’d come to her after the funeral and encouraged her to sell. She could have made this much easier on all of them, herself included.

Tyne’s eyes glinted. ‘Maybe it’s time to make her listen.’

Maxwell leaned forwards with keen interest. He and Tyne had been partners in questionable commerce practices before, but those notorious practices were conducted far from home where their countrymen were less likely to notice what they were up to. Going after someone in London would be different. They’d have to exercise extraordinary caution—something Tyne was not always good at. ‘What exactly do you have in mind?’

‘I think a nocturnal visit to the shipyard is in order so we can figure out precisely what she’s doing behind those walls. It doesn’t take a genius to speculate about what she might be doing, but we can’t take an appropriate course of action until we know for sure. I know just the men to do it.’

Maxwell nodded his approval. ‘I like the way you think. In the meanwhile, I’ll tell Charles to continue his courtship.’

‘Miss Sutton, there’s a gentleman to see you.’

Elise looked up from her reading, more than surprised to see Evans, the butler, in the doorway of the sitting room. It was after seven and she’d given the staff permission to retire for the evening. ‘I’m not expecting anyone.’ The house was quiet tonight. She’d seen William off earlier in the day and dinner had been a lonely affair, one of many, she supposed. Mourning and the absence of a decent chaperon made attending any social functions out of the question.

‘He has a card, Miss Sutton, and he says he has business to discuss.’

Not Charles, then. That had been her first thought. But Charles would never have called on her so late at night, knowing her brother was gone, or have come to discuss something as dirty as business. Unless, of course, he wanted to remind her of the impropriety of a lady living alone. Elise took the card from the silver salver. The paper was a heavy white affair of cardstock with simple black letters in crisp block print. It was of good quality. The name on the card wasn’t. Lord Dorian Rowland. Just seeing the name was enough to make her stomach flutter for any number of reasons: a reminder that she’d hired a man who outranked her socially to work for her, a reminder that same man kissed liked the very devil whenever the fancy struck him and reduced her insides to jelly.

‘Did he say what he wanted specifically?’ Elise fought the urge to check her appearance in the little mirror on the wall. She’d obeyed his order not to go to the shipyard today and apparently he’d obeyed hers. Evans didn’t look too offended. She could assume Dorian had come with his shirt on.

‘No, miss, just business.’

‘Then I suppose I shall have to see him.’ Elise tried to sound cool. She rose and paced a few steps, trying to gather her thoughts, but to no avail. They continued to run amok. Why had he come? Was something wrong at the shipyard? Had there been an accident? Had something happened to the boat? Surely if something was seriously wrong he wouldn’t have come in person and waited patiently in the hall. He would have stayed to oversee the situation and sent a note, or he’d have come barging up the steps, shouting for her. Elise smoothed her skirts in an effort to quiet her nerves.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Evans announced the guest. Dorian stepped into the room. Her hands stilled in the folds of her skirts at the sight of him. Dorian had put on far more than a shirt to make this call. Dark breeches were tucked into high black boots; a claret-coloured coat was tailored to show off broad shoulders and the gold-patterned waistcoat and pristine linen beneath. She could almost believe the man standing before her was a lord. Almost.

There were other tells that gave him away. His thick sun-gold hair might be neatly pulled back and tied, but it was still too long for convention. His blue eyes were still too bold when they met hers. A gentleman would never look at a lady in a way that made her mouth go dry.

‘Lord Rowland, to what do I owe the pleasure?’

‘Dorian, please,’ he insisted. ‘I’ve come as I promised to give you an update and because I have questions about the plans.’ He held up the long roll of paper in his hand. ‘I hope my visit isn’t inconvenient? You don’t have plans this evening?’

‘You know I don’t.’

‘London’s loss, I think.’ Dorian smiled and their eyes held in the moment. She felt her face heat. She really shouldn’t let him get to her like this. Nothing could come of it and this was absolutely the wrong time to become involved with someone when so much else depended on her attentions.

‘Where shall we unroll these?’ Dorian looked around the room and gave the plans a little wave, calling her attentions back to the intent of his visit.




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