A Certain Latitude Read online

  Or Allen Pendale.

  Not that he’d know, but they’d have to talk about something for the next few weeks; a polite botanical discussion that might last, oh, a few minutes.

  She smiled and let herself think of what had been intruding on her thoughts for most of the day: Allen Pendale. The shock of finding herself beneath him, his warm heavy weight, his legs sprawled over hers. He had smelled of leather and wool, slightly dampened with sweat, beer and tobacco, and some sort of scent—citrus, mixed with something earthier and more pungent—clung to him. And that voice, rich and warm, his large hands—he used them quite a lot when he talked, she’d noticed—and here she was, in a pathetic flutter because a man who wasn’t at all interested in her had pushed her down, flat on her back, and landed on top of her.

  A delicious shiver ran through her belly.

  Because he thought his mistress’s husband was trying to kill him, she reminded herself. He’d probably come aboard ship directly from her bed.

  Her shift rode up, whispered against her calves.

  You’re a fool, Clarissa. The first time a man’s touched you in five years and you’re quivering like a silly virgin.

  And here she was alone, with the luxury of being able to think and remember, and let her mind ramble where it would. First to her Uncle Thelling’s house, where she had picked the lavender on a warm summer’s day abuzz with bees, the scent of crushed marjoram and thyme rising from under her feet. She had been happy then—or at least, she’d had happiness of a sort; Lord Thelling’s housekeeper was respected by the servants, her past forgotten and forgiven by them, at least. She’d had the pleasure of running an efficient and contented household, and the run of a good library.

  All that had changed when Thelling had decided not to get up from his bed one morning and was dead a week later. Her cousin, Josiah, who’d inherited the estate and title, took Thelling’s deathbed instruction to look after Clarissa by accepting, on her behalf, this job as governess. She appealed to her father for permission to come home—surely after five years he could forgive her? She received a cold, brief letter stating that she had made her bed and must lie on it. She was sure he had taken great pleasure in scratching out her name from the family Bible.

  Whenever she wished she had had the moral courage to starve instead, she was glad that she had the good sense not to. But the shame lingered deep inside, pricked at her conscience, even though she knew this was her one chance at redemption.

  She thought again about Mr. Pendale’s solidity, his breath on her hair, his weight, the thud of his heart. And his voice; that beautiful resonant voice that reminded her of cream and silver, the richness of ordinary luxuries.

  Mr. Pendale: dark and vivid, and very much alive.

  Back to Thelling’s house: old-fashioned, dim, and creaky like this ship. Haunted, some of the maids had said, until Clarissa had shamed them out of their giggling terror. The only person who’d haunted that house was its housekeeper, wandering sleepless, late at night, restless with longing and desire.

  Desire. Once she’d thought it a blessing; now it was a curse.

  She shifted, restless, and her nightgown twisted and slid around her, the creases and seams of the worn linen irritating her skin. She sat, pulled the garment over her head and tossed it aside, her breasts glimmering pale in the darkness. Such a waste, such a waste, she thought as she cupped them in her hands. Pretty breasts, or so she’d been told once: small, but shapely. Lovely to see them in the dark like this, glowing like mother of pearl, or opals, or some other precious substance.

  If she half-closed her eyes, she could imagine herself back in Thelling’s house, the creaks and rustles of the ship transformed into the sounds of ancient wood and masonry, the sounds you only heard at night when you were alone.

  She slid from the sheets and onto her quilt, the pieced fabric slightly scratchy under her buttocks and back. Her body stretched out startlingly white, except for the patch of hair between her thighs, and her nipples appeared dark and strange, as though she were a different, bolder woman.

  A bolder woman would slip out of bed and walk barefoot through Thelling’s sleeping house, cold air brushing against her skin, caressing her breasts, her puckered nipples hard beneath her fingers. She might pause at the window and push back the tapestry curtain to receive a splash of moonlight on her belly. Here. And here, running her hand down her body, stroking, parting her thighs, the thatch of hair mysterious and dark, springy. And now, as her finger dipped into her cleft—this bolder, wanton Clarissa, haunting a house she had left forever, where was she? Drifting down passages hung with grave-eyed portraits, rush matting rough under her feet, and then a doorknob, smooth, shiny agate, turning in her hand.

  The Blue Room, the pride of the household, where once kings had slept, and a great bed hung with embroidered satin stood. The slight creak of the door as it swung open and the smell of the room: beeswax, the scorch of ironed cotton, wood smoke, lavender and the faint hint of mildew in a room not often used. A log settled on the fire with a low crunch and the warm red glow, seen through the half-open bedchamber door, was a beacon leading her onward.

  Would he be asleep? Or waiting for her, his eyes bright and watchful, hot with desire?

  I have dreamed of you coming. That beautiful voice was low and husky with sleep, his skin glowed warm and enticing as he raised himself on one elbow, and held out a hand to her.

  How could I resist? She slid into his bed, opening herself to his touch and taste and weight, letting his hands go where hers were now, doing anything he wanted with her and to her. His touch would be different, harder and rougher—she’d follow his rhythm and open her thighs wide, wide, knees raising, so—

  Like this. Like this. A pulse beat beneath her fingertip, her whole body wrenched into heat and light and all things wonderful and joyous.

  CHAPTER 2

  By the time Blight’s call came from below, Allen was heartily sick of his vigil on deck and regretted his spontaneous generosity. He blundered down the stairs in the dark, wondering when he would learn not to bash his head at every opportunity, and stumbled into the cabin. Blight lay snoring on the lower berth, already fast asleep, and the room stank of Mrs. Blight’s cheap rose perfume, sweat and the rankness of male and female secretions.

  Allen opened the latch of the lantern, blew the candle out and promptly had it swing back onto his head in the pitch-darkness. With only another minor blow to his head, he undressed, climbed aloft, and settled into the linens his sister had insisted he take with him for the voyage.

  Allen’s eyes, accustomed now to the darkness, picked out the small gray square of window. He thought about the day, the farewell to Bristol so rudely interrupted by Glenning and his idiotic behavior with Miss Onslowe.

  Miss Onslowe. He had enjoyed the prospect of her confronting that fellow Blight and was almost sorry that the Captain had stepped in to soothe ruffled feathers. What a prickly, resentful sort of woman, an aging spinster who probably had missed the chance of marriage and now had to fend for herself—a gentlewoman who now had nothing to lose by giving way to a certain sarcasm and bluntness in her address, although her voice was low-pitched and attractive. The combination of a spinster’s cap and a whorish ribbon in her hair was interesting, too. He wondered if Mrs. Blight, who surely had a colorful past, had given the ribbon to her.

  And what a fool he’d made of himself, knocking her to the deck within minutes of their first meeting, and how irate she’d been—quite rightly, too, with some boor of a fellow landing on top of her and squashing her hat. He remembered the way she’d squirmed against him, and then the glimpse of the woolen stocking sagging around her calf, those finely turned ankles…her lips parting, eyes on his, as she’d accepted his peace-offering—or whatever he’d meant by it—of blackberry pie.

  Damnation, he was getting aroused, his cock prodding against the sheet; the stink in the cabin, an eloquent reminder of what had recently happened here, did not help at all.

 
Allen gave a loud cough and shifted to lie on his side with a thump.

  Blight snored on.

  There were distinct advantages to having a cabin-mate who slept as soundly as this. Allen turned onto his back with a thud and accompanying creaks.

  Blight grunted, smacked his lips and resumed snoring.

  Miss Onslowe. The image of her flashed into Allen’s mind like an artist’s sketch, of her scooting away from him, revealing her slender leg, the skirt lifting…and lifting… this time to her thighs. He was sure they were pale and slender, supple enough to wrap around him, strong enough to hold him while he arched and spurted. Soft skin on the insides: like velvet, fragrant, awaiting his tongue.

  He imagined reaching to free her breasts into his palms and pinch her nipples. He guessed she had rather small breasts, but the Clarissa Onslowe of his imaginings had bigger breasts. And the rest of her body… he hoped that bright head of hair was reflected elsewhere, an invitation to lechery. And her mouth, those pretty lips parted for him—which should he choose?

  Here, Miss Onslowe. To sweeten you up.

  He had so many possibilities in the pages of his imagination and memory, and the power to summon and direct her as he chose. Why not? She was a vessel, a catalyst of his pleasure. Take me in your mouth. Now.

  Her mouth…oh, yes, taking and teasing him to the limit, closing warm and wet on his cock, soft yet insistent. Her eyes were raised to his for approval, for permission, her hands stroking his thighs and balls while his hand on her head guided her. Yes, turn her, enter deep into her silky firmness, while she moaned and demanded more of him, twisting under him. That was how he wanted her, both of them greedy and fast, all tongues and hands and heat. And she’d welcome him with the tug and grip of her orgasm, her cry of delight as he spilled in a warmly glorious rush.

  Yes. Like this. Like this.

  Clarissa was on deck early the next morning, woken by the ship’s bell, followed by shouts and the thud of sailors’ feet as they ran on deck overhead. Fairly soon, she was sure, she would learn the passage of the day and nights by such sounds but, for now, it was mysterious and faintly exotic. Her breath steamed in the frosty air. She stood aside as the crew jumped from the shrouds, a few touching their forelocks to her, and smiled a greeting to Mr. Johnson and Captain Trent, who stood poring over charts.

  Apart from the man at the wheel, the crew had disappeared below. The odor of frying bacon, bread and coffee hung in the air from the galley, a wooden structure perched on the deck. The door opened and a crewman, swathed in a linen apron, came on deck and whisked a piece of canvas from atop a large wooden cage. A chorus of clucks arose. He saw her watching and touched his forelock. “Hens, ma’am. Brought aboard last night.”

  She drew closer, interested to see how chickens fared aboard ship. A dozen plump bundles of silver and gray feathers rose from a thick layer of straw, fluffing themselves, wings flapping. The sailor unlatched the cover and tossed in a bowlful of table scraps.

  “Are those Dorkings?” Clarissa asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. Good layers, and when they stop laying, I’ll cook them. They won’t lay when the sea gets rough.”

  He bent to rummage in the straw, looking for eggs, and Clarissa joined him. “You’re the cook? Dinner was very good last night.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. They call me Lardy Jack, on account of my being so fat.”

  The man was as thin as a rake, hair tied back in an old-fashioned queue. He held out the pottery bowl for the eggs Clarissa plucked from smooth hollows in the straw, still warm from the hens’ bodies.

  “Breakfast with the Captain in twenty minutes, ma’am.” He left with the bowlful of eggs.

  The air brightened and the mist lifted, revealing the Welsh mountains to the starboard side and the occasional thin trickle of smoke against a pearly sky. They were apparently making good time— Captain Trent had said it might be two or three days before they would reach the open sea.

  Sailors appeared on deck and busied themselves scouring the boards and polishing brass fittings, while others seated themselves cross-legged like tailors and stitched diligently at huge piles of canvas under the direction of a grizzled, elderly man.

  Allen Pendale, in shirtsleeves and breeches, hoisted himself from the hatch leading to the cabins. Scowling and rubbing at his curly black hair, he tossed his coat and waistcoat aside. He yawned and bent over one knee, hands on thigh, stretching the other leg behind him, heel pressed to the deck, then repeated the action with the opposite leg.

  He launched into a one-sided duel with an invisible rapier, lunging and feinting, light on his feet for such a solid man, as agile and graceful as a dancer, darting forward and back on the deck. Clarissa watched in fascination as his breath puffed into the air and damp patches appeared on the back of his shirt, molding it to his body.

  When he stopped, he saw her, started, and bowed to her. “Beg your pardon, ma’am. I’m hardly decent.”

  She shook her head, embarrassed that he had caught her watching. “It’s a pity you don’t have an opponent. Doesn’t Mr. Blight know how to fence?”

  Pendale shrugged. “He’s not a gentleman.”

  A simple, contemptuous remark made at the moment that Blight stepped from the hatch. Clarissa saw his expression, one of fury and humiliation, and looked away, not wanting to embarrass him further.

  Pendale, either oblivious or indifferent that his comment had been overheard, bent to retrieve his outer clothes, pulled a neck-cloth from a pocket and finished dressing. Clarissa noted that both men seemed to have shaved, and determined that if they could have hot water delivered to their cabin, then so could she and Mrs. Blight. She would talk to Lardy Jack about it, after what promised to be an excellent breakfast.

  That day and the next passed pleasantly, with a holiday-like atmosphere aboard. The ship’s boat made frequent trips ashore for fresh meat, milk and cream, joining the Daphne as she meandered slowly toward the sea, the scent of salt becoming stronger each day. In the evenings they gathered on deck in the chill air, warmly dressed, and danced to music provided by one of the seamen, who played the fiddle, and Mr. Johnson, who proved adept on the flute.

  Miss Onslowe, to Allen’s surprise, thrived. She lost her look of wary cynicism and her skin and hair acquired a slight glow in the winter sunshine. She had befriended the cook—Allen met her once on deck, cradling a large bowl in the crook of one arm, and beating its contents. “Egg whites,” she explained. “They won’t thicken in the heat of the kitchen.”

  Mr. Johnson seemed enchanted by her, escorting her around the ship and explaining how the rigging worked, with Allen tagging along behind, feeling like a resentful child. The sight of one slim, gloved hand tucked into Mr. Johnson’s arm annoyed him even more.

  Any day now he would feel jealous of those damned hens she had taken charge of. She’d even persuaded one of the sailors going ashore to pull whatever he could find in the way of greenery, groundsel, late thistles and grass, to encourage the hens to lay even better. Sailors with nothing better to do now hung over the chicken pen, discussing possible names for them with Miss Onslowe and asking her advice about their sweethearts.

  It infuriated him and he couldn’t work out why.

  Late that night, Captain Trent said, if the wind held, they would sail from the mouth of the estuary and into the open sea. He warned that they might find the movement of the ship a little livelier, but hoped no one would suffer ill effects. After a quantity of punch, the Blights excused themselves to go below, and Allen went on deck to stand vigil. Sure enough, there was a slight rock and dip to the ship’s barely perceptible forward momentum.

  He had thought Miss Onslowe had gone below, but she was on deck, lurking around the henhouse, doubtless tucking the wretched birds into bed for the night. She wore, as usual, the unbecoming spinster’s cap and a long cloak. He drew his own cloak around himself, seeking a dark corner, and wondered if she had some sort of assignation with Johnson, who had gazed foolishly at her all through
dinner.

  She looked around cautiously and raised one hand to her head.

  He burst from his hiding place, grabbed the cap from her head, and tossed it overboard.

  “Why did you do that?” she shrieked, much as she’d done when he’d knocked her to the deck first within minutes of meeting her.

  “Because it’s damned ugly and—”

  The ship gave a decided lurch. She bumped up against him, grasped his coat for balance and shouted, “I wanted to do that!”

  He burst into laughter. Together they watched the white cap bob on the waves—yes, definitely waves, here—and then sink from sight.

  “Damn you, Pendale.” She bent forward to unlace her boots, kicked them off, and reached under her skirts.

  “What—” he watched transfixed as her garters—pink ribbons—fell to the deck and those same dingy gray woolen stockings slid down her ankles.

  She hopped on one foot and tugged one stocking off, then the other, with a swish of skirts, and maybe—or did he imagine it?—a flash of white thigh.

  Barefoot, she tossed her stockings overboard, where they bobbed for a brief moment before disappearing from sight.

  “Well!” She laid her hand on his sleeve for balance, grinning broadly.

  He’d never seen her—or any woman, come to that—smile with so much abandon, her whole face lit up. She must be drunk—that was it. She’d had quite a few glasses of punch.

  “I hated those stockings. I have been praying for them to wear out. I’m glad to see them go. Now I shall be forced to wear my silk ones, like a lady.”

  “Miss Onslowe, do you imply you are not a lady?”

  She ran her fingers through her loosened hair. “I do not wish to shock you, Pendale. You seem like a very respectable sort of gentleman.”

  “Oh, please, Miss Onslowe, do shock me.” He grinned back. The atmosphere was becoming pleasantly erotic—a woman who, if not exactly pretty, was certainly interesting and had shown no shyness in stripping off her stockings, stood before him, her hips swaying with the motion of the ship.