The Duke Before Christmas - Bianca Blythe Page 0,18
her knees, lest the wind coax her skirts to do something unladylike.
A few other passengers strolled onto the deck, evidently also eager to enjoy the view.
“Which one is Mr. Andrews?” Jonesie whispered.
Portia surveyed the other guests. “I don’t see him.”
“Are you certain?”
“Do you see a short man with brown hair and spectacles?”
“No,” Jonesie admitted after a few moments. “Though perhaps he’s in his cabin. In my experience, people with spectacles tend to enjoy reading.”
Portia tilted her head. “Perhaps.”
Two men crossed the deck. One of them seemed oddly familiar. But then, London assembly rooms swarmed with men in their late twenties who had regular builds and sufficiently symmetrical features to garner attention. Perhaps she’d seen him before, underneath a glimmering chandelier or kicking his legs to a reel.
Portia turned abruptly away from him, conscious she must have been staring and fixed her gaze on the horizon. The water was a murky mixture of gray and green that the ocean seemed to favor in winter. The wind rolled briskly over the waves, as if determined to keep the foamy waves from leaping from the ocean. Portia watched the wind and waves battle.
It didn’t matter if she could sense the presence of the man beside her.
It didn’t matter if she was conscious of his imposing size.
And it certainly didn’t matter if an odd warmth seemed to emanate from him.
Humans were warm. It was all very technical and scientific.
Where was Mr. Andrews? It was odd he had so little curiosity to make her acquaintance again. Heavens knew cabin rooms were most uninteresting.
Portia vowed to be patient, but that odd nervousness thrummed through her body again. When the sailor who had been at the gangway appeared, she flagged him down. “I have a question. Did Mr. Rupert Andrews board the ship?”
“Oh, yes,” the sailor said. “He and his manservant were the last people on board.”
“See?” Jonesie beamed. “You had nothing to worry about.”
“Thank you.” Relief moved through Portia. Obviously, Mr. Andrews would not have allowed her to travel to Guernsey by herself.
This was truly excellent news. Still, an odd nervousness came through her. She’d been so surprised and happy that Jonesie had joined her that she’d forgotten to worry about any potential unpleasantness.
Mr. Andrews was here. Somehow, it had seemed nicer to imagine him in theory.
“Perhaps he’s in the cabin making himself look nice for you. Retying his cravat, brushing his jacket.” Jonesie’s eyes sparkled with the glee of someone who’d read many romance penny dreadful and was certain of the consistent excellence of a romance.
Portia’s cheeks warmed, and she turned to the landscape to distract herself, lest Jonesie comment on any resemblance her face might have to a tomato.
London was prettier when viewed by the Thames. The buildings were less ugly than when viewed up close, and as strange sentimentality surged through her. When would she be here again?
THE SAILOR HAD LEFT them, and Colin surveyed his new surroundings. The cabin seemed decent. Evidently, this Mr. Rupert Andrews was not one of these people without any money.
“There’s a goddess on board the ship,” Niles said enthusiastically. “A veritable goddess.”
“Did she have a large bosom?” Colin asked.
Niles turned scarlet.
“Then it was very large,” Colin said.
Niles jutted out his chin, as if the action might halt the sudden rosiness of his face. “All the best goddesses have large bosoms.”
“Naturally,” Colin said. “Titian would agree with you entirely.”
“Quite,” Niles said, less flustered now they were speaking about art.
“I didn’t notice any women on board,” Colin said.
“That’s because you’re not observant,” Niles said. “There were two of them. And one of them had the most beautiful blue sparkling eyes.”
Colin grinned. “You’re already enjoying your time on the ship.”
“It was merely an observance,” Niles said with the aggrieved air of a man who wished someone had invented time travel so he could utilize it and not fall prey to Colin’s teasing.
Colin arched his eyebrows as he sat on the bed and surveyed the small cabin.
Niles began to unpack the clothes and hang them in the wardrobe. He tapped the wardrobe door experimentally. “Do you think the furniture might fall on us if there’s a storm, Your Grace?”
“I imagine everything is nailed to the walls.”
A brief expression of relief fluttered on Niles’s face before it was replaced. Going to Guernsey would be a definite delay, but no doubt the experience would be nicer than attending clove-and-nutmeg-scented Christmas balls.
Colin sighed.
He was going to have to marry at some point. He merely despised the excited looks of matchmaking mamas and proud papas