Colin assented.
The ship soon cast anchor, and a shore boat was prepared for them.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” Portia said in a polite voice Colin despised. He rather preferred the plucky woman who’d convinced him to marry her.
“Good evening.” Colin lowered his torso into an elegant, practiced bow, unencumbered by even the tilting of the ship.
Portia turned to the captain. “When do you return to London? I would like to overnight in my cabin.”
“Oh, I’m afraid we’re off to France next,” Captain Mortimer said. “We won’t be back here for a while.”
Portia’s face paled, and Colin’s heart squeezed.
“A while?” Portia’s voice rose miserably.
“But you must have other ships going to England,” Colin said.
“Oh, yes,” Captain Mortimer said. “The next one leaves tomorrow at midday.”
Portia gave a relieved smile, and Colin’s heart swelled, even though he realized that strategically, it might be more beneficial for him if they were delayed longer in Guernsey. Perhaps then, he could convince her to marry him.
“You don’t by any chance have a ship sailing to Cornwall?” Niles asked the captain.
“Not anytime soon,” the captain said.
“Ah, how unfortunate.”
“Cornwall?” Jonesie’s eyes widened.
“We are quite the travelers.” Colin put an arm about his valet’s shoulders.
“Very adventurous,” Niles said, and Jonesie’s lashes fluttered more.
Colin chuckled. “Even the snow can’t keep us away. I suppose we’ll have to find an inn before the next ship to London. There won’t be time to see my friends.”
“You want to return directly to London too?”
“More time with you, my dear.” Colin winked, but instead of smiling or blushing, she turned her head sharply toward her maid. He sighed. “Actually, I’m not trying to follow you. It is essential I reach Cornwall.”
Colin extended his hand to Portia to help her into the shore boat. She pasted an unwelcome frown on her face and marched onto the boat herself. The others joined, closely crowded with a few sailors who were evidently eager to experience Guernsey nightlife.
Niles peered at the water. “I suppose it’s cold.”
“I imagine,” Colin said lightly.
The wind certainly was plenty cold. It moved briskly about them, as if to taunt them of the fact they needed to disembark and couldn’t simply stay on the ship. Still, it wasn’t the ship’s coldness Colin focused on—it was Portia’s.
Her brunette hair fluttered in the heavy wind. Her chignon collapsed, and Jonesie shot Portia a horrified look.
“I’m sorry, Miss. We lost some pins.”
“I think your hair looks beautiful,” Colin said firmly.
“Well, it’s not proper to show it,” Jonesie said.
“My reputation is already ruined,” Portia said.
“Not when you marry me,” Colin replied.
“You cannot still be serious.”
“I exude seriousness,” Colin said.
“That’s not what your tutors at Harrow said,” Niles said.
Colin shot his manservant a disgruntled look. “That was on matters of geometry and geography. Those are entirely different.”
The shore boat bumped against the dock.
“We’re here,” the sailor announced brightly. Colin stepped up, then assisted the ladies from the shore boat.
“Where’s the inn?” he asked the sailor.
“Just at the end of the harbor.”
“Splendid.” Colin turned to them. “Isn’t this a marvelous adventure?”
The others were not appropriately enthusiastic in their responses. No doubt, Portia remained upset he’d stolen Mr. Andrews’ place. Colin sighed. Perhaps he’d misjudged things. He’d assumed Portia was marrying Mr. Andrews for the convenience and decided financial benefit of having a husband, but perhaps he’d been wrong. Perhaps she cared for the man. Colin had dismissed Mr. Andrews as being short and wearing spectacles, but perhaps the true fact was that Colin was tall and hadn’t read enough as a child to even require spectacles.
He strode slowly toward the inn, and when Portia expressed a desire for her food to be sent to her room, Colin did not protest. He resigned himself to supporting her in marrying Mr. Andrews.
Colin said goodnight to the others and decided to remain in the pub portion of the inn. Normally, the honey-colored wooden floorboards, paneled walls, and matching chairs and tables were comforting. The hum of the other patrons as they threw words like “snow” and “Christmas” hardly distracted him from his sudden odd urge toward melancholic musings. Evidently, even people in Guernsey liked to muse about weather patterns. One wondered what they might do if they lived in a place with an actual changing weather.
He sighed and approached the publican. “Give me your best drink.”
“Very well. You’re going to like it.” The publican handed him a drink, and Colin imbibed warm liquid that burned his throat in a familiar manner. The drink would almost be good if it weren’t marred by...spices.
“Does this