“You wished to see me?”

In every way through every hour of every day.

His mouth was dry.

He gestured for Miles to leave and he walked to her. “I did.”

The tilt of her chin was high. But he could not resist touching her. He took the end of a braid between his fingers and stroked the satiny tress.

“I was reminded today that newly wedded couples often embark upon a wedding journey after the nuptials,” he said, feeling ridiculously clumsy, his tongue stiff. He looked down at the fiery locks in his palm. “Would you like that?”

“We will not be newly wedded, however,” she said. “And as we have already traveled quite a bit recently, I don’t really see why we should now do so simply to suit convention.”

He allowed the braid to slide from his fingers. He clasped his hands behind his back and met her gaze.

His heart jerked beneath his ribs. For a moment her eyes were soft, the light in them almost seeking, it seemed. Then they shuttered again.

It was this swift shuttering each time they spoke that restrained Luc from going to her bed at night. He could demand his rights as a husband and she would acquiesce; she was a woman of passion. But he could not use her like that. She deserved more than the treatment a man might serve his mistress. She deserved to be treated like the princess she had once hoped to be.

He didn’t know how much longer he could stand it, though. A sennight had already seemed like a millennium. If life with her were to be this slow, tortuous death of wanting her and not having her, he would have preferred to die on that beach in Saint-Nazaire after all.

But as he looked down at her lovely face and saw in it both wary reticence and adorable determination, he could not wish that in truth. Even brief moments alone with her were better than a lifetime without her. His madness, it seemed, had become complete.

“Do you?” she said.

“Do I . . . ?” He grasped at the strands of his reason unraveling in her presence, as they always did.

“Do you think we should bow to convention?”

He reached up to rub the back of his neck as though he were considering the matter. He was stalling for time. This issue was about to be settled, the conversation concluded, and she would leave.

“I have never found convention particularly inspiring,” he said. “But forgive me, little governess. I realize that teaching conventional manners must have been the ballast of your livelihood for some time.”

“To the girls who possessed no natural spark of originality, yes. To those with unique spirit, however, I encouraged . . .”

“You encouraged?”

“I encouraged them to follow their dreams in whatever manner they thought would most benefit them.”

His chest actually hurt. She had tried to follow her dream and he had trapped her just short of achieving it.

“I don’t suppose you offered the same counsel to their mothers.” He didn’t know how he accomplished a grin.

“Not precisely.” Her perfect raspberry lips curved into a small smile. “But one becomes proficient at speaking around the truth when one is in an unenviable posi—” Her throat constricted. “—position.” She took a quick breath. “I should go now. I have a hundred and two tasks to accomplish this afternoon.” Her entire demeanor had altered to agitation. “Is that everything you wished to discuss?”

“Yes,” he lied.

She glided away, and he stood still long after she had gone, his heart beating hard and slow.

He had not seen her in the two days since. And now he was to take her as his bride a second time, this time with the sanction of the Church of England.

“After you have captained this ship for nearly six years during war,” he said to Tony, “you will not have to be even a baronet to be given special privileges.”

Tony snorted.

From the quarterdeck Luc watched the wedding guests arriving across the pontoon boats that had been arranged as a sturdy walkway from the riverbank to the ship.

His heart turned. Upon his cousin’s arm, Arabella picked her way carefully across the fabricated bridge to the deck, her head high and shoulders back. She showed no hint of fear as she boarded. Her shimmering hair was swept up in cascading curls, and her gown of the palest pink left her neck and arms bare and offered a tantalizing hint of the feminine beauty beneath it.

With Cam, she passed beneath the white canopy erected above the gangway and came on deck.

Luc went forward.

“Ah, my dear,” his cousin said. “Here is your groom.”

She reached up and touched her hand to Cam’s cheek and kissed him there. “Thank you, my lord.”

Luc’s collar felt hot.

Cam offered her an elegant leg. “It has been my greatest pleasure to facilitate your nuptials. Again.”

Luc took her hand and drew her toward him. Her lashes lifted and the cornflowers were bright.

“Bugger off, Cam.”

“Charming, Lucien. Have you the rings?”

“With the sacristan at the church.” He did not shift his attention from her. “Now go away.”

“Ah, the Eager Groom. It seems that elusive creature does exist after all. Fascinating. My compliments to you, dear.” He grinned at Arabella and wandered off.

“He was kind to assist me aboard,” she said with a small smile.

“He will seize any opportunity to touch a beautiful woman.”

“And you, my lord?” she said with that directness that had dazed him from the first.

“I wish to touch only one woman.”

Disquiet flickered in the cornflowers. “I hope the woman to whom you refer is me.”

“For some time now, in fact.” He tried to speak lightly but he feared he sounded as much of a buffoon as he felt. “Are you well?”

She nodded, quick little jerks of her head that revealed she had not done away with her fear but with great effort hid it now.

“Why did you do this, Arabella? Why the ship when you are terrified of the water?”

“I have no wealth—”

“You have mine.”

“Wealth of my own.” Her chin remained high. “I wished to give you a wedding gift. I wished to please you in a manner— In a manner in which I had not pleased you before.”

“Duchess, if you had not already done so, do you think I would be here now?”

She curtsied as gracefully as a swan dipping its neck. “I am honored, my lord.”

“Arabella, I have—” Beyond her shoulder, a figure in black strolled onto deck. Fletcher looked left and right, and held the railing as though casually but with tight fingers.

Luc’s breaths stalled. “Did you invite that man?”

She turned. “Which one?”

“The one with the gold cross about his neck.”

She looked into his face. “Who is he, Luc?”

“The Bishop of Barris. Absalom Fletcher.”

“I did not see the final guest list. Adina supervised it. It is not peculiar that she should invite her brother.” She placed her hand on his. “I am sorry, Luc. Do you wish me to ask him to leave? Adina will not attend, of course, and I see no reason to have him here if it displeases you.”

He looked into her wide, compassionate eyes and wanted her to know everything. She had taken another woman’s children into her care until they were safe. She had begged for mercy for a thief because he was starving. She had sought to protect the Lycombe name from her family’s uncertain past. Yet he could not utter a syllable to her now. He could not tell her the shameful secrets of his past or his fears of the present. He must protect her.

She clasped his hand in her slender fingers. “He will not disturb our celebration,” she said firmly. “We will simply ignore him. I have been studying the art of the cut direct. According to Mrs. Baxter, it is a necessary weapon of a duchess. I don’t see why I cannot wield it as a comtesse.”

He wrapped his hand around hers.

“A siren with hair like white flame and eyes like summer cornflowers.” The young man at Luc’s shoulder spoke swiftly and with a soft flavor of the Continent. “My brother did you justice, belle enfant.”