A Lady at Last

She faced him fully. “What do you mean?”

His gaze slid slowly over every feature of her face. “I haven’t eaten. I was hoping you might wake up and share my meal.”

He had changed his mind about her, she realized. He had decided to take her to bed, after all. She should be dismayed, but she wasn’t. She felt terribly nervous and excited. And now, she would be able to pay for her passage. She slowly lifted her gaze to his, thinking about what was to come and realizing that she wanted to join him in his bed after all. Now, she could only pray that she wouldn’t make a fool out of herself while there. But she was smart, so surely once he started up with her, she’d figure out what to do.

“I will have our meal laid out. Excuse me.” He strode away.

Amanda inhaled, gripping the rail, aware of her pulse escalating. And suddenly she understood desire, oh yes.

“Miss Carre.” He gestured from the threshold of his cabin with a brief smile.

Amanda came forward, biting her lip. Even though he remained informally dressed in his linen shirt, his pale breeches and high boots, she wished she was wearing a dress, not that she owned one.

Then she saw the table. The gold candlesticks had tall ivory candles and had been lit. A white tablecloth had been draped over the table and it was graced with linen napkins, gilded flatware, crystal wineglasses and beautifully enameled red, blue and gold plates with gilt edges. A wine bottle sat on a silver coaster next to steaming silver platters. She had never seen such a sight and she could not move.

“Please.” He walked past her, drawing a dark red velvet chair from the table.

“We are really going to eat?” she gasped, wondering if she was in a dream.

“Yes, I invited you to dine.”

She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the elegant table. She had never seen such a table—a queen should be dining there, not Carre’s daughter!

“Miss Carre?”

She vaguely heard him, realizing she had been wrong. He would not set up the table this way if he merely wished to toss her on her backside. Stunned and bewildered, she glanced at him. He continued to hold the chair out.

Somehow she came cautiously forward. Once, her father had held out a chair for his mistress, but they had both been staggering and foxed, laughing wildly over a gesture they considered absurd, mocking the airs of the gentry. Papa had ruined the mockery anyway, by pulling the woman onto his lap instead of allowing her to sit down, while delving deeply into her bodice.

Amanda stared at de Warenne. How could he be so kind, so generous and so handsome? He had sworn he was a gentleman with no untoward intentions, and she was beginning to believe it. He didn’t need to stage a grand seduction for the likes of her.

“Please, do sit,” he said softly.

“This isn’t a seduction?”

“No, it’s not.” His gaze held hers.

“Why?”

Even in the dim candlelight, she saw him flush. “Why isn’t this a seduction?”

She shook her head. “Why are you doing this? Why do you want to sup with me? I’m not a duke or an admiral. I’m not beautiful or elegant. Why?”

He was still, their gazes holding. It was a moment before he spoke. “It’s more pleasant to dine in company than alone. I’d also like to hear about your life.”

She blinked. “My life?” Her life had no significance and no one had ever been interested in any details of it before.

“It’s not every day that I rescue a pirate’s daughter,” he said, his tone suddenly teasing.

Amanda had to smile. Such a statement could have been offensive, coming from someone else. “My life will bore you,” she warned. Then, upon impulse, “But I should like to hear about yours!”

He started. “My life will surely bore you!”

She laughed. “You are royalty!”

He chuckled. “Darling, I am hardly royalty.” He gestured at the chair.

Amanda was breathless and light-headed. She finally sat down. No one had ever called her “darling” before. Of course, he hadn’t meant it. He called his daughter “darling.” She wasn’t his daughter and she certainly didn’t want to be thought of as a child. But he had uttered the endearment so seductively, and she had a powerful, deep yearning to have him call her darling again—and this time, to mean it.

He pushed the chair closer to the table, then he took a seat facing her, lifting the wine bottle. He hesitated, his smile fading. Then he put the bottle down. “I must ask. How old are you?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Twenty-one.” She smiled, her heart continuing to beat wildly. She wanted him to think her more mature and worldly than she was. “How old are you?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Amanda, we both know you are not even close to twenty-one. I am twenty-eight.” He hesitated. “I mean, Miss Carre.”

She had thought he was in his late twenties and she had been right. She carefully debated what age to tell him, one he might believe. “I am almost twenty,” she lied. “And I told you, I am not a lady. You can call me Amanda.”

His regard was frankly assessing. He finally said, “Really.”

“Really. And I would like some wine,” she added.

He poured her a scant finger, then poured himself a large glass.

“And to think I thought you were so generous,” she grumbled, reaching for her glass. Had her ploy succeeded?

“My estimation is that you are sixteen, perhaps seventeen,” he said, watching her closely.

Amanda sighed. She was seventeen and she would be eighteen in August. Instead of responding, she cast her eyes down and took a draft of the wine. Immediately she gasped, forgetting all about her deception. The wine she drank with Papa had been thick and sour; she had always preferred grog. “What is this?” she managed, stunned.

He leaned back in his chair, smiling broadly at her. “I take it that was a cry of approval?”

“This is delicious—like berries and velvet.”

“There is a strong note of blackberry,” he agreed, “and just enough tannin to coat the tongue. It’s from Rioja.”

Amanda was too busy taking another sip to reply. The wine was heaven.

“You’ll get tipsy if you don’t slow down,” he said, but his tone was light. He hadn’t touched his glass; he simply kept staring at her.

She wished she knew what he was really thinking. She smiled widely at him. “I never knew wine could be so delicious. Why are you looking at me so closely?”

He flushed and glanced aside. “I apologize.”

“Is it my shirt? Should I have braided my hair?”

“Your shirt is fine.” His smile was forced. “I was rude. It won’t happen again.”

Amanda hesitated. She twisted her hair into a knot, then smiled grimly at him. “I don’t have any other clothes, except for that nightgown.”