“Shall I simply take your word for it?” His lips curled upward to form the beginnings of a smile.
“That would indeed save us all a great deal of trouble.”
“Hm . . . I suppose it might,” he conceded. “Tell me though, for I am curious now—Why do you presume that I have already found your brother guilty?”
She balked at that. “You just said—”
“Actually, I didn’t. You drew that conclusion entirely on your own.”
“But—” She stopped to think. Had he not told her that William surely must be guilty? He’d implied that he probably was, but he hadn’t actually said it. “I don’t trust you,” she finally said.
Michael stared back at her with a steady gaze. “Why?”
“Because of the sort of man you are,” she snapped. She was beginning to lose her patience.
Michael’s eyes narrowed into two angry slits. “Would you care to elaborate on that?” he asked, crossing his arms as if in preparation for the verbal attack that was sure to come.
“You’re a whoremonger, Lord Trenton,” she told him plainly, using the name that she knew he disliked, with slow deliberation. “The worst sort of man there is—the kind who has no respect for women whatsoever and who—”
“Stop right there,” he gruffed, effectively cutting her off. “I will not allow you to speak of my mistresses in such a degrading fashion.” Michael scowled.
“Why?” Alexandra pressed. Her tone was out right mocking. “Because of how much you care about them?”
“Precisely,” he told her in a clipped tone.
Few things had ever been able to shut her up, but this certainly did the trick. Alexandra’s blue eyes stared blankly back at him. She felt as if someone had just shoved a stocking in her mouth. Having two brothers, the idea that a gentleman might have a mistress was unlikely to surprise her. The fact that he might actually concern himself with their welfare did. She tried to compose herself but found it damned difficult.
Michael apparently couldn’t help but smirk. “It’s not all about sex, you know,” he finally said as if he were discussing the weather.
What could she possibly say to that?
“I . . . er . . . I see,” she murmured. Thank God she was wearing both a hooded cloak and a scarf about her face. Surely her whole body must be blushing by now. Though she’d momentarily forgotten herself in her anger, it wouldn’t do to have him discover her now. How the devil had they arrived at this subject anyway?
“I’m not entirely sure you do, Summersby.” There was a twinkle in his eyes that made her catch her breath. “For as much as I love an ample bosom and a pair of soft thighs, my mistresses also offer me a great deal in terms of companionship.”
“Really?” she asked incredulously.
He stared back at her, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “You don’t have much experience with the fairer sex, do you?”
Was she really required to answer such a question?
“Not to worry,” Michael grinned. “We’ll rectify that soon enough. No need to be embarrassed about it. You are after all only what . . . twenty years of age?”
“Twenty-two,” she told him hesitantly.
“Much too old to be a virgin,” he muttered. He seemed to study her for a moment—his eyes narrowed. “Do you by any chance prefer men?”
Yes!
She caught herself just in time.
“Of course not,” she lied.
Could the conversation possibly get more bizarre?
A look of relief came over Michael’s face. “Good. Then we’ll find a pretty little strumpet for you the minute we reach Paris.”
Alexandra groaned inwardly. Apparently, it could get more bizarre. If only there were a way to change the subject.
Again Michael stared at her.
What is it? Why do you keep looking at me like that?
“Is there a particular reason why you choose to hide your face?” he asked quite suddenly.
“My nose and jaw are disfigured,” she told him without thinking. And then, to add to the lie, “I was born this way.”
As if it weren’t enough that Ashford thought her a man . . . well, how else was she supposed to explain her odd scarf-wearing habit?
“I’m sorry to hear it,” he told her.
The look of sympathy in his eyes went straight to her heart.
Oh hell!
If there were one thing she didn’t care for, aside from the way he could turn her legs to jelly with no more than a glance, it was feeling guilty toward the very man that she was so determined to hate.
“You needn’t be,” she said in a tight voice. Her conscience was beginning to nag at her. This was the only way though. If Ashford discovered who she was before they reached Paris, she could bet a fair sum that he’d send her back to England one way or the other.
The silence seemed to stretch between them until Alexandra decided that it was time to put an end to their strenuous rendezvous. She was just about to bid Michael a good evening when his face suddenly brightened. “Your father and Sir Percy are quite proud of you, you know.”
Alexandra shifted against the railing of the ship. She’d come up on deck to be alone, not to engage in an endless amount of meaningless conversation with a man whom she wished might vanish to the opposite side of the planet. Perhaps then she’d be able to focus her full attention on William, rather than the way in which Ashford’s cheeks dimpled when he smiled.
Before she could predict his next move, he stepped closer, put his arm about her shoulder in a companionable fashion, and began steering her toward the stern. It was the same sort of gesture she’d seen her brothers use with their friends countless times over the years. From Michael’s perspective there should be nothing wrong with behaving in such a way. After all, as far as he knew, Alexandra was a young gentleman.
But Alexandra had no time whatsoever to prepare herself for his touch. Her knees practically buckled beneath her. But that wasn’t the worst of it. In an attempt to steady herself, she reached out and grabbed onto the nearest thing she could find, which of course happened to be Michael’s chest. She clawed at it, trying to latch on, but her hand kept slipping until he finally caught her by the elbow.
“Are you all right?” he asked. His breath was warm against her face.
“A touch of seasickness I suppose,” she murmured—yet another lie.
He chuckled. “I gather you haven’t been aboard a ship before.”
She shook her head, her hand still resting upon his chest. All she could think about at that moment was how firm his muscles seemed beneath his shirt and how fast her heart was suddenly beating. She feared it was so loud, he might actually hear it.
For heaven’s sake, pull yourself together.
She wondered if she were the only one affected by their brief entanglement and quickly snuck a look at Michael. He was standing with his legs planted firmly upon the deck, his hand still bracing her arm, and the look in his eyes was . . . disconcerting to say the least. Never in her life had anyone looked at her quite like that. She’d no idea what it meant, but she knew that she didn’t like it. It made her feel highly uneasy.
This is madness.
A thought struck her—he knows. Surely that had to be it, if his perplexed expression was anything to go by. She’d thought he’d be angrier when he realized the truth, but instead he simply looked confused and perhaps even a little sad. Odd at that.
She briefly wondered what might have given her away, until, quite suddenly, things took a turn for the more bizarre.
“I love women,” Michael blurted out, his eyes still firmly locked on hers.
“I never said that you didn’t,” Alexandra replied, not certain of how else to respond to such a statement.
“I’ve always loved women and always will. This . . . this . . .” He shook his head as if to rid it of something unpleasant.
“Er . . . Lord Trenton? Sorry, I mean Ashford.” His eyes seemed to clear at the sound of his name. “Are you all right?”
With a soft nudge, he distanced himself from Alexandra. “Yes, quite.” he said. “Do you think you can manage?”
“I believe so,” she told him, relieved that the awkward moment had finally passed.
“Good, because I was hoping we might have a small contest.” A glimmer of mischief flickered in his eyes.
“What sort of contest?” she asked, her curiosity peaked.
An impish smile spread its way across his face. “The sort wherein we throw knives,” he told her.
It was impossible for her not to laugh. This was precisely the sort of thing that she enjoyed most. “You’re a brave man,” she jibed. “You know I dislike you intensely—after all, I’ve made no secret of it. And yet you trust me to throw a knife and not hit you with it.”
“Should I be afraid?”
“Very,” she said in the gravest voice she could manage.
But inside, she laughed with glee. She turned to Ashford who was clearly doing his best to feign a frown. He failed miserably though and eventually laughed instead. For just about the hundredth time since setting out that morning, Alexandra felt a disturbing attraction toward him. She would have to be careful, she reminded herself, or she might very well find herself falling for him, and that would be a most unfavorable outcome indeed, under the circumstances.
She watched now as Michael pulled a deck of cards from his coat pocket and selected the ace of spades. He pushed the top of it onto a nail protruding from one of the masts and stepped back to admire his work. “This will do,” he said, casting a sidelong glance in Alexandra’s direction before shouting a warning to the sailors on deck to stay out of the way. “The object of the game will be to hit the center of the spade with the tip of your blade, so it sticks. If your knife falls to the ground, you lose.
“We’ll start here.” He indicated the designated spot with the tip of his boot. “And move backward in one-yard increments.”
“Two-yard increments” she told him, her competitive spirit taking over.
“Are you quite certain?” Michael asked. “Two yards will make a huge difference in terms of—”
“Are you getting cold feet?” she asked.
“Certainly not. Two-yard increments it is then.”
Alexandra was the first to throw her blade. It hit its mark just as she’d known it would. So did Michael’s. Within twenty minutes they’d reached a distance of twenty-seven feet—about as far as they could go without falling over the railing. The sailors had long since paused in their duties and were either standing to one side or hanging from the roping in eager attempts to get a clear view of the ensuing competition. Alexandra lifted her blade, took aim and . . . the knife began to take flight just as Ryan called out her name, distracting her enough to make her hand flinch. All she could do was look helplessly on as her knife continued past its mark before landing on the deck with a loud thud.
A roar of cheers filled the air from those who’d been supporting Michael. “Too bad,” he told Alexandra with feigned remorse as he gave her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.