The Smuggler and the Society Bride Read Free Page B

pictured her again, water lapping about her ankles while the sheer wet linen chemise provided tantalizing glimpses of long limbs, a sweet rounded belly and the hint of gold at the apex of her thighs. His breath caught, and more than just his thoughts began to rise.
    With a sigh, he forced the image away. Too bad this one was a lady born rather than a hot-blooded barmaid at the Gull. He didn’t think he’d try very hard to escape her pursuit.
    Responding with a wave to Mr Kessel’s greeting, and calling out for hot water as he trotted up the stairs to his room, Gabe wondered what Aphrodite’s real name might be and whether she was as ignorant as his friend of the story behind the name he’d called her. Might she be learned—or wicked—enough to have understood the reference: the goddess of love rising naked from the sea?
    Unlikely as that prospect was, the possibility put a smile on his face and a lilt in his step. Once inside his room, waiting for his water to be delivered so he might pull off his soggy garments, Gabe tried to keep his mind from imagining how her hands might feel against his bare skin.
    All he knew thus far about his Aphrodite was that she was unconventional and courageous enough to try to swim out and save a stranger.
    He intended to learn a great deal more.

Chapter Two
    S hivering in every limb, Honoria rang for Tamsyn to help her out of her clinging wet clothes before hurrying to huddle over the remains of the morning fire. Some time later, no maid having yet appeared, she rang again and began divesting herself of as many garments as her reach and the numbness of her fingers permitted. After wrapping herself in her nightgown, too chilled to care if she soiled it with damp and grit, she strode to the bell pull. She was about to ring once again when, after a short knock, the housekeeper entered.
    â€˜What be you need—’ the woman began, before halting abruptly, her eyes widening as she took in the heap of wet clothing, Honoria’s robe-clad form and her damp, wind-tangled tresses.
    â€˜I know ’tis an odd time to request one, Mrs Dawes, but could I have a bath, please?’
    After a quick roll of the eyes at the vagarities of the Quality, the housekeeper curtsyed. ‘I’ll have a footman bring up the tub and water, miss. I’d best add some chamomile to it to warm your joints and send along some hot tea with horehound to ward off a chill.’
    Smiling through what were probably blue lips, Honoria nodded. ‘Thank you, Mrs Dawes, that would be most welcome.’
    Without further comment, the housekeeper withdrew. Accustomed to receiving swift chastisement for her impulsive actions, she blessed the fact that Mama and Marcus were far away in London. One—or both—of them would have had far more to say about this latest exploit than the disapproving housekeeper.
    She refused to acknowledge the pang of distress and grief that thrummed through her at the thought of the family that had banished her.
    She didn’t need their censure—or Dawes’s unspoken disdain—to realize she had once again failed to act like the gently-born maiden she was supposed to be. Honoria doubted her younger sister would ever have stripped down and flung herself recklessly into the sea, emerging later with her dripping chemise clinging to her body, a spectacle for the locals to gawk at. No, Verity would have fluttered a handkerchief and tried to summon some gentleman to come to her assistance.
    Honoria smiled bitterly. Her own experience had robbed her of any belief in the existence of noble knights ready to gallop to a lady’s rescue. But Verity was still naïve enough to hold tenaciously to the idea.
    Nor would her paragon of a sister have been out walking the beach on a blustery day, getting her hem sandy and her curls windblown. Her sister would have remained at Foxeden Manor, her gown immaculate, nary a speck of grit marring her lovely face,