The cool dismissal propelled Mr. Marsh into action. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” To Maggie, he barked, “Well, don’t just stand there like a loplolly. Bring the gent ’is bit-an’-drop!”
She rushed off to collect the food and drink. In the kitchen, she snuck extra slices of ham onto the platter while Cook was looking the other way. It was little enough but the best that she could do to thank her rescuer.
When she returned, Mr. Jones had settled in at the table. He’d removed his hat and gloves, and in the candlelight, his brown-black hair gleamed like a luxurious pelt. He wore it a trifle overlong, the thick waves framing his patrician features. He looked to be a few years older than her, perhaps in his early twenties. His brilliant hazel eyes and golden-hued skin added a foreign flair to his English bones.
She wondered about his heritage. Working in a dockside town, she’d seen sailors from all over the world. But she’d never met a man as striking and unique as this one.
For all his worldly refinement, there was also a restless, untamed quality about him. She felt an odd tingle watching his hands idly play with the supple leather of his gloves. She remembered a story her mama had liked to tell her, about a dashing pirate prince who ruled the seas, defying kings and rescuing damsels in distress. If she closed her eyes and imagined that make-believe prince, she would see this man.
“Ah, you’re back. That was quick.”
His friendly tone made her duck her head, a stray strand brushing her cheek. She wished she’d taken the time to neaten herself before returning. Not that it would have made any difference.
She was an ill-kempt, gawky tavern wench. He was male perfection, lounging in his chair as if it were a throne. He was above her in every way, and the only reason he’d done her a favor was because he was a gentleman in the truest sense.
Keeping her gaze on the items she unloaded from the tray, she said in a low voice, “I wanted to thank you, sir, for what you did. I swear I didn’t—”
“You are not to blame for the brutes accosting you,” he said briskly. “Nor for the actions of your relations, whatever your idiot employer might believe.”
Startled, she saw that his handsome face showed no sign of mockery.
“You’re the first one who’s e’er said that to me, sir,” she said honestly.
The only one who’s e’er seen...me. Just me.
“I’m an expert on distancing oneself from family.” Before she could puzzle out the meaning of his words, he tasted his brandy. “First-rate. Amazing, isn’t it, how the finest French imports can be found in sleepy coastal villages?”
She was fairly certain he was referring to the smuggling that was as common as fleas in these parts, but she could hardly admit that the Crown and Anchor dealt in ill-gotten goods. Or that her brothers were oft times the purveyors of said goods.
As she chewed on her bottom lip, debating what to say, he laughed. The sound was rich and vibrant, warming her insides like a posset.
“A discreet thing, aren’t you?” His lips curved faintly. “Something we have in common.”
That this elegant prince of a gentleman would think they had anything in common made her speechless. She felt giddy, as if she’d partaken of the bootlegged brandy. Flustered, she reached to straighten the platter she’d placed on the table.
His hand moved at the same time; their fingers collided. A sharp spark crackled between them. It danced over her skin, jolting her nerve endings. She jerked her hand away, her lips parting in shock.
His long, black lashes swept up. Up close, she saw that flecks of green were buried in his golden-brown irises like emeralds amongst pirate’s gold. His gaze flashed; she’d watched a storm once, standing on a cliff overlooking the sea, and she felt as breathless now as she did then.
His long-fingered hand cupped the brandy glass, the amber liquid swirling.
“Pardon, Miss Goode,” he said.
His well-bred manners and raw charisma were a potent combination. A hot, pulsing urgency awakened inside her. When she wetted her lips, his gaze followed the motion.
“Folks be calling me Maggie, sir,” she offered shyly.
“Well then…Maggie.” If he wasn’t already the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, his slow smile, which revealed a mesmerizing set of dimples, would have made him so. “Call me Rhys.”
1
Dorset, 1838
“Welcome back, Your Grace,”Quince grumbled.
Despite his dark mood, Edward Rhys Hugo Jones Cavendish, the Fifth Duke of Ranelagh and Somerville, felt a tug of amusement at the butler’s sour greeting. It had been over nine years since Rhys’s last visit to his Uncle Horatio’s Dorset estate, and Quince hadn’t changed much. Unlike a fine wine, the curmudgeon did not improve with age: he merely got older and crankier.
Rhys tossed his hat to the stooped grey-haired servant. Quince snapped it out of the air with a flair that betrayed his past as a juggler with the famed Astley’s Amphitheatre. Rhys’s recently deceased uncle had been an adventurer and explorer, and he’d surrounded himself with characters as colorful as he, himself, had been.
