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“G ood God, what is she doing?” exclaimed Captain Beroald Falkland, now Duke of Westcott, under his breath.

He was skirting the lake in the middle of the park on his neighbor’s, the Duke of Troubridge’s, estate, lost in his somewhat gloomy thoughts, when he chanced to look up at the sound of a splash from the water.

He was brought to a halt by the sight of a young woman, dressed in breeches and a white shirt—which to his shock, was wet through and quite transparent—sitting astride a plank of wood in the water and holding an oar in her hands.

As he watched, she maneuvered herself from sitting to kneeling and then gradually stood up, wobbling a bit.

By the state of her clothes, this was not her first attempt.

Having stabilized herself on her rocking platform, she then stuck the oar in the water and pushed her makeshift craft along, like a Venetian gondolier.

He noticed that the plank of wood was shaped at the prow into a rounded point and smoothly planed.

She maintained her balance and continued to use the oar to propel her craft forward, stroking first one side then the other. Then quite suddenly the craft seemed to hit something hidden below the surface of the water and the young lady lost her balance and with a cry, fell into the water.

Twenty-three years in the Navy had the captain stripping off his jacket, neck cloth, and boots and diving into the lake on sheer instinct.

In his experience, few people—even sailors—could swim.

It was a fine, sunny day, and the water was fresh but not freezing as he stroked strongly toward the craft, alarmed that he couldn’t see the young lady.

He reached the craft and dived under the murky green water looking for her and quickly ascertained that her shirt had become caught on a tree branch below the surface.

She was attempting to extricate herself from it, but the more she twisted, the worse it got.

He approached and seized the shirt, ripping the fabric; she shot to the surface.

He then pulled the shirt free and kicked to the surface himself, where he found her clinging to her board and breathing quickly.

“Thank you!” she said, breathlessly and grinned. “The wretched thing got caught! That was quick thinking of you. I am much obliged!”

Conscious—even if she was not—that below the surface of the water there was nothing covering her breasts, he held out the ripped shirt to her. His worry for her safety found an outlet in a quick spurt of temper. “What are you trying to do? Drown yourself? What if I hadn’t chanced upon you?”

She grinned, accepting the shirt and pulling it back on with some difficulty, the wet fabric sticking to her arms. “Oh, I would have ripped it myself, just as you did! I can hold my breath underwater for three minutes, but it was getting close to that. So, thank you so much.” She had been treading water while she redonned her shirt, and he tried not to look at her naked breasts bobbing in the water.

She now leaned on her strange, flat craft and, reached out an arm, offering her hand.

“Fenella Eden. I’m really most obliged to you.”

Conscious of the absurdity of the situation, he took her hand and grinned in spite of himself.

She was the most extraordinary young woman.

And a delightful breath of fresh air to one who had been sunk in gloom and self-recrimination for far too long.

The dormant adventurous spirit of his youth stirred to reluctant life. “Captain Falkland.”

“Delighted to meet you,” she said and hauled herself up onto her craft again. Holding her shirt closed with one hand, she looked about. “Oh, where did my oar go? Drat! It has floated away; it’s caught in that tangle of roots over there on the bank.”

“I’ll get it,” he said, highly amused by this strange young woman.

“Thank you so much!” she said with a charming smile.

Her hair hung in wet rats tails around her impish face, but her strange greyish-violet eyes danced with amusement.

She showed not the slightest shock or distress from her near miss with drowning.

He struck out for the bank and disentangled the oar from the tree roots, bringing it back to her by swimming one-handed.

“Here you are, ma’am,” he said, offering it to her with a smile. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“No thank you, that is sufficient for the moment,” she returned with that roguish grin. She took the oar and laid it across her lap—she was straddling her craft again. He discovered close to that she had a spray of adorable freckles over her pert little nose. How old is she?

“Do you mean to keep doing this?” he asked, treading water, his arms moving in lazy half circles to keep his head above the water.

“No, I think I’ve done enough for today,” she said, using the oar to propel the craft slowly toward the bank.

He stroked alongside her until he could get his feet under him and stand on the squelchy, silty bottom of the lake.

She climbed off her craft, which was at least eight feet long, and reached to tow it up the bank.

He helped her, for it was heavy. It was surprising that she seemed capable of lifting it herself at all.

“How did you get this here. It is too heavy for you to carry, surely?” he asked, letting water run off him as he stood in the sun on the grassy bank of the lake and examined the craft more closely. It was made of planed wood, sealed with wax, and formed in the shape of a long ellipse.

“Oh, I dragged it.” She nodded toward a type of sled she’d used to pull her vessel across the lawn where it rested on the on the bank.

Then she reached into a big bag and took out a towel to dry her hair.

“Here.” She tossed him one as well. Catching it, he thanked her and used it to dry his head.

He took off his shirt and wrung it out. It would seem to be false modesty to be worried about baring his chest to this young lady, as she seemed to completely lack any feminine sensibilities.

Having wrung the worst of the water out of it, he used the towel to dry his skin and turned back toward her, to find her staring at him open-mouthed.

Perhaps he had overestimated her worldliness, because she grew quite pink and looked away.

“My apologies,” he mumbled, suddenly shy, and hauled the wet shirt over his head again. The wet cloth clung clammy and cool against his skin.

“That—that’s all right,” she said, scrabbling around in her bag again, eventually producing a bundle wrapped in cloth.

Crouching down and then sitting on the bank, she opened the cloth and revealed a half loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese.

“Want some?” she offered, looking up at him with a shy smile.

He should grab his jacket and boots and leave. All this was most improper. By her speech—if not her behavior—she was a lady; and he had realized, that despite her earlier sangfroid, which made him think she was older, she couldn’t be more than a debutante.

But, his conscience reasoned, he couldn’t leave her here on the bank half naked like this. Some unscrupulous male could seek to do her harm.

So, he sat and accepted a hunk of bread and cheese and cup of ale from the jar she produced.

“Where do you live?” he asked, passing the cup back to her to drink.

“My home is in Surrey, right on the coast. But I have just had a season in London.” She screwed up her cute nose to show what she thought of that and went on.

“My father is Viscount Eden and is a cousin of the Duchess of Troubridge, although I call her Aunt Jocelyn. So, we are staying here at The Castle for the summer. The Laynes are enormous fun, of course, but I’d still rather be at home. I miss my yacht.”

“You have a yacht?” he asked fascinated. “How do you come to have a yacht?”

“Papa bought it for me. I had to beg for a whole year, but he finally gave in.” She smiled in self-satisfaction.

“However do you sail it?”

“I have crew, my friend Peter—he’s a fisherman.

Papa pays him of course. He wouldn’t let me sail on my own.

So, Peter is assigned to protect me. Fortunately, he is great fun and not at all dull or proper.

” Beroald was conscious of a stab of envy toward the unknown Peter.

“And he keeps the Victory in tip top condition for me.”

He stopped in mid-chew, and regarded her with a quizzical look. “I served on the Victory —”

“At Trafalgar?” she said breathlessly.

“Yes. I was a lieutenant on the Amphion under Thomas Hardy and came across to the Victory when he took command of it for Nelson.”

“Oh gosh, what was it like?”

“Terrifying, violent, bloody. Like most battles.”

“But to be there and a part of history like that. At such a great victory against the French—?” She chewed her lip. “What was Nelson like?”

“An extraordinary strategist and exemplary leader. His loss was keenly felt by all of us.”

“Did you see him shot?”

“I did. I was running messages for Hardy to the crew and came back on deck just as the shot was fired. I fetched the ship’s surgeon to him.”

“How long have you served in the Navy, sir?”

“Since I was fifteen. Twenty-three years. I sold out last year when my brother died, and I was forced to come home and assume the title. I’m the Duke of Westcott. My property borders this one.”

“I’d prefer to call you Captain,” she said, breaking off a bit of cheese and nibbling like a mouse.

He noted that she didn’t seem interested in his title, which was a refreshing change.

He had already discovered that an unmarried duke garnered more female attention than he wanted or knew what to do with.

“That craft of yours,” he nodded to the plank of planed wood. “Where did you get it?”