Page 7 of Runaway Countess (Those Wild Whitbys #2)

Chapter Seven

T his should have been Jenny’s wedding night.

Of course, being a young lady from a respectable family, she had very little idea of what a wedding night actually entailed. Aunt Fanny had not been particularly forthcoming on the subject. In fact, when Jenny had last been moved to ask, out of sheer desperation, exactly how Lord Beeston would go about fulfilling his marital duty , she had received an admonition so sharp her ears still burned.

Satin sheets were involved, she was relatively sure. And presumably all those flimsy bits of lace in her trousseau would have had their own part to play. There would be… kissing.

There would certainly not be a lumpen straw mattress in an unsavoury inn. The satin sheets would not leave her itching from what she hoped was nothing worse than fleas. The air would be scented with rose petals, not stale beer.

And the man lying on the floor at the foot of the bed, with his broad sailor’s shoulders and broader sailor’s language, his cavalier attitude to the truth and his oddly gentle hands… No, Jenny’s imagination had failed completely at allowing for the possibility of a Captain Whitby on her wedding night.

She rolled over, trying not to rustle the sheets too much, and pushed her face into the pillow.

It smelled as though its straw stuffing could do with a change. But even that was no good.

She simply could not distract herself from the presence of him . Even in the darkness, she found herself listening out for the gentle sigh of his breathing. Every muscle in her body was painfully tight, poised to take some action she could not name.

Sleep was impossible.

“Miss Cartwright?”

Jenny sat bolt upright with a gasp. A low chuckle sounded from the floor at the foot of the bed.

“I thought you were asleep,” she said, pulling the scratchy bedsheets up to her chin.

The darkness beyond the bedposts shifted. He was sitting up, too. Looking towards her, in the dark.

Jenny’s skin heated, though the air was chill and the room had no fire.

“Is the bed not to your liking?” he asked. There was no hint of a smirk in his voice. Without the sparkle of those infuriating blue eyes to betray him, he sounded almost gentle. “Or is it the company?”

“I am anxious to depart,” she said stiffly, still holding the bedsheets tight. She was fully clothed beneath them, but a brick wall would not have been quite enough to separate her from the low hum of that gentle voice. “I’ll try not to toss and turn too much. I – I’m not used to sharing a room with anyone but Elspeth.”

“Does she snore like a sailor?”

That startled a guilty chuckle from her. “Yes,” said Jenny, covering her mouth with her hand, though he could not see it. “As a matter of fact, she does.”

“Then you should have nothing to fear from me.” The darkness shifted again. A little moonlight drifted through the broken shutters, picking out the broad stretch of his shoulders as he rose to his feet.

“What are you doing?” asked Jenny. She didn’t mean for her voice to become a breathless squeak, but she was rather afraid that it had.

“I’m accustomed to taking the night watch,” he said. “And you need your rest if you’re to face what’s to come in the morning. I’ll go for a walk. Give you a chance to nod off without fearing for your virtue.”

“I’m not…” She paused. “Should I be afraid?”

He laughed again, but there was no malice in it. “Upon my honour as a naval officer. You’ll come to no harm with me. Well, none beyond the harm you’ve done yourself by running away and spending the night with a sailor in an unsavoury inn…”

The mirth drained from his voice, in perfect tandem with the blood freezing in Jennifer’s veins.

Captain Whitby paced to the window, his tall form blocking out the last of the moonlight. “Let’s not pretend that either of us has handled this situation well, milady. Nobody must ever know you were here tonight. Nobody must ever know we have even met.”

“I’m not a fool.” Jenny shivered, drawing her feet underneath her beneath the covers. “I know what’s at risk.”

“Do you really?”

“I’ll be disgraced forever if I’m discovered. And… And I don’t even know your first name.”

He moved to the table. There was a rustle, then the sharp scratch of flint on steel.

A candle flame illuminated the cup of his hand and threw orange light across the lines of his face. His jaw, so sharp by daylight, seemed softer now, with a faint burr of stubble dusting its edges. His eyes were more serious than she had yet seen them, and the flicker of flame in their depths was mesmerising. She could not look away.

“Sebastian,” he said. “Sebastian Anthony Whitby. I was born in Whitby Manor, just outside the town of Appleby in Devonshire. Younger than my sister Cass by half an hour, which she’s never let me forget. I was sent to sea at fourteen – eight long years ago. It was intended to make a man of me. I rather think I’d have become a man either way, but at least this way I’ve managed to make myself useful.” He inclined his head towards the foot of the bed, wordlessly requesting her permission to sit. She gave it with a nod.

“Will you feel safe enough to sleep if I leave the room?” he asked. “Or safer if I stay?”

The mattress shifted under his weight, its surface tilting beneath Jenny, tipping her forwards so that she had to lean back so as not to slide down towards him. The candle glowed between them, sketching shadows and secrets over the walls.

It was more than gravity that was pulling Jenny towards this strange, rough-yet-respectful man. She could not lie to herself. When she looked into his eyes, she thought about the kisses she might have had that night. And it was not Lord Beeston she imagined kissing.

“Sebastian,” she repeated. She liked the sound of it: elegant, but not over-refined. A strong name. The sort that could haul a rope or steer a warship. “So you really are a gentleman. As well as a rogue.”

“As well as a rogue.” He grinned. “But you didn’t answer my question, Lady Beeston. I don’t want to keep you from your beauty sleep. Should I go, or shall I stay?”

“Where will you sleep if you leave?”

“I can get by without any. I’ll go for a walk, or sit at the bar.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Jenny. “Even dashing naval officers need their rest. You must stay. I’m sure my reputation won’t be any more or less destroyed by the finer details.”

“Well, I’m not thinking of your reputation, milady.” He cocked his head, eyes making a slow study of her features. “I asked what would make you feel safe.”

Safe. What did it mean to feel safe?

Did she feel safe in her uncle’s house? With Elspeth, with her quiet sobs and their shared, silent unhappiness? With Aunt Fanny and her sharp tongue?

Would she feel safe with Lord Beeston?

“I would like you to stay,” she said. “Is that wicked?”

She heard the breath catch in his throat. A flame sparked in his eyes that had nothing to do with the candlelight. “Wicked?” He rolled the word past his lips, soft and slow, as though not sure whether he wanted to believe he had heard it.

Jenny’s cheeks burned as she realised what he was thinking. “That’s not what I meant.” Surely it wasn’t. “Wicked as in – as in sinful – no! Disobedient. Improper. Oh, listen . Plenty of things can be wicked that do not involve – well – that .”

“ That ?” he repeated, somehow managing to make the innocent word sound more wicked than wickedness itself.

“Kissing!” she snapped. “And – and all the other, ah, wedding night… activities.”

Sebastian pushed to his feet, the bed creaking beneath him. “I’ll sleep outside the door. Best of a bad situation.” He reached past her to set the candle on the bedside table. “Let me make one thing clear, Lady Beeston,” he said. “I have every intention of delivering you to your husband exactly as I found you. Virtuous. Innocent. Untouched. Is that clear?”

“Crystal.” Jenny swallowed, gathering her pride. “Let me be extremely clear in return. You will not be delivering me to Lord Beeston or anybody else, save my sister. And my virtue is none of your business.”

“Excellent.” He picked up the greatcoat from the floor and shrugged it over his shoulders. “Sleep well, milady.”

When she was quite sure the door was firmly closed, Jenny blew out the candle and flung herself back onto the pillows with a damp thud .

She hoped that might at least drum some sense into her addled brain.