Page 40 of The Rogue’s Embrace

Rockley had already taken eleven laps of the deck. Looking again at his watch, he wondered how he'd managed to miss her. He was certain that Mrs. Bongorge had not joined the Misses McTavish for breakfast; nor had he observed her leaving the ship to go ashore.

If keeping to her room, she must surely emerge at some point, wishing to take the air. He had merely to keep watch. He would then intercept her and…

And what exactly?

Apologize? His choice of words to her had been unfortunate. Unaccustomed to being challenged, he'd perhaps over-reacted.

It was within her right to speak as she saw fit, regardless of whether that opinion irritated him. Moreover, he was aware that his reaction was an indication almost entirely of his troubled conscience regarding Miss Maitland.

With the date of the wedding looming closer, several worries quietly assailed him. He could not picture them sitting across the table from one another, engaging in light conversation. In fact, it was difficult to think of them as man and wife in any of the usual social situations. He'd little idea of her preferences regarding the theater or music or art. Did he even know which poets and novelists she admired?

That was his own failing. He'd been remiss in not making greater efforts. He'd leapt into Frederick's shoes so quickly, doing what he thought was morally correct, that he'd given no thought as to whether he and Miss Maitland were suited.

Mrs. Bongorge's declarations were impertinent, since the affair was none of her concern; and yet, perhaps her very distance from the matter gave her objectivity.

He tried to remember Miss Maitland's reaction when he'd initially made his offer. Marriage proposals usually occurred in a joyful setting, whereas they'd both been in the throes of grief over Frederick's passing; it muddied the waters. She'd asked for time to think but sent a note of acceptance no more than a day later. He'd taken it as a sign that his actions were absolutely correct but, of course, she would have taken advisement from her parents. The response was theirs as much as her own.

Coming to one of the benches set out along the promenade deck, Rockley seated himself, looking across at the view. The harbor was picturesquely curved, reflecting the vista in its still waters: tall palms and stone villas, gleaming white.

He'd never visited Bari. Were it not for his desire to speak to Mrs. Bongorge, he would have gone ashore. If she were to appear, there was still time. They might explore together.

He shook that thought away. He merely wished to make his apology. Anything else would complicate things. Despite their cross words, she tempted him in a way that was dangerous. To his shame, his imagination had been full of her while satisfying the arousal with which he'd woken.

It should be Miss Maitland he thought of, if he was to think of anyone…but he could only picture her retreating from him, looking horrified. He'd been telling himself that he'd work things out somehow. Plenty of people married who began as strangers. A closer bond could be formed in time. Yet one fundamental difficulty remained—perhaps insurmountable, in every sense of the word.

He could not sit here, pretending that he waited for Mrs. Bongorge purely to make his apology. He knew in his heart what he wished to discuss. It would no doubt shock her but he had a feeling that, if anyone were able to help, it would be this woman.

That thought excited him far more than it should.

It was too late for breakfast, and too early for luncheon. Nevertheless, the Ma?tre d' seated Estela in a quiet corner of the dining salon and she was able to order several dishes, accompanied by a pot of steaming coffee. Now that her stomach had settled, she found herself inordinately hungry. Once fortified, she intended to take a turn about the deck. If she should happen upon the duke, so much the better.

Despite having woken in such a poor state and having much upon her mind, she was in good looks, much aided by the careful choosing of her costume. The stiff white taffeta striped in raspberry pink brought out the roses in her cheeks, while her hat, jauntily positioned and with a cascade of full-bloomed peonies upon the uppermost side, provided the perfect finishing touch.

To her immense satisfaction, it appeared that she had no need of seeking the gentleman who remained uppermost in her mind, for no sooner had she made short work of a custard pastry when he appeared of his own volition. He did not see her at first, which gave her the advantage of assessing him. In his evening tails, he'd looked handsome in the way all men did. This morning (she believed it was still before the hour of noon) he looked even more delectable, wearing a three-piece suit in cream linen, paired with a crisp white shirt.

Rockley exchanged some words with the Ma?tre d', who nodded discreetly in her direction. Locating her amidst the parlor palms, he made his way over. "Mrs. Bongorge,"—a furrow creased his brow, as he took in the various plates surrounding her—"you're eating."

She smiled over the rim of her coffee. "This being the dining room, it is the most usual activity."

"Indeed."

He looked uncomfortable, which suited her just fine.

"You wished to say something?"

She sipped at the beverage.

"I did. That is, I do."

He was definitely squirming. "Last night, my manner was uncalled for; rude, in fact. A gentleman does not lose his temper, nor departs from a lady with cross words between them. I spoke in haste, and I apologize, most sincerely."

Estela set down the cup and gave him one of her most winning smiles. "You accept, then, that I understand some portion of what your Miss Maitland may be feeling, despite our temperaments being ‘vastly different'."

"You are a woman and so is Miss Maitland."

Taking off his hat, he held it before him.

"How observant!"

"As such, I need your help."

He looked at her most sincerely.

"And your first thought was to come to me?"

For a moment, she was dumbfounded.

An apology, she'd hoped for; a request for her assistance was unexpected. It was not an unwelcome development. To be needed, in any capacity, gave one the upper hand, which was a position she preferred. It also gave her the chance to taunt him, just a little.

"You must know a great many women: sisters, aunts—friends even?"

"The last people I wish to confide in are those of my intimate circle."

The brim of the Panama was receiving a through pleating. If he carried on, it would be quite unwearable.

"To be blunt, there are aspects of my forthcoming marriage which give me pause."

He sighed. "I am…anxious."

Estela was intrigued. The previous evening, he'd given the impression of being quite set in his plans, but a man who was certain of himself did not admit to anxiety.

"Please"—she indicated the chair beside her—"let me pour you some of this excellent coffee."

Fortunately, a second cup was to hand. "You shan't mind if I continue with my breakfast?"

She picked up her knife without waiting for his answer and neatly decapitated a boiled egg, before dipping a finger of asparagus within.

Rockley added a dash of cream to his coffee and was stirring it thoroughly. Far more than was necessary. A small tick worked in his jaw.

"You're perfectly welcome to watch me eat, but it might be best to explain what's on your mind. I can't be of assistance otherwise. I assure you, nothing will shock me. I have had four husbands."

Estela proceeded to bite the tip from the delicate green spear.

Almost imperceptibly, Rockley winced. "I had an inkling you'd have experience to draw upon."

Estela could hardly take umbrage at his insinuation, given her forwardness of the night before.

"Come now, do spit it out, or I shall grow bored of you. A woman likes a man to be decisive. You may think of that, if you will, as my first marriage tip."

With a certain smugness, she took up more of the asparagus, polishing off the stems and her yolk.

His gaze dropped to his coffee cup. "To put it bluntly, I'm exceptionally well-endowed. It's vulgar to mention such things, but there we are."

"As all men of nobility should be."

Estela pushed aside her now empty egg shell. She drew the next plate forward, which contained a selection of cold meats. "A rich estate and a portfolio of wise investments are nothing to be ashamed of. I'm sure Miss Maitland will be delighted."

"You misunderstand me."

Rockley picked up his cup, then replaced it abruptly upon its saucer. "When I speak of my endowment, I don't just mean financially."

Poised to pierce a skinny little Barese sausage, Estela paused. "The most attractive asset of all."

"I do not consider this an advantage. Quite the opposite. If you understood how difficult…"

"Now, now."

Estela lifted the sausage on her fork, giving it a thoughtful twirl. "All men believe they have enormous appendages, and that women are frail flowers who will be crushed if you exhibit your true desire. Let me see…some actress, or an opera singer perhaps, has convinced you that your truncheon is frighteningly large. ‘Oh, Your Grace, you are too, too huge! However will I…?'. All the while, her legs were clamped firmly about your ducal buttocks, urging you on."

He looked alarmed, glancing about the room. The salon remained empty but for themselves and the Ma?tre d', who was adjusting a floral arrangement on the far side of the room. Still, Rockley answered in a hissed whisper. "Keep your voice down and stop playing about with that sausage; either put it in your mouth or set the thing down."

Estela grinned. Depositing the slender Barese, she replaced the morsel with a particularly fat bratwurst, nestling on the plate next to salami and mortadella. "Is this more like it? Quite girthy, but certainly manageable."

"You're impossible!"

Rockley passed a hand over his brow. "Forget I said anything. In fact, forget that we ever met. I shan't disturb you again."

Looking peeved, he made to rise.

"Don't be such a child!"

Estela rapped sharply on the table with the handle of her cutlery. "Another marital tip for you; women like a man who perseveres. Tantrums are for infants. Are you telling me that you believe you're so large in that department that your bride won't be able to…"

Rockley narrowed his eyes, but remained where he was. "Accommodate me? Yes."

She could tell he was gritting his teeth.

"It's always been a problem. Even with…"

He diverted his eyes again, clearly too embarrassed to articulate the obvious.

"Even with ladies who are well-used to accommodating every sort of customer, and every sort of request?"

Estela—enjoying herself immensely—nibbled the top of the bratwurst. "I suppose one has to protect the tools of one's trade. But, surely, there must have been someone brave enough to give you a go."

He could hardly be so colossal that not a single night-butterfly in the whole of London would take him on. As a regular visitor to the soirées of the demi-monde, she was acquainted with plenty of women who would see his supposed ‘affliction' as an enticing challenge. Her own interest was being piqued along much the same lines.

He was blushing. "Attempts were made. In my younger years, I didn't realize the size of the… ah…the anomaly."

The situation was growing ever more irresistible. A thought occurred to her—so wildly shocking that she almost choked on the tidbit she was chewing. Rockley's status and desirability were unquestionable. In spite of these displays of annoying shyness, he would be tantalizing to women of all ages and persuasions; attractive to his own sex in the majority of cases too, she'd wager.

Was he really telling her that he'd never done the deed?

That he was, to all intents and purposes, a virgin?

By the sound of it, he'd experimented sufficiently to have some sexual experience. But to have never managed penetration! She was incredulous.

And he thought she could help?

He must believe her the biggest trollop on the continent if he had hopes of her succeeding where seasoned whores had failed.

The cheek of it!

She turned blazing eyes upon him. She ought to slap his face good and proper, or stick him with the fork—which she was still clutching, and rather tightly too.

"I haven't any notion of you obliging in that way."

He looked suitably alarmed. "I've long accepted that I shall never ‘know' a woman fully, in the Biblical sense. There are other things that are possible, and I must be content with those. Indeed, some of them are extremely pleasurable…"

He gave a self-conscious cough. "It is only that, my first duty to my wife must be to give her a child. She will want a family, and—though there are any number of male cousins ready to take the title upon my demise—it would be agreeable to think that a son of my own line would have that privilege."

Estela looked him dead in the eye. "You do understand how a woman comes to be carrying a man's offspring? That certain things are necessary?"

"The mechanics are within my grasp. I simply thought that you might have a notion or two on how the grain"—he coughed again—"might be delivered, as it were, into the belly of the ship, without a thorough reach into the hold."

Estela didn't know whether to laugh or cry for him; the man looked horribly agonized. "If we are to discuss this, we can't be talking about copulation in nautical terms."

She fought to keep a straight face. "Cock and cunny shall do, or sheath if you prefer, and Miss Maitland—Heaven help her—will be carrying your child in her womb."

He blew out his cheeks in a long breath. "Quite right. Better to speak plainly. But the question is, do you have any suggestions?"

Though it was not a subject Estela had ever considered, her instinct was to rise to the challenge. Furthermore, there was no way upon Earth she was going to pass up the chance to take a look at this supposed leviathan of a member.

It was not her fault that her wicked nature conceived several other things she wanted to do besides looking. Miss Maitland was not yet his duchess, after all—and, if Estela was successful in finding a solution, it would be Miss Maitland who would benefit.

One could not be expected to go out of one's way to help without some sort of profit to oneself. Only nuns and missionaries were that altruistic, and Estela doubted even they were totally selfless.

Estela drained the last of her coffee. "Cabin twenty-seven in half an hour. I shall be waiting."

Without looking back, she made her exit, in full confidence that His Grace was following the sway of her bustle, and that he would not be even a minute late.