A Certain Latitude Read Online Free Page A

thrived. She lost her look of wary cynicism and her skin and hair acquired a slight glow in the winter sunshine. She had befriended the cook—Allen met her once on deck, cradling a large bowl in the crook of one arm, and beating its contents. “Egg whites,” she explained. “They won’t thicken in the heat of the kitchen.”
    Mr. Johnson seemed enchanted by her, escorting her around the ship and explaining how the rigging worked, with Allen tagging along behind, feeling like a resentful child. The sight of one slim, gloved hand tucked into Mr. Johnson’s arm annoyed him even more.
    Any day now he would feel jealous of those damned hens she had taken charge of. She’d even persuaded one of the sailors going ashore to pull whatever he could find in the way of greenery, groundsel, late thistles and grass, to encourage the hens to lay even better. Sailors with nothing better to do now hung over the chicken pen, discussing possible names for them with Miss Onslowe and asking her advice about their sweethearts.
    It infuriated him and he couldn’t work out why.
     
    Late that night, Captain Trent said, if the wind held, they would sail from the mouth of the estuary and into the open sea. He warned that they might find the movement of the ship a little livelier, but hoped no one would suffer ill effects. After a quantity of punch, the Blights excused themselves to go below, and Allen went on deck to stand vigil. Sure enough, there was a slight rock and dip to the ship’s barely perceptible forward momentum.
    He had thought Miss Onslowe had gone below, but she was on deck, lurking around the henhouse, doubtless tucking the wretched birds into bed for the night. She wore, as usual, the unbecoming spinster’s cap and a long cloak. He drew his own cloak around himself, seeking a dark corner, and wondered if she had some sort of assignation with Johnson, who had gazed foolishly at her all through dinner.
    She looked around cautiously and raised one hand to her head.
    He burst from his hiding place, grabbed the cap from her head, and tossed it overboard.
    “Why did you do that?” she shrieked, much as she’d done when he’d knocked her to the deck first within minutes of meeting her.
    “Because it’s damned ugly and—”
    The ship gave a decided lurch. She bumped up against him, grasped his coat for balance and shouted, “ I wanted to do that!”
    He burst into laughter. Together they watched the white cap bob on the waves—yes, definitely waves, here—and then sink from sight.
    “Damn you, Pendale.” She bent forward to unlace her boots, kicked them off, and reached under her skirts.
    “What—” he watched transfixed as her garters—pink ribbons—fell to the deck and those same dingy gray woolen stockings slid down her ankles.
    She hopped on one foot and tugged one stocking off, then the other, with a swish of skirts, and maybe—or did he imagine it?—a flash of white thigh.
    Barefoot, she tossed her stockings overboard, where they bobbed for a brief moment before disappearing from sight.
    “Well!” She laid her hand on his sleeve for balance, grinning broadly.
    He’d never seen her—or any woman, come to that—smile with so much abandon, her whole face lit up. She must be drunk—that was it. She’d had quite a few glasses of punch.
    “I hated those stockings. I have been praying for them to wear out. I’m glad to see them go. Now I shall be forced to wear my silk ones, like a lady.”
    “Miss Onslowe, do you imply you are not a lady?”
    She ran her fingers through her loosened hair. “I do not wish to shock you, Pendale. You seem like a very respectable sort of gentleman.”
    “Oh, please, Miss Onslowe, do shock me.” He grinned back. The atmosphere was becoming pleasantly erotic—a woman who, if not exactly pretty, was certainly interesting and had shown no shyness in stripping off her stockings, stood before him, her hips swaying with the motion of the ship.
    The ship gave a sort of sideways