H. M. S. Cockerel Read Online Free

he used to spurn women who had gotten a little long in tooth. If only he’d known then in his feckless days what he knew at present!
    There, he thought, almost satisfied. His reflection didn’t vary much from the portrait downstairs after he had washed and toweled.
    Much, he amended.
    He’d been eating well, and even with rugged, outdoorsy country pursuits he was not exactly the lean-cheeked courtier of his youth, nor so pale as a titled lord. But it was near enough.
    Cony finished brushing his coat and waistcoat and he redonned them. He’d slipped out of his top boots and exchanged them for a pair of indoor shoes, little more than soft-leather pumps, more like womens’ dancing slippers than anything else. Insubstantial though they felt, they were all “the go” lately.
    Standing well back from Caroline’s dressing mirror, he perused his form as well. He had been eating well, after all, though there was no snugness to the sewn-to-be-snug, buff-coloured suede breeches beyond what fashion demanded. His bottle-green coat and waistcoat sat well upon him, he thought—though they were new, run up before Christmas, so what comparison would they be?
    Well, there’s my uniforms, he sighed, almost relieved.
    They’d changed the Regulations for Sea Officers’ dress in ’87, whilst he was overseas, and though he’d gone on the half-pay list as soon as Alacrity had paid off, he’d faced the expense of meeting the new dress regulations so he could call upon the Councillor of the Cheque each three months, about the time of the quarterly assizes, to prove that he was alive, that he still possessed all his requisite parts, that he was eligible for future sea duty, and to collect what was laughably termed “half-pay.” He’d just come back from the Admiralty in London, just before his birthday, and his uniform had fit him admirably well.
    Damme, though . . . He frowned, lifting his coattails to study the heft and span of his buttocks. Hmmm . . . ?
    â€œSupper is served, sir . . . mistress,” Cony announced at last, as the rum punches at the Olde Ploughman threatened to consume his stomach lining.
    â€œMy dear,” Alan beamed, rising to greet Caroline as she swept into the smaller second parlour, where he’d been kicking his heels.
    â€œSorry, dearest, but I simply had to stop by the nursery to look in on little Charlotte,” Caroline smiled in reply, coming to his arms for a welcome hug and an affectionate, wifely, kiss. Alan took her up off her feet, unwilling to let a pat and a peck on the lips suffice. Children be damned, servants be damned, he thought, I want a proper welcome!
    â€œAlan!” Caroline chid him, but not sternly at all as she gave him what he demanded. He could hear Hugh blowing indignant bubbles of revulsion as they kissed again.
    â€œNothin’ to sneer at, Hugh,” Alan chortled softly as he let her go at last. “Take my word for it.”
    There was a rare light in Caroline’s eyes as she knelt to give her sons a peck, too. “Ah, little Hugh. What? You’ll flinch from my kiss? And Sewallis, our little angel! That’s my little man, you’ll not wipe off your mother’s affections.”
    â€œAnd how is Charlotte?” Alan asked as he offered his arm to lead Caroline into the informal dining room.
    â€œSimply perfect, of course,” Caroline chuckled, filled with a maternal warmth. Baby Charlotte, named for her maternal grandmother, was barely twelve months old and still nursing.
    Soon to stop, please God, Lewrie begged silently. No matter they could afford wet nurses, no matter how unfashionable for English ladies, Caroline had insisted upon it with every child, months and bloody months of nursing! Months and months of baby talk, billing and cooing between swaddled babe and doting mama, and God help the man who interfered or tried to conduct an adult conversation. Alan espied a tiny,