Wicked at Heart Read Online Free Page B
Author: Danelle Harmon
Tags: Fiction, Romance, Historical, England
handkerchief scented with rosewater and pressed it
to her nose, her violet eyes dark and angry above the fragile white square of
linen.
She was thankful
for her anger. People told her she had a sweet face, and sweet faces were a
liability when one was trying to command respect, attention, and results. But
today there was no need to force her heart-shaped countenance into one of
sharpness and severity, for Lady Gwyneth Evans Simms had every reason to not
only be angry, but downright furious.
It was bad
enough that this Lord Morninghall character thought to keep her waiting, but
anticipating the insufferable, intolerable conditions in which he kept fellow
living beings was enough to stir the warrior in Gwyneth. Well, she had a thing
or two to say to the loathsome beast when she came face to face with him!
Her gaze snapped
from the prison hulk to the tar who rowed the little boat steadily toward it.
He was staring at the swell of Gwyneth's breasts, a dreamy little smile turning
up one corner of his mouth, a faint smear of perspiration glistening on his
brow. Well accustomed to lecherous gaping and bawdy comments, Gwyneth fixed
him with a bullet-eyed stare and said icily, "Do you find something to
interest you, sailor?"
Surprised by
such rancor in one so lovely and fair, the tar colored and grinned.
"Beggin' yer pardon, ma'm —"
"That's
Lady Simms, if you please."
"Aye,
beggin' yer pardon, but I was just thinkin' ye look a sight different than we
was all expectin' ye to look. His Lordship's gonna be none too pleased when we
brings ye aboard."
"And does
that worry you? I cannot help but notice that you are not rowing with equal
stroke or vigor. Keep in mind, sailor, that I am not a person who likes to be
kept waiting."
"Yes,
m'lady."
Grinning, the
seaman put his back into the task. The oars dipped into the sparkling waters
of the harbor, rising, dripping, plunging back down again. The little boat
sliced through the waves, carrying Gwyneth ever closer to the prison ship.
She pressed the
handkerchief against her nose once again. The smell of the thing was
overwhelming.
Of all the causes
into which she had thrown her heart and soul — and there had been many — this
one was surely going to present the greatest challenge. Not that she minded
challenges; in fact, she thrived on them. But this was the first cause she was
taking on without the backing and political muscle of her deceased husband, who
had succumbed to pneumonia thirteen months before. Dear old William. He had
been a powerful man in the House of Lords, and a good friend too. She still
missed his companionship, his wise counsel, dearly. She wished he were here to
see her now, taking on this wicked blackguard who ran HMS Surrey , prison
hulk.
She'd done her
homework well enough. Damon Andrew Phillip deWolfe, sixth Marquess of
Morninghall, fourth Earl of deWolfe, born 1786, sent down from Oxford in 1802,
entered the navy that same summer. She reached into her reticule, took out a
tiny notebook, and read over her notes, though she had already memorized the
facts and such an action was merely a token one. Commended for bravery at
Trafalgar in 1805. Promoted to lieutenant in 1806 and captain in 1810. Court-martialed
in 1811 for threatening bodily harm to another officer after a dispute of
unknown origin, and subsequently put at the bottom of the seniority list within
his rank. And there, her last entry in the chronology of Lord Morninghall's
naval life; he'd made the newspapers a month before for dueling with — and
killing — the son of Admiral Edmund Bolton, an action that she suspected was
the catalyst behind his swift and merciless transfer to the prison hulk he now
commanded.
A prison hulk .
And he a marquess, besides!
She closed the
notebook and tapped her finger against its cover, gazing at the approaching
bulk of that very ship. Surely such ugly stains upon what otherwise might have
been an glorious
to her nose, her violet eyes dark and angry above the fragile white square of
linen.
She was thankful
for her anger. People told her she had a sweet face, and sweet faces were a
liability when one was trying to command respect, attention, and results. But
today there was no need to force her heart-shaped countenance into one of
sharpness and severity, for Lady Gwyneth Evans Simms had every reason to not
only be angry, but downright furious.
It was bad
enough that this Lord Morninghall character thought to keep her waiting, but
anticipating the insufferable, intolerable conditions in which he kept fellow
living beings was enough to stir the warrior in Gwyneth. Well, she had a thing
or two to say to the loathsome beast when she came face to face with him!
Her gaze snapped
from the prison hulk to the tar who rowed the little boat steadily toward it.
He was staring at the swell of Gwyneth's breasts, a dreamy little smile turning
up one corner of his mouth, a faint smear of perspiration glistening on his
brow. Well accustomed to lecherous gaping and bawdy comments, Gwyneth fixed
him with a bullet-eyed stare and said icily, "Do you find something to
interest you, sailor?"
Surprised by
such rancor in one so lovely and fair, the tar colored and grinned.
"Beggin' yer pardon, ma'm —"
"That's
Lady Simms, if you please."
"Aye,
beggin' yer pardon, but I was just thinkin' ye look a sight different than we
was all expectin' ye to look. His Lordship's gonna be none too pleased when we
brings ye aboard."
"And does
that worry you? I cannot help but notice that you are not rowing with equal
stroke or vigor. Keep in mind, sailor, that I am not a person who likes to be
kept waiting."
"Yes,
m'lady."
Grinning, the
seaman put his back into the task. The oars dipped into the sparkling waters
of the harbor, rising, dripping, plunging back down again. The little boat
sliced through the waves, carrying Gwyneth ever closer to the prison ship.
She pressed the
handkerchief against her nose once again. The smell of the thing was
overwhelming.
Of all the causes
into which she had thrown her heart and soul — and there had been many — this
one was surely going to present the greatest challenge. Not that she minded
challenges; in fact, she thrived on them. But this was the first cause she was
taking on without the backing and political muscle of her deceased husband, who
had succumbed to pneumonia thirteen months before. Dear old William. He had
been a powerful man in the House of Lords, and a good friend too. She still
missed his companionship, his wise counsel, dearly. She wished he were here to
see her now, taking on this wicked blackguard who ran HMS Surrey , prison
hulk.
She'd done her
homework well enough. Damon Andrew Phillip deWolfe, sixth Marquess of
Morninghall, fourth Earl of deWolfe, born 1786, sent down from Oxford in 1802,
entered the navy that same summer. She reached into her reticule, took out a
tiny notebook, and read over her notes, though she had already memorized the
facts and such an action was merely a token one. Commended for bravery at
Trafalgar in 1805. Promoted to lieutenant in 1806 and captain in 1810. Court-martialed
in 1811 for threatening bodily harm to another officer after a dispute of
unknown origin, and subsequently put at the bottom of the seniority list within
his rank. And there, her last entry in the chronology of Lord Morninghall's
naval life; he'd made the newspapers a month before for dueling with — and
killing — the son of Admiral Edmund Bolton, an action that she suspected was
the catalyst behind his swift and merciless transfer to the prison hulk he now
commanded.
A prison hulk .
And he a marquess, besides!
She closed the
notebook and tapped her finger against its cover, gazing at the approaching
bulk of that very ship. Surely such ugly stains upon what otherwise might have
been an glorious