My Saving Grace Page 9

  No, his dark curly hair was too long, and while his face was noble, with a firm jaw and sculpted mouth, his high, lean cheekbones weren’t covered in the carefully groomed strips of whisker so many fashionable men— Captain Ponsonby included— sported. His eyes were coolly observant, and fine eyes they were indeed, but they seemed to take life, if not their owner, far too seriously and his taciturn mouth seemed reluctant to smile. She didn’t think it must get much practice in laughing, either, because when he did smile the gesture seemed hesitant, guarded, exploratory, much like her first efforts with the oars just moments ago. The word came to her quite suddenly. Tight. That was what he was. Tight and stiff and far too serious, and Grace thought that perhaps she ought to do something about that.

  Really.

  “So now what do I do?” she asked, rolling the long line around her wrist.

  His hand shot out, stilling her, and his grave stare held her own. “Don’t do that.”

  She paused, her wrist still caught in his. Her brows raised in surprise, question, and humor.

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Never,” he said sternly, minutely lowering the angle of his head to better hold her gaze in his attempt to convey the importance of what he was about to say, “don’t ever, wrap a line around your wrist.”

  “Why not?”

  “If you were ever to get into trouble like you found yourself in yesterday, you’d be tangled up in the sheet. Lines must have the freedom to run free, to be cast off if need be. If you deny them that, you’re looking at a capsize at best and a serious injury at worst.”

  “Oh.”

  “Let alone the fact that if the boat did roll and you went with it, you’d be tangled and unable to get free. You would drown.”

  The gravity of his stare suddenly made her rethink her plan to do something about his seriousness. He’d scared her a bit, really.

  “So, what am I supposed to do with it, then?”

  He leaned forward and took the rope from her hand. Her skin tingled at his nearness. At his brief touch. She shook off the observation and instead, concentrated on the way he was using a quick, practiced rhythm of his fingers to make perfectly measured loops with it, one after another until the line was neatly coiled and hanging from his grip. He was close to her. So close that she could smell the soapy scent of his freshly-washed hair, the clean linen freshness of his shirt, feel the warmth of his body, so near to her own.

  She was suddenly dizzy again, not unlike how she’d felt after her mishap of the day before.

  “Here,” he said, and handed her back the coiled rope. Or, line. Or whatever the thing was called. “Always keep your rigging in good working order, ensure that it is neatly organized and allowed to run free in an emergency. Don’t sit on it, don’t allow it to knot, don’t wrap it around a body part, and always be mindful of where it is in the boat.”

  He looked up and caught her gaze once more with steady gray eyes and again, her blood quickened unexpectedly. He was handsome all right, and oh, yes, he had saved her life.

  He had saved her life.

  Grace swallowed hard, unable to moisten her throat or quell the sudden skip of her pulse.

  “Just when I think you are far too serious,” she mused, taking the flaked line, “you give me reason to value such a trait.” She met his gaze, the sunlight rising through the tree branches and striking a hit across his irises. In them, she saw the faintest hint of purple amongst the gray. It hadn’t been his vest, after all.

  An unusual color.

  An attractive one.

  “Have I sufficiently impressed upon you the necessity of allowing a line room to run free?”

  “Yes, Mr. Lord.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched, as though he were about to smile, as though he was on the verge of allowing himself that luxury, but the gesture was fleeting and gone as quickly as it had come.

  “Good, then.” He shifted a bit in the boat. “Now, you have the mainsheet, and you may lay it down at your feet, holding onto it just here.”

  “Here?”

  He reached out and took her hand. His skin was warm, the hand covering and all but dwarfing her own. “Here.”

  “All right.”

  “And then you need to get your boat out of irons. Do you know what the term means?”

  “I’m suspecting it has nothing to do with the hot instrument that presses one’s clothing or curls the hair.”

  This time, his smile did indeed appear, albeit brief. “You would be correct. ‘In irons’ refers to the state a boat is in when it has swung around to point into the wind. It’s a state to which any sailing vessel, left to its own devices, will revert. Observe it. You won’t go anywhere whilst in irons, because the wind is directly in front of you. A boat cannot sail straight into the wind.”

  “I see...”

  “Do you feel the breeze on your cheek?” he asked. “If you don’t, then turn your head until you find it. Where do you see the little waves on the water, and in what direction are they headed?”

  “I feel the wind right here,” she said, touching her nose.

  “And the tiny waves?”

  “Headed straight for us.”

  “Good. And what does that tell you?”

  “That those little waves are being pushed by the wind, and thus, indicate its direction.”

  “Excellent! Now, turn your head to the right and turn it to the left, and observe the way it sounds in your ears when it strikes different parts of your face.”

  She did as he directed. He watched her closely, a devoted teacher, one who was in his element.

  “You are very good at this, Mr. Lord. Who taught you how to sail?”

  “Initially,” he said offhandedly, “my father. And many others since then, including that best instructor, experience.” He moved closer to her, leaning over her, and stretched his arm over her head to catch the boom just above that had brought her to such grief the day before. “Now, to get your boat out of irons, you must hold the boom over to the wind, like this. Watch.”

  She watched.

  And saw the nose of the boat begin to track around, and the light breeze begin to harden the little sail, which in turn pulled against the line in her hand, and a moment later the boat had begun to move and a little curl of water was happily gurgling beneath and alongside them and Mr. Lord was telling her to fall off, whatever that meant, just a bit, and leaning over her to place his hand over hers on the tiller, allowing her to feel the pulse of the little craft beneath it.

  And feel it, Grace did.

  But she also felt that hand covering her own, guiding hers, helping her to get the feel of the boat, heard him telling her to let out just a little bit of line so as to get more out of the sail, to be mindful of the family of swans so as not to disturb them.

  “Look, we’re doing it!” she said happily. “We’re sailing!”

  He grinned, let go of her hand, and settled back on the thwart. “Mind your course again, Lady Grace.”

  “Oh, right!”

  “And remember, if you push the tiller to larboard, your boat will go to starboard. And vice versa. They are in reverse.”

  “Understood.” She played with the tiller a bit, noting the quickness of the craft’s response, and grinned, feeling a freedom in her newfound knowledge.

  He was saying something else.

  “So, did you grow up here?”

  “What? Oh. Oh, no, I did not.”

  “Where, then?”

  She shrugged. How to answer such a question? “Well, I guess you could say I started at Folkington Hall, since my father was the Earl. But he died early, so my memories of it are not very good.”

  “Watch your steering.”

  “What?”

  “The boat is heading back into irons. Push the tiller away from the sail a bit. Yes, like that. Good.”

  “Why is it so hard to keep a boat on course?”

  “Do you even have a course?”

  She admitted that no, she
did not.

  “Find something on the opposite shore on which to aim. That rock on the beach, perhaps. If you have something to point at, ’twill make it easier to keep the boat true.”

  She nodded and moved the tiller until the bow was pointing at the rock. How easy it was to lose focus! How quick the boat was to take advantage of inattention, just as it had done with her yesterday.

  “And then where?” he prodded.

  “What?”

  “We were talking about where you grew up.”

  “Oh, right. Well, after my father died, the title went to his younger brother, who had his own family, so Mama and I went to my grandparents’ home in Surrey. Did you meet them yesterday? They were here. Mama’s parents. We lived there for a while, then Mama met Sir Peter and married him and we went and lived at his home, until he was killed in battle. More heirs to supplant us, I’m afraid, so back to my grandparents’ home in Surrey yet again.”

  “It must have been hard to call any one place home, having moved around so much.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And there was a third husband before your mother’s new bridegroom?”

  She looked at him, brows raised.

  He flushed. “I’m sorry. That is none of my business.”

  She grinned, trying to put him at ease. “No need to apologize.” And then, in a lowered, dramatic voice, “We don’t talk about the third husband.”

  “I see.”

  “Terrible scandal.”

  He nodded gravely, but his eyes were warm, responding to the laughter in her voice. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “And now there’s a fourth husband,” she continued breezily, “and another new home. More staff to get to know, a new stepfather too, but at least he seems madly in love with Mama. I expect I’ll be living here for the foreseeable future.”

  “Well, it doesn’t look like such a bad place.” His smile was tentative, as though he was unsure of her, unsure of what to say to her, feeling his way as he went along. “It seems like a beautiful home.”

  “It is, I suppose.”

  “Even if this pond here is rather—” a smile played at his mouth— “dangerous.”

  The way he drew out the word, making it teasingly ominous, made her laugh.

  “Dangerous,” she repeated in the same dramatic tone, her gaze meeting his.

  “Dangerous. And you should stay out of it unless you have a sailor like me, to accompany you.”

  “Or Captain Ponsonby?”

  His smile seemed to hang in place. The humor went out of it, and then the smile itself faded. It was a subtle shift, the change itself quick, but the brief, playful mood was lost and she immediately regretted it. He’d been droll, his company enjoyable as he’d begun to relax, and she’d gone and ruined it. Drat. Drat! The taciturn man was back, serious and stiff once more.

  “Mind your steering again, Lady Grace.”

  “Oh, right.” She pushed the long wooden bar to starboard, and the boat obliged.

  They hummed along, the water chortling beneath the little boat. Her companion had gone quiet.

  “And how about you?” she asked, trying to recapture the light mood. “Where are you from?”

  “Hampshire, and prepare to come about. Unless you fancy hitting the shore.”

  “Come about?”

  “Tack.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Start pulling in the mainsheet to bring the sail to the centerline. You’ll push the tiller hard toward the sail, the bow will cross through the wind and she will turn.”

  “You make it sound easy.”

  “It is. Try it.”

  She pulled on the mainsheet, feeling the sail resisting her somewhat as she brought it in. It was hard to remember to keep the boat on course at the same time, but she managed, and then his hand was covering hers once more, guiding her, strong and competent.

  “Now push the tiller over all the way, toward the sail. Yes, that’s it. All the way. Keep going. Good.”

  The boat swung obediently across the wind, its bow tracing a graceful arc. The sail swung over to the other side and they were headed back across the lake, the shore falling away behind them.

  “Look what we did!” Grace exclaimed, delighted with herself. “That was fun!”

  “No, look what you did.”

  “Well, you told me what to do and how to do it, so therefore, it was a team effort!”

  Her delight must have been infectious, as her teacher was tentatively smiling again.

  “Team effort, then. But you’re the captain of this vessel, and you’ve successfully tacked her. Well done.”

  His praise warmed her. He met her gaze and smiled, and Grace forgot all about Sheldon Ponsonby.

  Until he and a few others wandered out of the house, some carrying their breakfasts or a morning beverage, a few laughing, a woman’s voice rising above the rest.

  The easy camaraderie she had been enjoying with her instructor fizzled, and nervousness took its place.

  Distraction.

  Two people were headed their way. One of them was Captain Ponsonby.

  The sun was higher now, the wind picking up a bit, sweet, steady and contrite for the way it had treated her yesterday. Grace, flustered, tried to concentrate on her task. She managed to get the boat all the way to the other side of the lake yet again and to “come about” as Mr. Lord directed her in a manner that was actually quite smooth, though she did take a few seconds too long to trim the sail after the boat swung itself through the wind. Blame that on the fact that Captain Ponsonby was approaching, no doubt curious to see if she had improved her seamanship— lakemanship?— lakewomanship?— since yesterday afternoon.

  “Mind the swans,” her instructor said.

  But Grace, distracted now, couldn’t think. Captain Ponsonby was not alone, though it wasn’t the beautiful blonde accompanying him this time but another officer; perhaps someone who’d arrived last night? The newcomer was dressed in the same dashing blue, white and gold uniform of the Royal Navy, but while the captain was munching a roll, the other man was sipping from a flask. Both were watching with interest.

  “Ignore them,” said her instructor.

  “I can’t.”

  “If you don’t train yourself to ignore distractions, you will find yourself in the same sort of peril you encountered yesterday,” he warned. “If not worse.”

  She nodded and jerked her gaze away from the newcomers, though not before seeing Captain Ponsonby take a seat on the sloping lawn so as to better watch her lesson, and suddenly Grace forgot everything she had just learned and found nothing in her head but blank nervousness and a rush of blood that brought the dampness out on her palms.

  “Pay attention,” Mr. Lord said tightly.

  Grace tried.

  The morning had a good breeze going now, and there just ahead were the swans, paddling directly out into their path with the three cygnets in their wake. Grace froze, and when her instructor told her a second time to pay attention and steer the boat to starboard, she pushed the tiller to starboard instead of the boat, forgetting that they were in reverse, and the boat went immediately to larboard—

  And straight into the family of swans.

  16

  Chaos ensued.

  The female swan cried out in alarm, the cygnets scattered, and the cob came at them with wings beating and beak outstretched. Grace screamed, dropped the mainsheet and her grip on the tiller and stood up, trying to fend off the angry bird; her instructor grabbed her hand and yanked her back down into the boat before she could capsize it and spill them both into the pond, and the craft pitched and yawed crazily. The male swan attacked again and Mr. Lord gallantly fended it off, one arm coming up to thwart its blows, the other holding the boat steady, and then suddenly the bird stalked off and the boat was reeling drunkenly in the wind and Grace was holding a hand to her pounding heart.

  From the shore came hooting jeers of laughter.

  Horrified, Grace looked to
ward its source.

  Captain Ponsonby and his friend were sitting on the grass near shore, Polly nearby and on her feet, hands pressed to her mouth. The captain looked torn between amusement and concern but his companion was slapping his knee and guffawing.

  “I haven’t had this much entertainment since I don’t know when!” he cried, wiping at tears. “Honestly, Del, why fight the French when you have English swans to battle, eh?”

  Mr. Lord stiffened, and the hint of lavender left his eyes to be replaced by something that made them look cold and very, very gray.

  Grace saw Captain Ponsonby lay a hand on the other man’s uniformed arm. “That’s enough, James,” he said.

  But James was relentless. “If this is what the Royal Navy has come down to, pity the fate of our beloved England! I say, I haven’t seen such a cock-up since Villeneuve succumbed to Nelson at Trafalgar!”

  “You were not,” said Mr. Lord icily, “at Trafalgar.”

  “And neither were you. Lady Grace! Why don’t you allow a real sailor to teach you the proper rudiments of the art, eh?”

  Captain Ponsonby yanked his companion close and cut his gaze to Mr. Lord. “Have a care, James, to whom you’re speaking!”

  Any patience remaining in Delmore Lord’s eyes had fled. On the shore, Captain Ponsonby had gained his feet and was trying to pull the other man to his.

  Mr. Lord took the tiller and the mainsheet, and promptly swung the boat toward shore.

  “May I offer some advice?” Grace murmured, sensing the rising tension and hoping to defuse it.

  “You may.”

  “A moment ago you told me to ignore Captain Ponsonby. I would suggest that you do the same with that odious man.”

  He said nothing, only continuing on that relentless course.

  “Have I hit a nerve?” called Captain Ponsonby’s friend, swigging from his flask and wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. “You already benefit from Sir Graham’s favoritism, though one must wonder if it’s because of ability or the fact that you’re the little brother of his favorite captain. Would that we were all so fortunate!”