A Regency Rake's Redemption. Louise Allen

responsive, with all the intensity and passion of the child grown into the woman. Her reckless riding, the way she had flung herself from her horse and run to him, her uninhibited attempts to care for him. That kiss. Alistair fell back on to the bed and relived those stimulating seconds.

      He had enjoyed that, irresponsible as it had been. And so had Dita. And being Dita, when she thought he was offering to do it again she had wanted it, as filled with passionate curiosity for risk and experience as she always had been. Passion. A shiver ran through his long frame as he thought about passion and Dita.

      Damn it, no. By all accounts she had been hurt enough by her own recklessness—the last thing she needed was an affaire with him. And the last thing he needed when he arrived in London for the Season was the rumour that he had been involved with the scandalous Lady Perdita. He was hunting for a bride as pure as the driven snow and for that he had to preserve the mask of utmost respectability that was expected in this artificial business. He owed it to his name. And he owed it to his own peace of mind not to become embroiled with a mistress who would expect far more than he was prepared to give.

      Alistair sat up abruptly. He was leaping to conclusions about what Dita might expect. She knew he was no saint. His mouth curled into a sensual smile. If Dita wanted to pay games—well, there were games they could play, games that would be just as much fun in their own way as those innocent sports of their childhood.

      Alistair left the cabin half an hour later, notebooks under one arm and his travelling inkwell in his hand. He had told Dita that he was going to write a book; now he must see whether he could produce prose that was good enough and turn his travels into something that would hold a reader’s attention.

      There was a lady seated at the communal table in the middle of the cabin, a sewing box open and items strewn around. Ah, yes, Mrs Ashwell, the wife of newly wealthy merchant Samuel Ashwell. He had seen her at work before, it was what had prompted his idea about mistletoe for Christmas.

      ‘That is very fine, ma’am,’ he observed.

      She was instantly flustered. ‘Oh! You mean my artificial flowers? I used to be … I mean, I always used to make them, for myself and friends, you understand. I enjoy the work …’

      In other words, she had been an artificial flower maker before her husband made his money. He, no doubt, wished his wife to hide the fact, but she enjoyed the creativity. The products were as good as any society lady would buy.

      ‘Can you make mistletoe?’ Alistair asked. ‘A spray of it that a lady might put in her hair?’

      ‘Why, yes, I suppose so. I never have, but it should be straightforward.’ She frowned and rummaged in her work box. ‘This ribbon is the right green. But I would need white beads for the berries and I have none.’

      ‘I have.’ Alistair went back into his cabin and unlocked the small strong box he had bolted to the deck. ‘Here.’ He handed her a velvet bag. ‘Use all of them if you can.’ Now, how to recompense her for what would be a considerable amount of fiddling work without giving offence by offering payment?

      ‘And thank you. You have rescued me from the embarrassing predicament of having no suitable gift for a lady. I do hope, when you are in London next, you will do me the honour of leaving your card? I would very much like to invite you and Mr Ashwell to one of the parties I will be giving.’

      ‘My lord! But … I mean … we would be delighted.’ He left her ten minutes later, flushed and delighted. If only pleasing a woman was always that easy.

       Chapter Seven

       20th December 1808—Madras

      The Bengal Queen dropped anchor opposite Fort St George close to the mouth of the Kuvam River and the harassed ship’s officers set about sorting out the groups of passengers. Some wanted to go ashore to shop in Madras; there were men who were eager to hire a boat and go upstream to shoot duck and the East India Company supercargo—very senior men indeed—demanded to be taken ashore to transact Company business with all speed.

      ‘I really do not think we should go ashore without a gentleman to escort us,’ Mrs Bastable said for the fourth time since breakfast. ‘And Mr Bastable is clerking for Sir Willoughby and will be in the Company offices all day. Perhaps we could join the Whytons.’

      Averil and Dita exchanged looks. The thought of a morning in the company of the Misses Whyton was excruciating. ‘Um … I think they are already a very large group. I asked the Chattertons,’ Dita said, ‘but Daniel is committed to the shooting party and Callum is going to the offices with Sir Willoughby.’ She surveyed the rest of the available men without much enthusiasm. ‘I suppose I could ask Lieutenant Tompkins, if he is off duty.’

      ‘A problem, ladies?’

      Dita turned, her heart thumping in the most unwelcome manner. ‘Merely a question of an escort to the markets, Lord Lyndon. Please, do not let us detain you—I am sure there are ducks awaiting slaughter.’

      ‘I was not intending to join the shooting party and I have my own shopping to do.’ He appeared to take their acceptance for granted. ‘Are you ready?’

      ‘Yes, we are. Thank you so much, my lord.’ Mrs Bastable had no hesitation snatching at this promise of escort. ‘Oh dear, though, there’s that dreadful chair to negotiate.’

      ‘Safest way down,’ Alistair said. ‘Let me assist you, ma’am. There you are.’

      Averil and Dita watched their chaperon being whisked skywards. ‘She’s landed safely,’ Averil announced. ‘Look.’

      ‘No, thank you.’ Dita remained firmly away from the rail.

      ‘Why do you climb the rigging if you won’t look over the side?’ Alistair demanded as Averil sat down in the bos’un’s chair with complete unconcern.

      ‘The further I get from the sea, the happier I am,’ Dita said and turned her back firmly on the rail and all the activity around it. She fixed her gaze on Alistair’s mouth, which was a reckless thing to do for the sake of her emotions, but was a great help in taking her mind off small boats and open water. ‘Don’t ask me to explain it, I know it is irrational.’

      ‘That is no surprise, you are female after all,’ Alistair remarked. She glanced up sharply and met a look that was positively lascivious.

      Dita opened her mouth, shut it again with a snap at the expression in his eyes and took two rapid steps back. Alistair followed her, gave her a little push and she sat down with a thump in the chair.

      ‘Why, you—’ He flicked the rope across the arms and signalled to the sailors hauling it up. Seething, Dita found herself in the flat-bottomed boat being helped out by Averil.

      ‘You devious, underhand, conniving creature,’ she hissed as Alistair dropped into the boat from the ladder.

      ‘It worked,’ he said with a grin as he sat down beside her. ‘And I take it back—you are irrational, but not because you are female. But I cannot apologise for any looks of admiration—you do look most charming.’

      Dita sorted through the apology and decided she was prepared to accept it. ‘Thank you. But you really are the most provoking man,’ she added. ‘I don’t recall you being so—except when you wouldn’t let me do something I wanted to, of course.’

      ‘Which was most of the time. You always wanted to do the maddest things.’

      ‘I did not!’ The boat bumped alongside the ghat. ‘You wretch! You are doing it again, arguing in order to distract me.’

      ‘I have no idea why you are complaining,’ Alistair said, as he got out on to the stone steps and held out his hand to Mrs Bastable, who glanced from one to the other with a puzzled frown. ‘You have made the transition from ship to shore