Katherine had been prepared to lie to keep him from Anne. That fact rankled more than anything. He pushed her from his mind, only to have her reappear, trickling inside him the way water seeped through a hull that needed fresh tar.
He’d lost control last night at Lady Carroll’s. It was inevitable that he would. A devil inside him had driven him to follow her into that arbor, knowing damned well what would happen. Wanting it to happen. He was no better than any of those whoremongers Honoria had dredged up.
Worse, in fact. Because he could see the smoke and the flames, the listing Merry Sea, the bloodthirsty corsairs wreaking terror on board. He could hear the screams. Smell the gunpowder. He knew what she’d gone through, how terrified she must have been. And still it didn’t stop the fire in his blood every time he saw her.
He needed to forget about the captain who studied the horizon with a practiced eye and knew when a line should be snubbed or cast loose and threatened disembowelment without batting an eye. He needed to forget about the woman who turned her face to the sun while the breeze molded shimmering Ottoman textiles to her body and toyed with the ends of her hair.
He didn’t want to see any of them. Not the frightened girl, not the shrewd captain and definitely—very definitely—not the woman. He didn’t want to care whether she married. Whom she married. He didn’t want to care if she bedded every damned lord in the House. He was damned tired of caring about her.
He stared at the underneath side of the canopy above him. If she were here now... God. He felt himself grow hard and tried to shove the thought away, but it was too late.
He rolled over and groaned into the mattress. A month ago, he’d thought only of escaping the sea. Now the thing he needed to escape was her.
How in God’s name would he find her a husband when he couldn’t stand the thought of another man touching her because he wanted to touch her so damned badly himself? Something had to change. Immediately.
He breathed into the bedding, and an idea resurfaced.
Maybe— No.
But—
God. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t thought of it before. Planned on it, even.
He lay there, perfectly still, while the idea came to life in his mind: a bride. It wasn’t as if he wouldn’t need one eventually. Beginning the search now could be just the thing.
The right kind of bride could divert his attention. Cool his misplaced lust for a woman he as good as condemned to slavery and ruination. Let him do his duty, and give him a new sense of purpose. Give him something to think of instead of Captain Kinloch.
The idea propelled him out of bed, and he paced to the window. The right kind of bride—
Yes.
Yes, it was time. Past time. He would find a girl who’d been on the shelf so long she’d given up hope. Someone with the right skills to look after the household at Croston, who would happily give him an heir.
A girl who was thoughtful and quiet.
Who wouldn’t even know how to hold a cutlass.
A young lady who was biddable, and who would never, ever argue with him.
Yes. He would find Katherine a husband, and himself a wife. Then, finally, he would go to Croston and forget he’d ever set foot on a ship named Possession.
JAMES PUSHED THROUGH the crowd at Vauxhall that night, for once separated from Katherine, while the orchestra played a hellishly cheerful piece that only darkened his mood.
All of London had come to the garden tonight, and Honoria was determined to introduce her to every last one of them. He’d spent the past hour doing what he could on her behalf, but now he had other plans.
He worked his way through the crowd, pretending he didn’t hear the calls of well-wishers eager to foolishly proclaim his heroics. Let them regale each other with tales. He flexed his hands at his sides to ease the tension curling inside him. With so many people in attendance, this was the perfect opportunity to set his new plan into motion.
The crowd surged and eddied like a strong current through a strait, illuminated by countless globe lamps hanging above. He spotted two old friends, Vincroft and Berston, and headed straight for them. Neither one had married yet. Without a doubt they would have their fingers on the pulse of the marriage mart. Besides that, he needed liquor.
“You look like you’re about to do someone a harm, Croston,” Vincroft said when James finally reached them.
James grunted. “I’m going after a drink.”
“Do allow me!” Berston said jovially, already moving away. “Back in a moment!”
Through a break in the crowd a woman with near-black hair caught his eye. His pulse surged, but it wasn’t Katherine. Thank God. He flexed his fingers and forced himself to study the crowd in search of matrimonial possibilities.
“Looking for someone?” Vincroft asked.
“Mmm,” he replied. “Female, marriageable, on the shelf.”
“Good God! Don’t let that be known, or you’ll be crushed to death before anyone can finish celebrating the fact that you’re alive.”
“Forgot to mention mild-mannered, biddable and quiet.” Or shrewd, fiery and combative, a voice taunted. The essence of Katherine sizzled through him. The idiot between his legs got a brilliant idea about finding her and taking a walk down one of the gardens’ darker paths and—
“Here you go.” Berston returned with a glass of arrack. “Ought to do the trick.”
James downed half the glass in one swallow.
“They all fit that bill when they’re marriageable,” Vincroft snorted. “Don’t find out the truth till afterward.”
“Ye gads,” Berston said. “Who’s getting married?”
“Croston here. Gone mad, if you ask me.”
Bloody hell. He should have kept his mouth shut.
“So sorry!” Berston offered an expression that was both resignation and pity. “Got to be done eventually, I suppose. Think about it myself if it wasn’t bad for my health. Hives and all that, every time I hear the word matrimony.”
James managed a laugh. At least Berston hadn’t changed. “You’ll suffer through the hives unless you want that pasty nephew of yours to inherit,” he said.
Berston took a drink and shook his head. “Just so, just so.”
“Who’s that?” James asked, nodding toward a youngish thing in an elegant yet subdued froth of beige. “Blond curls, pearls in her hair.”
Vincroft frowned. “No idea. Never seen her before.”
“Yes, you have,” Berston said. “Lady Maude. Been at every do the past five seasons. Linton’s daughter. You don’t want the likes of her, Croston. You’re probably the first one to notice the poor thing. Do better with Miss Greene—there she is, talking to Lady Trent and Lord Ponsby. In front of the supper boxes, to the left. Blue dress, full breasts.” Berston grinned.
Miss Greene’s false beauty mark stood out even from this distance, and her bold gaze fixed playfully on the men gathered around her. “Whoever is unfortunate enough to wed Miss Greene will be cuckolded within a week,” James said, and returned his attention to the unremarkable Lady Maude. Pale hair, passable face, polite smile... His mind transported her to a chair by the fireside at Croston—in one of the upstairs drawing rooms. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine her dozing off with a book in her lap and one of his hunting dogs at her feet.
“Ho,