Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)

Which frock would she be wearing? Sprigs or stripes?

Gray harbored a slight preference for the stripes. Not only did the darker color suit her complexion, but the neckline plunged in an enticing manner, displaying a wedge of sheer chemise. The sprigged gown had a higher, square neckline, and only one flounce to this frock’s two. But then … The sprigged gown had tiny buttons down the side—fourteen buttons, to be exact, and though just mentally undoing them was enough to drive Gray mad with frustration, that mile-long stretch of minuscule pearl dots was some comfort. The fastenings of this striped gown, by contrast, were completely invisible. Were there little hooks, he wondered, under the sleeves? Hidden in the seams somewhere?

Miss Turner coughed and shifted in her seat.

Dear God. Gray shook himself, realizing he’d just spent the better part of a minute openly staring in the direction of her br**sts. At a distance of no more than two feet. Worse—he’d wasted that blasted minute obsessing about hooks and buttons, when he could have been scanning for the shadow of an areola, or the crest of a nipple.

Damn.

And now he had no choice but to drop his gaze and study the china. It did look well, the porcelain. The acanthus pattern complemented the scrollwork on the silver quite nicely. Odd, to be drinking Madeira from teacups, but at least they were better than tin. The white drape beneath it all was nothing of quality, but the lighting was dim, and it would do. Gray put out a hand to straighten his fork.

“The table looks lovely,” she said, to no one in particular. Dear God. Once again, she jolted him back into reality, and Gray realized he’d spent the better part of two minutes now fussing over china and table linens. First dressmaking, now table-setting … If it wasn’t for the fact that her voice called straight to his swelling groin, Gray might have begun to question his masculinity.

What the hell was happening to him?

He wanted her. He wanted her body, quite obviously. More disturbing by far, he could no longer deny that he wanted her approval. And he wanted both with a near-paralyzing intensity, though he knew he could never have one without sacrificing the other.

Then she extended her slender wrist to reach for the teacup, and Gray remembered the reason for this entire display.

He wanted to see her eat.

“Where’s Stubb?” he growled, tetchy with hunger. All sorts of hunger.

“Right behind you, sirs and madam.” Stubb shuffled in, bearing a steaming tureen. “First course, soup.” He moved around the table, beginning with Miss Turner, ladling generous helpings of creamy chowder into their bowls.

Silence reigned, save for the light clink of silver on china. Gray ate his soup quickly, scarcely tasting it, scalding the roof of his mouth in the process. Then he sat back and sipped Madeira from his teacup, trying not to stare at her as she daintily spooned chowder to her lips. Perhaps he was going mad.

Next to him, Wiggins cleared his throat. “You must forgive us, Miss Turner. We seamen are poor dinner companions, I fear. We are accustomed to eating quickly, efficiently, with little conversation. And we are certainly unused to the company of a beautiful lady.”

Gray coughed, setting his teacup down on its saucer with a crack. Miss Turner swallowed slowly and laid down her spoon. “I am most grateful for company this evening, even of the quiet variety. I am no great conversationalist, myself.”

Gray snorted. Not a conversationalist. The girl had coaxed the life story out of every sailor on this ship.

She had just picked up her spoon again when Joss spoke.

“You do not find the voyage too tedious, Miss Turner?” Joss asked. “I regret that you are left to entertain yourself, being the sole passenger.”

She laid down her spoon. “Thank you, Captain, but I find sufficient activity to occupy my hands and my mind. Reading, sketching, walking the deck for fresh air and healthful exertion. I’m surprisingly content, living at sea.”

Gray’s heart gave an odd kick.

“But it’s Christmas, Miss Turner. You are away from your home.” Brackett’s voice was cool. “Surely you must miss your family?”

“Yes, of course. I do.” She folded her hands behind her half-full bowl of chowder. “I miss … Oddly enough, I miss oranges. We always had oranges at Christmas, when I was a child.”

“Yes,” said Joss, his lips curving in the rare hint of a smile. “Yes, so did we. Didn’t we, Gray?”

Oranges. They wanted oranges. As if it could be so simple, to go back to the time when happiness came in a knobby round package and fit in the palm of one’s hand. And yet, were there oranges to be had at that moment, Gray would have traded the ship for a crate of them. He watched as Miss Turner lifted a spoonful of soup to her lips with agonizing slowness. He stared, fascinated, as her lips parted, revealing the tip of her tongue …

“I say, Miss Turner—” Wiggins again.