The Duke’s Counterfeit Wife
A young lady minding her own business, a duke in disguise and skullduggery on shipboard leads to a most unlikely alliance.
Sarah Parrish disliked stagecoach travel, so a coastal voyage from London to her new employment near Great Yarmouth seemed a sensible choice.
She began to regret it after the first encounter with another passenger, the aloof Mr Smith – a false name if ever she heard one – and the unwelcome news that the captain of the Yarmouth Gannet had died the night before, apparently in a drunken accident.
Uneasiness turned rapidly to fear once they were out at sea and only a charade that leads her into unsettling intimacy with “Mr Smith” will save her life.
Safe on land again Sarah finds her reputation in tatters, the offer of employment withdrawn and her only option to put her fate into the hands of a man who can have no respectable use for an out-of-work ladies’ companion of modest origins.
Excerpt
Nick paced back along the deck, resenting the nagging ache in his thigh and cursing the likelihood that two days at sea would probably make it a lot worse. But he had the need to see for himself just what the passenger accommodation was like on these coastal vessels. The answer appeared to be that it was appalling, if this one was any indication. At least the experience was helping him clarify his thoughts.
‘Miss Parrish.’ He stopped next to the women. ‘I strongly recommend that you move away from the side. The motion of the vessel can only become more marked the closer we get to the estuary. This is not some Ramsgate pleasure steamer designed for passengers.’
The foolish female had perched actually on the rail, one hand carelessly holding a rope that descended from the mast to a fixing on the side of the ship. Not rope, shrouds, that was it. An appropriate name under the circumstances.
‘Thank you, Mr… Smith.’ She spoke coolly and did not stir, merely regarded him with eyes the colour of good sherry as. ‘My sea legs are very good. I have been on the deck of smaller craft than this in a storm.’
‘Parrish,’ he said, suddenly struck by why the name had seemed familiar. ‘Your father – ’
He got no further. Miss Parrish stood up. ‘My father is dead, sir. Come, Millie, we will walk a little so you can learn to keep your balance before we reach the sea.’
And that put me firmly in my place. It was a novel experience and one he did not enjoy, Nick realised. The fact that he had been abrupt and intrusive and fully deserved a snub was no help to his mood. Was Miss Parrish indeed the daughter of Richard Parrish whose career he had recently reviewed along with other merchant fleet owners? It seemed she was, to judge by her reaction. If so, she had every excuse for not wishing to discuss her father. He had been either the innocent dupe of a dishonest employee or an inept fraudster, depending on who you asked.
He remained on deck, leaning against some of the cargo stowed under tarpaulins at the stern while the Gannet turned her prow into the wide waters of the estuary. The morning light glinted on the mudflats of Canvey Island on the port side. Here the clean tang of salt was dominant, the stinks of the Pool of London left far behind them.
At last Miss Parrish and her maid walked back from the prow. He heard her mention the Isle of Grain and Sheerness and then remark, with a gurgle of laughter, that it was time to sample the delights of whatever was on offer for breakfast.
A handsome young woman, if one appreciated that kind of tall, self-assured directness, very unsuited to her single status. She had a straight nose, apparently designed for looking down, and arched brows, one shade darker than the coiled hair that showed under the plain and unflattering bonnet. His fingers twitched with the urge to pull it off her head and toss it into the water. And then there were those assessing sherry-coloured eyes: definitely her finest feature.
