Seduced by a Pirate - By Eloisa James Page 0,3
always lusted after.
He had thought becoming a pirate was the ultimate way to thwart his father’s ambitions.
It seemed fate had something else in mind.
“I wish you weren’t a duke,” he said, to fill the silence as much as anything.
“So do I.” James’s eyes were clear. Honest.
“Very well, Christmas,” Griffin said, giving in to the inevitable. “Likely you’ll still be trying to bed your wife, so I can give you a hint or two.”
A rough embrace, and he walked out without another word, because there wasn’t need for one.
Now he merely had to face his family: His father. His wife.
Wife.
TWO
June 2, 1816
Arbor House
Near Bath
“You’re married to a pirate?”
Phoebe Eleanor Barry, wife to Sir Griffin Barry, pirate, nearly smiled at the shocked expression on her friend Amelia Howell-Barth’s face. But not quite. Not given the sharp pinch she felt in the general area of her chest. “His lordship has been engaged in that occupation for years, as I understand it.”
“A pirate. A real, live pirate?” Amelia’s teacup froze halfway to her mouth. “That’s so romantic!”
Phoebe had rejected that notion long ago. “Pirates walk people down the plank.” She put her own teacup down so sharply that it clattered against the saucer.
Her friend’s eyes rounded, and tea sloshed on the tablecloth as she set her cup down. “The plank? Your husband really—”
“By all accounts, pirates regularly send people to the briny deep, not to mention plundering jewels and the like.”
Amelia swallowed, and Phoebe could tell that she was rapidly rethinking the romantic aspects of having a pirate within the immediate family. Amelia was a dear little matron, with a rosebud mouth and brown fly-away curls. Mr. Howell-Barth was an eminent goldsmith in Bath and likely wouldn’t permit Amelia to pay any more visits once he learned how Sir Griffin was amusing himself abroad.
“Mind you,” Phoebe added, “we haven’t spoken in years, but that is my understanding. His man of business offers me patent untruths.”
“Such as?”
“The last time I saw him, he told me that Sir Griffin was exporting timber from the Americas.”
Amelia brightened. “Perhaps he is! Mr. Howell-Barth told me just this morning that men shipping lumber from Canada are making a fortune. Why on earth do you think your husband is a pirate, if he hasn’t told you so himself?”
“Several years ago he wrote his father, who took it on himself to inform me. I gather Sir Griffin is considered quite fearsome on the high seas.”
“Goodness me, Phoebe. I thought your husband simply chose to live abroad.”
“Well, he does choose it. Can you imagine the scandal if I had informed people that I was married to a pirate? I think the viscount rather expected that his son would die at sea.”
“I suppose it could be worse,” Amelia offered.
“How could it possibly be worse?”
“You could be married to a highwayman.”
“Is there a significant difference?” Phoebe shrugged inelegantly. “Either way, I am married to a criminal who stands to be hanged. Hanged, Amelia. Or thrown into prison.”
“His father will never allow that. You know how powerful the viscount is, Phoebe. There’s talk that Lord Moncrieff might be awarded an earldom.”
“Not after it is revealed that his son is a pirate.”
“But Sir Griffin is a baronet in his own right! They don’t hang people with titles.”
“Yes, they do.”
“Actually, I think they behead them.”
Phoebe shuddered. “That’s a terrible fate.”
“Actually, why is your husband a baronet if his father is a viscount and still living?” Amelia asked, knitting her brow. Being a goldsmith’s wife, she had never been schooled in the intricacies of this sort of thing.
“It’s a courtesy title,” Phoebe explained. “Viscount Moncrieff inherited the title of baronet as well as that of viscount, so his heir claims the title of baronet during the current viscount’s life.”
Amelia digested that. Then, “Mrs. Crimp would be mad with glee if she found out.”
“She will be mad with glee,” Phoebe said, nausea returning.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s back,” Phoebe said helplessly. “Oh, Amelia, he’s back in England.” She handed over the Morning Chronicle, pointing to a notice at the bottom of the page.
“In England? Without informing you? And you’ve had no contact with him since—”
“Since the night we married, in ’02,” Phoebe said. “Fourteen years ago. And now he’s back in England, without a word of warning.”
“I know you’ve been living apart for years, but surely he will pay you a visit immediately,” Amelia said, reading the short piece.
“Quite likely they’ll throw him in prison before he has the chance,” Phoebe replied. Her daughter Margaret ran by them, curls dancing