she had followed her own instincts, her own desires, should fate decree she would be haunted by her impetuosity? Fool! Fool! she cursed herself, beating her fists against the coverlet. Why couldnât I have listened to Mrs. Quince, stayed aboard the clipper ship, and drowned myself in lemonade?
Royall squeezed her eyes shut and turned over on her side. He was brash, insolent, a rogue without conscience! She should have known he was no gentlemanâstaring at her that way, smiling at her! A gentleman never reminded a lady of her indiscretions. His eyes had seemed to devour her, and in public no less! Shame filled her, bringing heat to her cheeks. But then her traitorous memory reminded her of the way his dark gaze had covered her the night of Mardi Gras. The way his hands had touched her, pleasuring her, bringing her beyond the threshhold of desires and passions that she had only dreamed of but had had no experience with. His lips had burned her skin, scorching a trail from her breasts to navel and ... beyond. Tender lips, demanding lips, glowing dark eyes, gentle exploring fingers ... Stop it! Stop it! her mind screamed, even while her body betrayed her, needing, wanting to feel those lips, know those hands again. And somehow knowing she would.
Her agitated thoughts demanded action. Jumping up from the bed, she prowled the room like a caged lioness. Mrs. Quince was right; sleep, she needed sleep. With shaking fingers, she unpinned the scandalously tiny hat that matched her gold and navy pinstripe dress from atop her shining, golden head. Next came the dress, the shoes and petticoats. Stripped down to pantaloons and chemise, she closed the louvers on the tiny draped portholes, darkening the room and muting the bright colors. It seemed that since arriving in Brazil she had been assaulted by color, all colors, intoxicating in their intensity. The colors of the Mardi Gras ... no, she would not think of that now. If possible, she would. never think of it again. Pulling the last of the pins from her hair, allowing it to tumble down to her waist, she flung herself on the bed, determinedly closing her eyes, banishing all thought, seeking sleep.
Â
After awakening from her brief nap, Royall felt refreshed and found herself excitedly anticipating the coming evening aboard the river steamer. From all indications it would indeed be exciting. Already she could hear strains of music from the distant orchestra, the tune reminiscent of Mardi Gras.
Quickly, she made her ablutions and sat before the kidney-shaped, organdy-skirted dressing table to arrange her hair. Beneath the bevy of hairpins, ribbons, and dusting powder, she spied her silver-backed hairbrush.
Lovingly, she picked it up and held it to her cheek. Somehow, it brought her father closer to her. It had been his last gift to her before he died. She once again felt the deep, aching gap in her life, a loss more devastating than even losing MacDavis. Perhaps after a time it would narrow, its sharp edges becoming less jagged and easier to bear. She studied the back of the brush. It was heavily engraved. Her slim, oval finger traced the words âReino Brazilia,â the name of the rubber plantation to which she was traveling. It was from this same plantation that her father had come by his wealth. Now it was to be her new home.
Twin lines formed between her finely arched brows, and for an instant she felt as if she were moving through time. Her thoughts slid backward, placing her once again on the clipper ship that had brought her to this exotic land.
The wind had been blowing gently, rustling the sheaf of papers she had carried with her to the mid-deck. Settled in her chair, she attempted to make some sense of her fatherâs portfolio. It had all been carefully explained to her by the family lawyers, but she had been so filled with grief that their words were only a jumble, and the papers she had signed had passed beneath her pen in a blur.
It was there on the
Royall squeezed her eyes shut and turned over on her side. He was brash, insolent, a rogue without conscience! She should have known he was no gentlemanâstaring at her that way, smiling at her! A gentleman never reminded a lady of her indiscretions. His eyes had seemed to devour her, and in public no less! Shame filled her, bringing heat to her cheeks. But then her traitorous memory reminded her of the way his dark gaze had covered her the night of Mardi Gras. The way his hands had touched her, pleasuring her, bringing her beyond the threshhold of desires and passions that she had only dreamed of but had had no experience with. His lips had burned her skin, scorching a trail from her breasts to navel and ... beyond. Tender lips, demanding lips, glowing dark eyes, gentle exploring fingers ... Stop it! Stop it! her mind screamed, even while her body betrayed her, needing, wanting to feel those lips, know those hands again. And somehow knowing she would.
Her agitated thoughts demanded action. Jumping up from the bed, she prowled the room like a caged lioness. Mrs. Quince was right; sleep, she needed sleep. With shaking fingers, she unpinned the scandalously tiny hat that matched her gold and navy pinstripe dress from atop her shining, golden head. Next came the dress, the shoes and petticoats. Stripped down to pantaloons and chemise, she closed the louvers on the tiny draped portholes, darkening the room and muting the bright colors. It seemed that since arriving in Brazil she had been assaulted by color, all colors, intoxicating in their intensity. The colors of the Mardi Gras ... no, she would not think of that now. If possible, she would. never think of it again. Pulling the last of the pins from her hair, allowing it to tumble down to her waist, she flung herself on the bed, determinedly closing her eyes, banishing all thought, seeking sleep.
Â
After awakening from her brief nap, Royall felt refreshed and found herself excitedly anticipating the coming evening aboard the river steamer. From all indications it would indeed be exciting. Already she could hear strains of music from the distant orchestra, the tune reminiscent of Mardi Gras.
Quickly, she made her ablutions and sat before the kidney-shaped, organdy-skirted dressing table to arrange her hair. Beneath the bevy of hairpins, ribbons, and dusting powder, she spied her silver-backed hairbrush.
Lovingly, she picked it up and held it to her cheek. Somehow, it brought her father closer to her. It had been his last gift to her before he died. She once again felt the deep, aching gap in her life, a loss more devastating than even losing MacDavis. Perhaps after a time it would narrow, its sharp edges becoming less jagged and easier to bear. She studied the back of the brush. It was heavily engraved. Her slim, oval finger traced the words âReino Brazilia,â the name of the rubber plantation to which she was traveling. It was from this same plantation that her father had come by his wealth. Now it was to be her new home.
Twin lines formed between her finely arched brows, and for an instant she felt as if she were moving through time. Her thoughts slid backward, placing her once again on the clipper ship that had brought her to this exotic land.
The wind had been blowing gently, rustling the sheaf of papers she had carried with her to the mid-deck. Settled in her chair, she attempted to make some sense of her fatherâs portfolio. It had all been carefully explained to her by the family lawyers, but she had been so filled with grief that their words were only a jumble, and the papers she had signed had passed beneath her pen in a blur.
It was there on the
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