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to chat with one of the Austrian couples. Loretta’s gaze shifted to Esme. She was pleased to see her great-aunt deep in conversation with two of the other ladies. With any luck, the other couples would distract Esme from her latest scheme. Her certain-to-be-doomed latest scheme.
    Rafe Carstairs was too dashing, too handsome, too daring, altogether too adventurous for Loretta’s taste.
    Or, more to the point, for her to suit his.
    She was determined to do nothing to further Esme’s purpose, but when Loretta entered the dining salon that evening she was woefully aware that her attire did not support her aim.
    Between them, Esme, Gibson, and Rose had managed to “lose” every demure gown Loretta had brought with her. If she didn’t want to appear in her chemise, she had to wear one of the gowns Esme had delighted in purchasing for her in Paris and Rome. Each a unique creation, the gowns showcased her figure, highlighted her eyes, and made the most of every asset she possessed.
    Accepting the inevitable, she’d chosen the most severe of the evening gowns, a creation in midnight blue silk that by its very severity made her, in it, appear more softly feminine. As she stepped into the salon, she hoped Rafe and everyone else would see only the severe style and ignore the overall effect.
    He was seated with Esme at a table across the room. He glanced up before she was even halfway there.
    If his reaction was any indication, her hopes were doomed. He stared, his gaze locked on her; he was patently no longer listening to Esme.
    Who had noticed, and looked smug.
    As she neared the table, Loretta started to frown. At him. She didn’t appreciate the effect of his attention. It sent warmth stealing through her; not a blush, but something that reached deeper.
    She halted at the table as he rose. Slowly, his gaze very slowly rising to her face.
    She inclined her head curtly. “Sir.” She looked across the table vase at Esme. “Ma’am.”
    Feeling as if his head had been struck by a mallet, Rafe pulled out the chair opposite Esme’s, held it while Loretta sat.
    The captain chose that moment to join them, taking the last seat at the table, opposite Rafe.
    Resuming his seat, Rafe felt torn by contradictory reactions—annoyed to have the captain vying for Loretta’s attention, while simultaneously immeasurably glad that he was.
    He needed to exorcise his feelings for Loretta Michelmarsh. This was neither the time nor place to be overcome with lust.
    Ruthlessly suppressing his inclinations, he gave his attention to Esme, and strove to keep it there, sadly with mixed results.
    Next time, he vowed, he’d seat Loretta opposite him. That way, their hands would have no chance to brush, to touch—however inadvertently, however innocently—as they passed this and that.
    By the end of the meal, his nerves felt rubbed raw.
    It was little consolation that, he suspected, she felt the same.
    At last the company rose and headed into the salon for digestifs and wider conversation. After drawing back Loretta’s chair, then following her into the salon, he thereafter strove to keep at least six feet between them.
    Loretta circled the room, every nerve tight. If he touched her again, just tapped her arm, she was sure she would jump like a startled hare. She’d never felt the like, not ever, and could have done without feeling it now.
    And the affliction was only growing worse. She’d been sure it would fade, but no. Even though he stood at the far end of the room and she was fighting to pay attention to Herr Gruber’s story about his and his wife’s excursion to Go-dolloCastle—a place she was actually interested in hearing about—she, her nerves, her senses, were much more acutely aware of Rafe Carstairs.
    How she was going to deal with it—with him—she had no clue.
    As matters stood, it was shaping up to be a very long journey home.
    Shortly after dawn the next morning, Rafe climbed to the observation deck to relieve Hassan, who had