The Corrupt Comte
“Oh, not for Claudia, whose constitution was iron forged, but for her new fiancé. As soon as it became apparent that staying on deck didn’t soothe his nausea any better than remaining below, the comte had retreated to one of the cabins to empty his stomach in solitude.
Trapped in her own cabin for the sake of propriety—it being the dead of night—Claudia was torn between conflicting desires. She wanted to check on Gaspard’s well-being, perhaps freshen the bandage she’d wrapped around his forearm ...last night.
Conversely, she hoped he was suffering but good, because he had played her like a puppet from the moment he’d dragged her into that linen closet.
She fell back on the bunk with a weary sigh, enjoying the rock and roll of the ship atop the Channel’s choppy waves as she stared up at the low cabin ceiling. It had always been her dowry for him, her dowry and what pithy protection a life in England could provide him, now that he’d assassinated a member of the French royal family.MoreLess
Trapped in her own cabin for the sake of propriety—it being the dead of night—Claudia was torn between conflicting desires. She wanted to check on Gaspard’s well-being, perhaps freshen the bandage she’d wrapped around his forearm ...last night.
Conversely, she hoped he was suffering but good, because he had played her like a puppet from the moment he’d dragged her into that linen closet.
She fell back on the bunk with a weary sigh, enjoying the rock and roll of the ship atop the Channel’s choppy waves as she stared up at the low cabin ceiling. It had always been her dowry for him, her dowry and what pithy protection a life in England could provide him, now that he’d assassinated a member of the French royal family.MoreLess
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