Page 45 of A Modest Independence

He found Jenny in her berth, curled half on her side. She was in her underclothes, her legs covered by a long, ruffled petticoat, and her midriff and bosom scarcely concealed by the thin fabric of a cambric chemise.

Tom stopped where he stood. It was all he could do to remember to shut the door behind him. He leaned back against it, his heart pounding so hard he was sure she must hear it.

Good lord. Her hair was down.

He swiftly removed his spectacles. Jenny Holloway’s ample charms were instantly transformed into a blur of color and shape. He wasn’t entirely blind without corrective lenses, but at a distance, he could no longer see the swell of her hip or the high curve of her breasts. He could no longer see those thick auburn locks tumbling all about her in a fiery tangle.

It gave him a moment to gather his bearings. To calm his racing pulse and catch his breath.

“Tom?” she croaked.

“I’m here.” He steeled himself before shoving his spectacles back onto his nose.

She turned over on her back. Her face was drained of all color. He saw it for only an instant before she covered it with both hands and muttered something wholly unintelligible.

He picked his way across the cabin. There was clothing draped over every surface and two unpacked carpetbags littering the floor. A pitcher, basin, and cloths sat at the ready on the washstand. “What did you say?”

“I said…go away.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Mira’s gone to the infirmary with a fever. You need someone to take care of you.”

“Not you.”

He winced. “Would you prefer Ahmad?”

“Anyone,” she mumbled.

“Anyone but me, you mean.” He stood, frowning down at her. “Have you any particular objection to my helping you?”

“Yes. I look awful. Now would you please go?”

A weight lifted from his shoulders. “You’re right. You look dreadful.”

Jenny groaned behind her hands. “Oh, just leave me alone.”

Tom stripped off his coat and tossed it over the back of a chair. It was warm inside the cabin, the air oppressive for lack of ventilation. He rolled up the sleeves of his linen shirt. “You also look thoroughly indecent. What the devil are you doing in your underclothes? Don’t you have a nightgown or a dressing gown or—”

“Please stop talking.”

He filled the basin with water and wet a cloth. “I suppose, if Mira doesn’t rally before we reach Malta, I’ll be obliged to play lady’s maid.”

“I don’t need a lady’s maid. I—” She broke off. “Oh God. I think I’m going to be sick again.”

Tom sank down on the edge of her berth. He pressed the wet cloth to her brow. “You’re not going to be sick.” To his knowledge, she hadn’t eaten since they left Marseilles. He doubted whether there was anything left in her stomach.

Her hands slid from her face. She looked absolutely wretched. “I’m so disappointed,” she said. And then, much to Tom’s alarm, her blue-green eyes puddled with tears.

His heart clutched. “About what?”

“Adventuring.”

“Ah.” He bathed her face, moving the cloth over her skin as gently as he could manage with a hand that was damnably unsteady. “Not quite what you expected, is it?”

“I don’t have the constitution for it. I’m not strong enough.”

“Nonsense. It’s only a bit of seasickness. You’ll be better tomorrow.”

Her lips trembled. “I was getting dressed. That’s why I’m in my underclothes. And I couldn’t even do that without disgracing myself. I can’t seem to—”