Shipmate: A Royal Regard Prequel Novella by Mariana Gabrielle

that her new husband was about to
watch her casting up her accounts made her that much queasier, and
she scrambled up the ladder. By the time she reached her quarters,
she was swaying on her feet a bit more than the ship’s movement
warranted. Myron, right behind her, put a bucket underneath her
retching mouth just in time to save the lovely carpet.
    “Oh, no, my Lord,” she moaned, once she had
cleared enough of her stomach contents to find her voice again. “I
will give you a disgust of me. You cannot be—”
    His hand stroked the back of the head.
“Where else should I be on my wedding night, but with my bride, for
better or worse? I have been a sailor since the age of fourteen and
seen many a case of mal de mer . You will survive it, though
I daresay you will doubt me before it is done.”
    At that, her stomach lurched again, and he
steadied the bucket and her shoulder. As the episode shuddered to a
close, his gentle fingertips brushed the hair out of her face that
had fallen from its pins, pulled it back, and tucked it into the
back of her dress. As she caught her breath, he produced a box of
ginger pastilles from his waistcoat pocket.
    “Ginger tea in a matter of minutes, if I
know Captain Johnson, and our ship’s doctor, Charles Anders, will
likely make an appearance, though there will be nothing particular
he can do. For the moment…” He held out the tin and she took one.
“Unfortunately, my dear, we cannot know how severe your ailment
will be, nor how long-lasting, but I am of good faith that our Lord
will see you well in short order. And I will be here to act as
your…” His eyes twinkled, and he touched her chalky cheek, “I
suppose ‘lady’s maid’ is the role I am asked to fill, is it
not?”
    She stared at him bleakly, sucking on the
candy, as her stomach rolled with the motion of every disparate
wave within ten leagues.
     



Chapter Twelve
    May 30,
1805
     
    “The ship’s cook will be delighted you are
feeling more yourself. He hates to see food go to waste. And he is
a very good cook, so I am pleased you can enjoy his talents.”
    Bella had made short work of a bowl of fish
soup and a thick slice of soda bread, the first food she hadn’t
declined in three days, and was now seated, wrapped in a woolen
dressing gown, at the writing desk in his sleeping quarters, as he
prepared for an afternoon meeting with the captain. He tied his
long hair back in a queue, and inspected his face in a looking
glass on the wall above his dressing table.
    “I think my stomach has made peace with the
ship, at long last.”
    He leaned against the table and caressed her
cheek. “Thanks be to God. I am so happy to hear it, my darling.” In
a tone of vague apology, Myron added, “I hope you will not mind if
I tend to business while you accustom yourself to your new
surroundings.”
    She rose and tugged at the ends of his
cravat until the knot came untied, “I will not mind, my lord, but I
have not yet fulfilled my duty to you.” At his stunned, wary look,
she said, “You asked I help you show yourself more as a gentleman,
so you must allow me to teach you to tie your cravat.”
    “I have been tying my own neck-cloth for
forty years.”
    She smirked and raised a brow. “How often is
a neck-cloth required aboard ship? Admit it, my lord, only when you
are forced to it, and no matter how often, you feel ham-fisted each
time.” His lopsided, boyish grin teased her heart, her fingertips
itching to pinch his cheeks. “If that is how you have tied your
cravat for forty years, then you have been doing it poorly for four
decades. You would be hopeless as a gentleman’s gentleman.”
    “This comes as a surprise to you?”
    Bella had learned the intricacies of a
nobleman’s wardrobe from her uncle’s valet and taught both of her
brothers and both of Charlotte’s. Bella considered it a skill
required of a gentleman: to present himself as one without
assistance.
    He placed himself obediently before the
mirror,