Page 13 of An Imperfect Scoundrel
“My dear, you really must let the other passengers get situated prior to departure.” He glanced at Alana, his deep brown eyes sliding over her. “I apologize, Miss…”
“Mrs. Dubois.” Alana curtsied.
“Mrs. Dubois,” he repeated, then stepped forward, bowed, and hooked his hand under Mrs. Parker’s elbow, tugging her backward. “I hope my wife has not been bothering you too much.”
“Not at all, Mr. Parker. I find your wife to be a refreshing conversationalist.”
Mrs. Parker beamed. “Hugh, I invited Mrs. Dubois to dine with us this evening.”
“I hardly think her husband would approve of her dining at a different table.”
“He’s dead,” Mrs. Parker hissed, leaning toward her husband.
“Pardon?”
“Dead,” Alana repeated. Another stab through her chest. “My husband passed away.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Dubois.” A slight red tinge colored Mr. Parker’s face. “Of course, you’re welcome to join us this evening, and every other, until our company bores you or you follow us to Boston.”
He winked, lifting his wife’s hand, and dropped a light kiss on her wrist.
She glowed.
“My dear wife has an aptitude for adopting stray people. I daresay she brings home a stranger at least once per week.”
Bells tolled throughout the ship, and Mr. Parker’s eyes flicked to the end of the corridor before returning to Alana.
“We will be departing soon. Would you care to watch with us? We can eat directly afterward.”
“Hugh.” Mrs. Parker tugged at her husband’s sleeve. “We must dress first.”
Mr. Parker’s gaze slid over his wife, understanding flashed in his eyes. “Oh, yes. I forgot. I propose we meet in this very hallway in one hour. Will that be sufficient time to change your attire?”
“More than adequate,” Alana replied with a curtsey. “Thank you for including me.”
“Nonsense, my wife wouldn’t permit any other option.” Grinning, he pulled Mrs. Parker into their room and closed the door.
Alana stepped into her cabin, her eyes searching the small room—which consisted mostly of her bed—for her trunk, which she discovered shoved beneath the far end of the bed.
Kneeling, she dragged out the trunk, wrestling with the weight as she pulled the chest toward her. Once the trunk was free of the bed, she removed the key from around her neck and unlatched the chest. Sorting through a handful of dresses, her eyes skirted over Patrick’s bag of garments.
Life would be so much easier if she could dress as a man, all those extra layers of restrictive clothing removed. But men’s clothing was not proper, and only a proper lady would attract a suitable husband.
One hand reluctantly brushed over the bag.
Aidan needed a wife… as did Patrick. How hard could it be to find one decent man in America?
Selecting the top dress, she rose, shaking out the material.
The ship lurched, and she stumbled, losing her balance, and crashing into the wall as the ship pulled away from the dock. Dropping her dress on the bed, she climbed onto the mattress, braced herself against the wall, and peered out a small window, watching the lights dotting the docks fade into the approaching evening.
Two weeks aboard this ship. Like the Parkers, she was disembarking in Boston. Mrs. Parker would be delighted when she heard the news.
A small smile flitted across Alana’s face. Mrs. Parker seemed a charming woman, and secretly, Alana was pleased to have met a companion so quickly. Although she had portrayed a brave façade for Aidan, in truth, she was terrified.
Pushing away from the window, she decided remaining on the bed would make keeping her balance easier. Digging her knees into the mattress, she removed her skirt, which was more complicated than expected, then she cursed, fighting with the bodice ties, and finally yanked the stiff material over her head in a huff.
Blowing out an exasperated breath, she combed her fingers through the pieces of hair loosened during her fight with the clothing and repined the strands.
