A Different Sort of Perfect Read Online Free PDF Page A

abruptly jerked, as if Topaze had been
thrown off her stride by a rogue wave, Clara's knees needed no
assistance and merely shifted to follow. Like when the workers had
entered the warehouse and carried away the hanging chair with her
in it, her natural affinity for the ship's motion seemed an omen, a
sign. She was meant to be here.
    She'd made the right choice.
    Her heart lifted and expanded until she filled the
room — no, Papa had told her years ago it was properly called a cabin . And this one, larger than she'd imagined possible in
a small ship, surpassed even the Mallorys' formal parlor in beauty.
The sidewalls sloped in as they rose, making the bare rafters a
smaller space than the deck underfoot, and the light oak paneling
forward, pierced with two matching doors, shone with polishing. But
the back — the stern was dominated by a line of small-paned
windows, arching up and curving out, a padded window seat and
lockers along the entire bulkhead, three swaying lanterns flashing
golden sparks from the brilliant glass onto the writing desk below.
Beyond was unallayed night.
    It was far more comfort, more contained elegance,
than she'd ever expected. No better, more inviting place could
exist for reading, napping, lace-making, dreaming. It was
breathtaking. Perfect.
    Topaze shuddered and jerked again, sending the
lanterns spinning. The sailor or steward who'd discovered her
reached for Clara's elbow then hesitated and drew back, throwing a
disconcerted glance aside. The right-side door was now open —
somehow she'd missed its motion — and an officer stood framed
there, blond curls brushing the timbers. Indignation seethed from
his erect bearing and lowered brows. Of course, he didn't
understand yet. But he looked every inch a gentleman, dark
broadcloth coat tailored and silk stockings discreetly gleaming.
Once she'd explained her distress, surely he'd do whatever he could
to help; perhaps her castles in the air weren't so farfetched,
after all. And to think she'd considered speaking out, alerting the
workmen to her presence within the hanging cot!
    "Oh, this is wonderful! It's better than any ball!"
Clara could no longer resist. She twirled, joining in Topaze 's dance, although her walking dress would never do it
justice. For this she needed a ball gown of silk and crepe, a
petticoat edged with ivory Irish lace, her lightest slippers. The
deck rolled beneath her, handing her through a quadrille figure, chassé, glissade, jeté. Topaze made a
wonderful partner, as good as — well, that was a silly thought.
She'd nearly said, as good as Phillippe. And that was a worse
thought — she'd totally forgotten him in that shining moment. She'd
also forgotten Papa. "How could my father have given this up? It's
perfect!"
    In the doorway, the officer tilted his head. "Perhaps
he preferred his ballrooms unmoving and out of range of enemy
carronades."
    She was dancing and he was staring. Embarrassment
won. Clara froze, staring back. The light from one lantern fell
fully onto his face, highlighting the planes of his cheeks and
forehead. His strong, winged brows and chiseled nose spoke of
patrician breeding, perhaps even noble blood at one or two removes,
and his baritone voice rang rich with education and culture. But
patently false gaiety edged his thin-lipped smile and no humor
lightened his expression, despite the ingrained, slanting grooves
separating his lips and flushed cheeks. His pale eyes were
angry.
    The ship's pitching and rolling didn't disturb him,
either. Although he was so tall his curls brushed the open rafters,
his shoulders, broadened by gilt epaulettes, shifted above his
white breeches without any visible effort on his part, as if he'd
been moving with fractious vessels for so long that even the worst
couldn't surprise him now. Such long-taught grace would make him as
delightful on a dance floor as his ship, surely?
    She had to be tired. Where else could these silly
thoughts be coming from?
    "You must be the