Irish Sea
April 1819
“George!”
The fifteenth marquess of Templeston looked up and caught sight of the young woman clinging to the polished brass rail of his yacht, the Lovely Lady, as she struggled to make her way across the rolling and pitching deck. The storm seemed to have come out of nowhere.
One minute the sky was clear and blue and the next minute it was black and roiling. The clouds unleashed a fury of thunder and lightning and wind and rain, and a waterspout appeared off the port bow.
The waves had risen and the yacht had been battered against them and dashed about like a leaf caught in a whirlwind.
He considered himself an expert sailor, but he was very much afraid that it would take more than one expert sailor to keep the Lovely Lady from crashing against the treacherous rocks lining this part of the Irish coast.
“Go back!” he shouted. “Go below where you’ll be safe!”
“What about you?”
He couldn’t hear her words, but he read her lips and knew what she was asking. “Go below. I’ll be right behind you.”
She shook her head as she let go of the railing and launched herself toward him. “Not without you.” He caught her, hugging her close against his chest, feeling her shiver as she came in contact with him. He was drenched, his clothing soaked to the skin and freezing. He’d spent the last three-quarters of an hour in the icy wind and rain battling to lash the wheel into place long enough to go below and check on his young mistress. But the ever impetuous Mary Claire had tired of waiting and come looking for him. Now she was as cold and wet as he was and in greater danger of being swept overboard.
George kept a firm grip on her as he worked to untie the knot in the rope that held the wheel secure so he could lash both of them to it. The ship rolled and Mary Claire fell to her knees. He pulled her up.
“Tell me we’re going to be all right,” she begged, clinging to his coat and the ends of his cravat.
George looked up and saw the massive wave. He knew it would crest over them—knew that unless he succeeded in lashing them to the wheel in the next few seconds, they’d be swept away. He stared into Mary Claire’s unwavering brown eyes. “I can’t,” he said honestly. “Because I don’t know.” He held her gaze. “I’ve never lied to you before and I’m not going to start now.”
The wave was upon them. George gave up on the rope and wrapped both arms around Mary Claire. “I love you, my dear,” he whispered as the wave swept them over the rail and into the raging sea.
It was true. He loved the beautiful young woman he held in his arms with all his heart. In truth, George Ramsey, fifteenth marquess of Templeston, loved every one of his mistresses with all his heart.
Chapter One