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after.”
    Clarissa flushed. “But how do I get it out?”
    “Tie a piece of silk thread to it, but make sure you leave it in a good time after to catch all his spunk. You needn’t look at me like that, miss; I’ve not used this one, so you’ve nothing to fear.”
    “Thank you, Mrs. Blight. I’m most grateful, truly. I hope you feel well soon.” Clutching her new treasure, Clarissa clambered into her berth, wondering why something so simple should be such a dark secret among women—and only among a certain sort of women, of whom she, apparently, was now one. She rubbed the sponge against her cheek, wondering if she would ever actually need it, still confused by Allen Pendale’s swings between playfulness and wounded arrogance.
    Any intimate relations—no, any fucking—should not happen again. It was wrong and immoral, and she was a woman in search of redemption. She must not forget that. Absolutely not. But if it did happen—although she would make very, very sure to maintain only a polite friendliness, one passenger to another—there would be no unwanted consequences with a man who did not want her as a mistress or as a wife.
    She thought about his hands and cock and tongue, how hot and bewildering they had felt against her chilled skin, and smiled, falling into sleep with the gentle rock of the ship.
     
    She woke early next morning, hearing the thud of feet overhead on deck, various creaks and the slap of waves from outside. She could smell salt, coffee and frying bacon and was suddenly ravenous. She slid to the floor—careful not to wake Mrs. Blight, who was still fast asleep—dressed, and made her way to the deck.
    The air was bright, fresh and cold; there was no land in sight and slate-gray waves tipped with cream broke and sparkled. The deck tipped under her feet, sending her careening into Mr. Johnson.
    “What a splendid morning!” she exclaimed, grasping his arm for balance.
    “Yes, ma’am.” His face was pale, with a few beads of sweat on his forehead.
    “Are you not well? Maybe some breakfast will put you to rights?”
    He broke away from her and headed to the side.
    Oh, poor man. He was seasick and, by some miracle, she was not.
    She found Captain Trent and Allen Pendale at breakfast. They rose as she entered, and the Captain congratulated her on having found her sea-legs so easily.
    “Yes, something’s certainly given Miss Onslowe an appetite,” Pendale murmured. “Would you care for a sausage, ma’am?”
    “Thank you, no.” She took some bacon and eggs from a platter on the table, and spread a piece of fresh bread with butter.
    “I was telling Mr. Pendale we’ll make good time if the wind holds,” the Captain said. “Congratulations again on your good health, ma’am, sir. Some of the crew do not fare so well, and I’m afraid Mr. Johnson is in a poor way. If you’ll excuse me, I must see how things do on deck.”
    He bowed and left, leaving Clarissa alone with Allen, who reached into his pocket and unfolded a letter.
    She really didn’t mind his silence, or his lack of manners, in not attempting a conversation. While she ate, she examined him as unobtrusively as she could. She couldn’t decide if he were handsome or not. His cheekbones were high and sharp, his eyes a dark coffee brown, and his hair—she’d had her hand buried in those curls last night—dark, lustrous, and slightly too long. His nose was snub and blunt—no aristocratic profile there— and his full mouth a little too wide.
    She liked his hands, broad and capable, black-fuzzed, and remembered how much she had liked what they had done to her last night.
    “Do you like what you see, Miss Onslowe?” he murmured, eyes still fixed on the letter.
    “I was trying to decide if you were handsome.”
    He looked up. “And?”
    “I don’t think you are.”
    “It’s not the first time I’ve been told I’m plain, Miss Onslowe.” He smiled. “You should congratulate me. This letter came late last night as we