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irritation with her—and perhaps with himself, after the way he’d slighted Miss Whitwell—crept into his tone. Mrs. Howard colored.
    An uncomfortable silence settled over the table.
    David pretended he couldn’t hear it, and picked up his fork again. The silence stretched out. Dash it, why didn’t someone say something? He’d wanted only to escape the conversation, to become invisible again, but instead he’d called even greater attention to himself, insulting Mrs. Howard.
    Miss Whitwell turned smoothly to Captain Raney. “How many crossings does this make for you, sir?”
    Thank you . The awkwardness of the moment passed, and almost as one, the company around the table resumed their conversation.
    He could have kissed Miss Whitwell. No, not kissed her—but why had she come to his aid when he’d treated her so coolly earlier?
    What was he thinking? He shook his head. It wasn’t concern for his feelings that had pushed her to speak, but for Mrs. Howard’s.
    He looked the girl’s way again, watching as she spoke with the captain. There was a sweetness and naturalness to her gestures he found oddly captivating. He’d noticed her even before she’d come hammering on his door in her panic. It was strange, because he was usually careful to keep his eyes off of innocent young ladies, and there was a definite air of innocence about Miss Whitwell.
    She glanced down the table and caught him staring. Embarrassed, he looked away.
    The noise in the room had been escalating in volume as the three or four separate conversations going on around the table grew more animated. Wishing the dinner would end, David drained another glass of wine. For the most part he’d grown accustomed to keeping to himself, but tonight he felt dull and churlish. What would it have been like, accepting Miss Whitwell’s invitation and spending the entire meal at her side? Perhaps she would have talked more about her travels with her father, wearing the same fond, luminous expression she’d worn that morning. He smiled wistfully to himself. He would have liked that.
    Good Lord, he was thinking of her again. He darted another glance her way. Perhaps he should apologize to her before he left the dining saloon. A quick word of regret would cost him nothing, and he could keep his distance afterward. Then perhaps he could put Miss Whitwell from his mind.
    As soon as the meal ended and she rose to leave, he scrambled to his feet and started after her. “Miss Whitwell—”
    Trailing behind her cousin, she turned. “Yes?”
    Her cousin turned, too, to regard him through slightly narrowed eyes. The wariness in the young man’s gaze brought David up short.
    What was he doing, chasing after a delicately reared girl, paying her attentions the other passengers were bound to remark upon? He was sorry if he’d hurt her feelings, but there was no sense in drawing out the inevitable.
    He shook his head. “Nothing. I thought perhaps you’d forgotten your shawl, but I see you have it. Excuse me.”
    He sketched a perfunctory bow, then brushed past her and strode quickly toward his cabin. Just how much wine had he had to drink?
    Or maybe it wasn’t the wine. Maybe it was the enforced isolation of this sea voyage that had her so much on his mind. He understood now why sailors went half-wild on leave and why they had once considered it bad luck to have a female aboard ship. It was difficult enough fighting temptation on dry land, with a host of distractions to turn to. Doing it while isolated with a beautiful young lady weeks from port was positively maddening.
    David unlocked his cabin door, pushed inside and stretched out on his berth, not even bothering to call for his valet. If he closed his eyes, he was sure he could block out the wounded look on Miss Whitwell’s face when he’d rebuffed her friendly overture, block out the whole disappointing evening.
    Instead, he wound up wishing he hadn’t traded cabins with her. The scent of her still lingered in the