Miss Elizabeth Elliott lay the fabric down with a sigh, the peach watered silk was in the end, absolutely just too expensive. She knew exactly the size of her personal bank account in 1815 and it was not large.

She'd sworn to herself it was the smallest it would ever be, right now, February of 1815. Soon some of her investments as an anonymous investor in the newly developing technology of steam engines and trains would start paying off, too, investments in French vin-yards.

She'd only been able to invest a tiny amount, but it would accrue with time. Thank god for her grandmother's ring, upon that she would build an empire. It was just very hard, when women could not own things, have bank accounts. Thank god, too, for masquerading as a man, a certain Elliot Walters. Playing a man made everything easy.

So, no watered peach silk. A light, almost shear, cream muslin again. She smiled at Marie-Berte, her modiste, and pointed at a particular plate. The dress would be very daring and use very little fabric. A sexy little creation it would be.

With a nod, she left the shop, turned up Bowdwin street. Scowled.

Bath, rain.

Bath, no public toilet near.

Why was she here, now, Bath of 1815? Anne didn't need her any longer– she had her arrogant knight errant now to watch her, to take care of her. Of course, Charles Musgrove too, he would never let any harm come to Anne. Mary did not need her either. Her father – he just needed someone to worship him. That new footman would do.

1815, England, blah! There was no reason now to stay here in stinking, damp, cold Bath in 1815 waiting for Napoleon to fall and that stupid sword to go where it needed to go. She could just decamp for a country house, drink vermouth with Carolyn Lamb, smoke a hooka with Byron.

She did not need to be walking the drizzly streets of Bath, headed to the Pump Room, angry at the world, bored and broke and a woman without meaning except to capture a husband.

She nodded coldly at Mrs. Bingley and her sister in law, Caroline Bingley. Mrs. Bingley, now a cousin of hers by marriage, her sister having snagged poor, stunned Darcy.

Couldn't stand the two of them, filthy rich Mrs. Bingley, oh so sickeningly sweet, angelic and perfect, so utterly vapid, ditzy, and always so easily shocked. Shocked at little things, like Elizabeth's cigarillo and her want to discuss politics over tea, she'd thought of introducing the pretty woman to opium.

And then, that mercenary Miss Caroline Bingley so… greedy, but yet chock full of money too. She was money wanting more money.

Elizabeth ignored Mrs. Bingley's offered space under her umbrella and her "Hello Miss Elliott, would you…" Instead she walked past quickly, as if she had an appointment to keep. She could feel Mrs. Bingley's hurt and Miss Bingley's anger at being snubbed by a broke baronet's daughter.

But then, she saw him.

Her heart caught in her throat. Blood rose in her veins, pumping hard, heat flared in her belly, the sound of the traffic around her went silent.

Did he see her? No, he was talking with several other sailors, his face in almost profile. He was taller, his shoulders wider than the others, he was so more dashing, so much more manly than any other man in Bath. He wore his simple blue jacket, a muffler around his neck for the cold wind, a hat pulled low, the wind catching some rebel strands of hair, blowing them free.

Even from here she could see his eyes creased deeply in laughter. Watching the hurrying crowd, she realized he drew people's eyes, his bearing, his look, his spirit. He was a handsome, a strong, a leader. What would his hands feel like on her body?

She hadn't realized that she had stopped until a couple bumped into her. She went and stood against the wall, not hidden, just watching him. He threw back his head and laughed, and a sun beam seemed to leap out and catch his face as he did so, as if he were a minor god, and the sun would, and should, smile upon him. His teeth flashed white against his sea darkened skin. Laughing too, his companions all turned his way and they headed down the street talking animatedly. He never saw her standing like a deer startled by a hunter, hungrily.

She let out a shuddering sigh, confused again at what she felt when she'd see him. It was always so like what she had felt the first time she'd ever seen him, watching her with that teasing, almost arrogant smile on his face. What was this she was feeling, if she were honest to herself? Yes there was hunger in her body for him, but there… was something more. Something more than want, more than need. Passion yes… but that feeling, what word encompassed it? She knew she wanted him to see her, to simply really clearly see her. She wanted him to smile at her like a friend.

"Miss Elizabeth, is all ok?" Elizabeth jerked straight, spun, dropping a cold, disdain filled look on her face as she turned to glance at Frederick Wentworth. She hoped to god he'd not caught anything, not a single thing, on her face as she watched Croft's ex-bosun walk away.

Gently he said, "You are getting wet, sister." He held out an umbrella, water glistening on his jacket. Did this nobody always have to play the noble gentleman? Admiral McGillvary and that ass, John Broyle, were with him.

"Well obviously we have no need for umbrella's if you do not have your's up." She snapped at him, tossing an icy look at Broyle. Wentworth's face went cold and bland, he nodded brusquely at her and pulled Broyle past.

"Miss E, you never could raise a mast." Broyle muttered as he walked by, unheard by the others. She hissed.

McGillvary stopped, leant over. "You seem a bit over-excited, Miss Elliott," the youngish admiral observed dryly. He glanced down the road at the disappearing band of sailors, then smiled as he stepped by her, "They're good for a romp but those ones won't pay your bills."

"Tapette!" She hissed after him as he hurried to join the two others, doubting any of them spoke street French. Hands behind his back, he flipped her a finger. She scowled. Only the navy set would ignore that one's Greek sins.

Spinning, she strode off i the direction Wentworth hadn't.

She'd refused Lady Russell's offer for a ride to her father's, not wanting to be lectured at, walked and walked, her thoughts swirling about Long, then, simply stopped, stood shivering trying to decide where to go. The rain started to fall harder and the wind gusted.

Croft's house drew her, but it would be best to go home, change to dry clothes, take a hot bath. Why hadn't she taken the old bat's offer? Her boots were wet, her hat dripping. She now even regretted not taking Wentworth's offer of his umbrella.

Suddenly, a voice, surprisingly concerned, said, "Miss E. You're wet!"

She spun, and Long stood there, a funny hard to read look on his face. Only he called her Miss E, which she thought dear.

"Here, let me call you a chair." He asked in the voice he used sometimes, not the rough sailors cant but a more cultured voice, that of a senior house servant.

When he saw her consternation, he said with a kind smile, "Don't worry, my gift. I'm good for it."

"No, Mr. Long."

Damn, had she just called him Mr.? Had she just raised him from just a lowly Long to a "Mr. Long"? Raised him to almost a gentleman?

He smiled wider, catching it. Damn all intelligent servants.

"No Long, I'm quite fine. I am headed home…" She tried to sound normal, tried not let the confusion his eyes threw her into fall into her voice.

He smiled, a warm smile that went into his eyes. No, a smile that started in his eyes, maybe in his heart, and curled his lips. His lips. She just stared at his handsome, strong features.

"If so, you are headed the wrong way. That direction is Admiral Croft's." His smile was kind, even teasing.

"What ever! I am allowed to see my always absent sister, am I not?"

He smiled tenderly. "And you never going to see anyone else?"

Yes, she had been at Crofts quite a bit, seeing Anne, sparring with the dog. Examining Sophia's exquisite treasures collected around the world, the woman had an exceptional eye.

But… she started. What was his voice really saying, was there something in his eye? A sudden gust, and then wind hit hard, blew her into him, rain hammered down. He pulled her fast against the meagre shelter of a building wall.

"Miss E - Let me help you!" He spun off his jacket, held it over both their heads, pushing her against the building as the heavy rain fell black and cold around them. In the protection of his body and wall she suddenly felt too warm. The stood crammed in two sheltering square feet of no rain, bodies almost touching, almost pressed together, the scent of him enveloping her.

A funny look on his face.

Would anyone passing in a carriage see who a common sailor had pressed against a wall? Was it just some skirt, whipping in the wind, a common drab? Could they see who he bent low over, maybe, just maybe sheltering from the rain, but most likely not?

Could any see her face, raw and startled by his eyes? Green eyes, not hazel like she'd first thought. His eyes were younger, he was younger then she'd thought at first, his face weathered, beaten, honed and aged by the sea and sun but he was only her own age. Which was quite young, thank you kindly.

Humour, intelligence, and a …flash of joy or was it a thing so soft and gentle playing in there? Did she hear "Quid hoc est?" whispered in the wind, but a sailor would not whisper to the rain in Latin.

How long did they stand there?

It was her hands that drew his head to hers, her lips that found his. He didn't fight, pull back, his ardour clear, but only following her lead. His lips tasted of mint tea, his skin smelled of lavender soap. His hands kept their little shelter above them, he was defenseless against her exploring ones. Could he feel the heat of her body? The beat of her heart as it thudded from his lips touch?

Pulling back from her long, deep kiss, the soft gentleness in his eyes was suddenly replaced by concern, worry. "Miss E – we need to get you home. This is not quite proper! Can't compromise your…ugh… Now, ma'amselle."

Not asking, he herded her with his body, the jacket over her head he trotted her towards the Croft's, both hidden by the black, cold, driving rain, their legs in a quick unison, as if they'd always walked together at the same beat.

A particularly strong gust slammed her, drove her stumbling into him. Her breath caught as her body tangled with his. A firm arm righted her, didn't let go around her waist as they sprinted the last little bit towards the house, he half carrying, half dragging her, he almost being dragged by her.

At the corner she stumbled to a stop in sudden horror. Lady Russell's carriage pulled up in front. At the window, hand on the curtain, a form saw her, their eyes locked. Wentworth turned to say something, hiding their wind whipped bodies from prying eyes as he did so, the curtain snapped shut behind him.

Long, pulling her, half carried her, running up the steps as the rain slammed them again. He shoved her through the door, was gone, running for the servants entrance. As she straightened, walked through the inner door as if she'd just arrived in a carriage and six, a a quick thought rose, how much does a major-domo make working for an admiral?