By the time I ran this warship off course, the commodore wouldn’t know what hit him.

I studied him a moment, trying to glean his true self beneath the polished veneer.

Who are you, Ashley Cutler?

I recognized the surname but couldn’t place it. “Your father resides among the Peerage of England?”

“Lord John Cutler is the first Viscount Warshire and serves as the Secretary of State for the Northern Department.”

A lower rank than my grandfather but a prominent peer of the realm, nonetheless. Yet, at the mention of his father, there’d been no pride in his tone. No attachment. He’d sounded as if he were reading the title off a visiting card.

Oh, how I longed to know what inspired this man. Was he deeper than his career aspirations? Weaker or mentally slower than he appeared? Was he married or betrothed? Loved by some or despised by all?

Everyone had a vulnerability. I just needed to find his.

His strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, and noble nose supplied a blank canvas for the brilliant blue of his eyes. But I found myself focusing instead on his shapely chiseled mouth. The pinkish lips added an alluring contrast to his impeccable English complexion.

And when those lips moved, every man on the ship stopped breathing to listen.

“Put the pirate in the hold.” He flicked a finger against the front of his coat, giving an invisible speck more attention than he gave his captive.

Multiple hands fell upon me, restraining my arms behind my back. No sense in fighting. I was outnumbered four-hundred men to one. Besides, when I’d designed this plan, I expected to spend weeks, if not months, in irons.

As Lord Cutler strode toward the gangway ladder, the lieutenants pulled me along behind him. With my arms shackled by immovable fists, my attention narrowed on the snug coat that draped the commodore’s impressive shoulders and hinted at a hard, tight arse. Long legs flexed in tailored white breeches. Defined calves stretched the wool of his pristine stockings.

The man was immaculately dressed, accentuating all his best assets. But he had dreadful taste in footwear. The buckles on his square-toed shoes were made of pure gold with embedded jewels. I didn’t care how fashionable they were. If he did any sort of work on this ship, they wouldn’t last a day.

I focused on those ridiculous shoes because the rest of him was just too compelling. His physical beauty defied the laws of nature, and I wanted nothing to do with that. My opinion of him needed to ferment in the back of my throat until all I tasted was repulsion.

Down the companionway and along the windowless passages, he stopped at the door to his private quarters. The lieutenants kept moving, shoving me onward to the ladder beyond.