The Captain Claims His Lady

‘Well,’ he said, steering her in the direction of the back row of chairs, ‘we were only schoolboys, after all. And they seemed to think I was trying to take the weight of the world on my shoulders. On account of me being averse to seeing bigger boys bullying the smaller, weaker ones.’

‘Oh,’ she said again, only this time her expression definitely softened. He’d finally hooked her interest. Now all he had to do was reel her in.

‘And then it stuck, you see, after I went into the navy, since Atlas had a whole ocean named after him.’

‘The Atlantic!’

‘That’s it. Excuse me,’ he said to a lady occupying the end chair of the row in which he wished to sit. ‘Are those seats taken?’ He indicated the ones in the rest of the row. She frowned. Jerked her eyes to the two rows in front of her which were completely empty.

He smiled at her. ‘It would be most remiss of me to sit in front of you, since my partner and I would no doubt block your view of the orchestra.’

She eyed their combined height, and bulk, speculatively, then, with a waspish expression, got to her feet and stalked away. Leaving the entire back row free for him and Phoebe.

That was, Miss Hutton.

‘She may not have been all that interested in seeing the orchestra,’ Miss Hutton pointed out, as he ushered her into a chair. ‘Not many people do pay all that much attention to them, after all. She was probably just resting her feet for a moment.’

‘Well, now she can rest them elsewhere,’ he said, settling himself beside her. ‘Do you have a programme upon you?’ He glanced down at her lap, on which she’d placed her large and rather lumpy-looking reticule. She shook her head as she clutched at it. And then she averted her head and gazed in the general direction of the orchestra, a tide of pink creeping up her cheeks.

And damn it if he had any idea what to say to her, now he had her all to himself. With nobody to overhear.

Rawcliffe had been right. He wasn’t cut out for this type of work. He was a man of action, not words. Were he standing on the deck of a ship, preparing to go into battle, he’d know what to do. His mind would be assessing the enemy’s capabilities, with one eye to the wind and the tide. Weighing up the strengths and weaknesses of his men, his supplies.

But here, on a spindly chair, in a stuffy room, with an orchestra plunking out a backdrop to the conversations of the other, mostly elderly concert-goers, he was at a bit of a loss.

And what did that say about him? That he was better at orchestrating acts of violence, in order to smash his enemies to a pulp, as part of man’s endless quest for conquest, that was what.

And once this interlude with Miss Hutton was over, once he’d brought Archie’s killers to justice, that was the world he’d have to go back to. A world in which he’d had to treat men like so much cannon fodder, rather than as human beings with any intrinsic worth. He was a warrior, not a lover. A man of action, not of sentiment.

So, rather than trying to find words, he reached for Miss Hutton’s hand, where it lay tangled with the strings of her reticule. And let that action speak for him.

She blushed, but did not pull it away. On the contrary, as the music swelled and throbbed, she tucked it under the folds of her skirts. Taking his hand with it.

And his own heart swelled and throbbed along with the violins as they sat, secretly holding hands.

The tide was turning in his favour.

Chapter Seven (#ufb3213a9-d763-5190-9357-c30d2bea89af)

Whatever could have put that grim expression on his face? Sitting this close, she could see him much better than when they were standing up and they had to preserve a decorous distance from one another. She could see the muscles clenching in his jaw, the grim line flattening his mouth and even the bleakness in his eyes. And just as at the first time they’d met, she wished she could do something about it.

When he reached for her hand, therefore, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to grasp it and offer him what small comfort she could. Even though it was not at all the thing.

Though what did it matter, as long as nobody found out?

Her heart tripped over itself as she not only formed such a rebellious thought, but also took action to ensure that it bore fruit. Concealing their linked hands took but a second, as she rearranged the folds of her unfashionably voluminous skirts.

His own breath hitched. Though he made no sign that anyone else could detect, she was sure he gave her hand a little squeeze.

Golly, but she’d never felt so wicked in her life! Was this really stumbling, stammering Lizzie Hutton? Sitting holding hands with a man? Practically in full sight of a room full of people?

If she’d been the kind of girl who giggled, she’d be giggling right now. Never had she felt so...giddy. Or so in tune with a piece of music. Whenever the violins soared, so did her heart, as she revelled in the feel of his hand clasping hers, his response when she’d told him she wasn’t an heiress.

When the instruments groaned and wept, she found herself biting her lower lip and wondering when it was all going to end. And if people would carry the tale back to Grandfather about the way they were sitting so close together. If such talk would send him into retreat. After all, he surely wouldn’t want his name linked too closely with a girl he’d only known a matter of days.

The musicians did not finish their piece until Lizzie was so wrung out she could understand why some people actually wept during certain performances. And though it was not because of their skill, but because of the man next to whom she was sitting, she knew she ought to join in the applause that was breaking out, politely, all round the room. Only, that would mean she’d have to let go of his hand.

While she was still hesitating, he gave her hand one last squeeze and then released it. Which meant she had to let go. She couldn’t very well keep clinging to his hand, not once he’d started clapping, could she? Even though it felt as though his action had cast her adrift.

She forced her eyes to look in the direction of the musicians and lifted her own hands to clap, which she did with considerably more energy than anyone else. Hopefully, then people would think she’d been moved by the power of the music, if they noticed she was upset. Especially since she had no reason to be sad. She’d never been completely alone in the world. She’d always had some member of family to take her in. It was ridiculous to feel as though she’d never been more alone, in all her life, when she was sitting in a room full of people.

The applause soon died away. Long before she’d pulled herself together. So when Captain Bretherton turned to her and asked if she’d like to go to the tea room and take supper, she had to bite her tongue.

Supper? How could he sit there talking about tea, and supper, in that reasonable, casual tone, as though holding hands with her had meant nothing?

Though perhaps it had meant nothing. Perhaps he was the kind of man who held hands with females, clandestinely, all the time. What did she know of him, really? What kind of man he was?

And he was a man, not a demi-god, even if some people did call him Atlas.

‘I had better go and see if Grandfather wants anything first,’ she said. Even though what she wanted was to spend the rest of the evening with him. Holding hands again. Or even more...

She looked at his mouth. What would it feel like to kiss him? To have him kiss her?

The longing that tore at her insides was so fierce she could see herself flinging herself at him, right there in the concert room, and scandalising the rest of the concert-goers. Panicked, and confused by the strength of her reactions to a man who was virtually a stranger, she leapt to her feet, with the result that the chair upon which she’d been sitting overturned with a crash. Everyone turned to stare, of course. And then a wave of laughter rippled round the room. Closely followed by a chorus of comments. She couldn’t hear the actual words, but she knew the kinds of things they’d all be saying.

That Miss Hutton. Always so clumsy. So awkward. I wonder why that handsome officer is paying her so much attention?

The handsome officer in question bent forward to right her chair at the exact moment she did the same. With the result that they clashed heads. To the increased amusement of everyone else in the room.

‘Please, Miss Hutton, allow me,’ he said, placing one hand on her arm and pushing her firmly, but gently, aside.

‘I... I...’ She raised both hands to her cheeks, which were flaming hot. ‘Th-thank you, but I really do need to return to my grandfather.’ With that, she turned and fled.

* * *

He’d pushed her too far, too fast, holding hands like that. He hadn’t thought she’d minded. He hadn’t been holding on to her all that hard. She could have pulled her hand free at any time. But she hadn’t.

Perhaps it had only hit her, what she’d done, when the music had finished. It had been a rather powerful piece, one that tugged at the emotions. Perhaps she’d been carried away with it and not realised how—what was it girls said of such behaviour?—fast she’d been, until it came to an end?

Damn, but he hoped he hadn’t ruined everything.

He couldn’t pursue her into the card room. The old Colonel would simply send him packing, again.

He’d have to hope he could catch her at the Pump Room again. And reassure her that his intentions were honourable.

Only, it felt a bit too soon to start speaking of marriage. She was bound to become suspicious of him, if he appeared to have come to such a momentous decision after knowing her only a few days.

He had to be more patient with her. Allow her to get used to him. Reassure her that nothing she did was going to put him off her. Make her believe that everything she did fascinated him.