The Captain Claims His Lady

‘Playing cards at all is a waste of money,’ he said grimly.

She shot him a startled look. And, since the crowded room obliged them to walk very close together, she could see the clenched plane of his jaw quite distinctly.

‘Besides, I would much rather dance with you.’

‘Really? But I thought...’

‘Thought what?’

‘Well, I was just going to say that, this morning, I thought you looked quite sensible.’

A bark of laughter escaped his lips. But then he turned his head and looked down at her.

‘Sensible and brave. My, my. Two compliments in such rapid succession. Miss Hutton, you will turn my head.’

‘No, I didn’t mean, that is...’ She felt her cheeks heating as her thoughts, and her tongue, became hopelessly tangled. How she wished she had more experience of talking to men. Well, single men, who’d asked her to dance with them, that was. Then she might not be making quite such a fool of herself with this one.

‘I will make a confession,’ he said, leaning close to her ear so that his voice rippled all the way down her spine in a caressing manner.

‘Will you?’ She lost her ability to breathe properly. It felt as if her lungs were as tangled as her thoughts.

‘When I looked in upon the ballroom, earlier, and saw how few people were actually dancing, and how many were watching, my nerve almost failed.’

‘Well, it is just that there are not that many people here who are fit enough to dance. But they do enjoy watching others. And then...’

‘Giving them marks out of ten, I dare say,’ he finished for her.

‘Yes, that’s about it. And I’m terribly sorry, but—’

‘Oh, no,’ he said sternly. ‘You cannot retreat now. We are almost at the dance floor. Can you imagine what people will say if you turn and run from me?’

‘That you’ve had a narrow escape?’

‘That I’ve had...’ He turned, and took both her hands in his. ‘Miss Hutton, are you trying to warn me that you are not a good dancer?’

She nodded. Then hung her head.

She felt a gloved hand slide under her chin and lift her face. And saw him smiling down at her. Beaming, in fact. As though she’d just told him something wonderful.

‘Then, you are not going to berate me when I tread upon your toes?’

‘I... Is that what your dance partners normally do?’ When he nodded, ruefully, she welled up with indignation. ‘How rude.’

‘I shall remind you that you said that, after you have suffered the same fate.’

‘I suspect that you will be too busy regretting having asked me to dance at all to remember anything I said beforehand.’

‘Oh? Why is that?’

‘Because I have no...’ She tried to wave her hands to demonstrate her lack of coordination, only to find them still firmly clasped between his own. ‘And people do try to get out of my way, but...’

‘I can see that this is going to be an interesting experience for both of us,’ he put in.

‘And for the spectators.’ The walls would probably soon be resounding to the screams of pain from the other dancers and the laughter of those watching her mow her way through the others in her set like a scythe through ripened wheat. At least, that was how her very last dance partner had spoken of her performance after he’d returned her to her seat, mopping his brow. It was funny how people assumed, because she couldn’t see very well, that she couldn’t hear, either. They seemed to think they could talk about her freely, and often very rudely, and get away with it.

And because it was easier to pretend she hadn’t heard, than to confront them and make a scene, Lizzie had learned to keep her face frozen into what another local youth had described as being very like that adopted by a cow when chewing the cud.

And what a cud he was.

‘Yes,’ he said, turning and leading her on to the dance floor where she could see the dim outlines of other people forming a set. ‘Let us give them something worth watching.’

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

Harry’s cravat felt too tight. And sweat was trickling down between his shoulder blades, giving him an almost uncontrollable urge to scratch at it. Or tear off his neck cloth.

It was pretty much the way he’d always felt before going into battle. The determination to go through with the grim task in spite of knowing that whatever strategy he followed, there were bound to be injuries. This time, to a young woman who would have no idea she was a deliberate target.

He gritted his teeth. He’d told Rawcliffe he’d do whatever it took. And once he’d learned how pivotal Miss Hutton was to the success of their scheme, he’d assured both him, and later Becconsall, that he was the best man for the job. Rawcliffe had assured him that this part of it would be simple, that Miss Hutton would be so grateful for any attention any eligible young man might give her, she would fall into his hands like a ripe plum. Which might be true, but he would wager that neither Lieutenant Nateby nor Captain Hambleton would be sweating like this if either of them had drawn the long straw. Or be feeling as though, at any minute, one of the assembled Bath gossips would point the finger and expose him as an impostor. Nor did it give him any comfort to reflect that the only one of the candidates Rawcliffe had summoned to that interview who would have been having a harder time, at this precise moment, would have been Lieutenant Thurnham. Because it would only have been due to his struggles to resist the lure of the card room.

Not one of the others would have been wrestling with their conscience. Not one of them would have had any qualms about laying siege to Miss Hutton’s heart, or conquering it, and then, when she’d served her purpose, walking away from her without a backward glance.

He scowled across the ballroom at the few other couples milling about as he gave her arm a squeeze. His conscience with regard to Miss Hutton might be smarting a bit, but he was fully committed to seeing this mission through to the bitter end. Therefore he had to persuade Miss Hutton that he was a genuine suitor. A suitor so smitten that he would not be able to part from her when the time came for her to leave Bath. By then, hopefully, he would have wormed his way into her affections to the extent that she would extend an invitation to spend Christmas with her and her family in Lesser Peeving. From which vantage point he would be able to continue the investigations Archie had been conducting in that area. Investigations which had resulted in his death.

He swallowed as he glanced down at the crown of Lizzie’s head, the droop of her shoulders. He’d felt sorry for her before even meeting her, because of the plan to deceive her into believing she’d captured his heart. But now he had met her...well, she was so utterly defenceless against him that when she had placed her trembling hand upon his sleeve, just now, revealing her dread at the prospect of having so many spectators mocking the way she danced, he experienced a bizarre sensation of wishing he could somehow protect her.

When he was the one she needed protecting from.

He ground his teeth. He’d always hated seeing anyone take advantage of those weaker than themselves. But he hadn’t felt such a strong surge of indignation on anyone’s behalf since the day he’d come across Tom Kellet cowering behind the buttress in the fives court. Back then, he’d been able to wade straight in and dispatch the beefy bullies who’d been taunting him. And assure the lad, who’d later gained the nickname of Archie, that he was no longer alone, that he, Harry, would always stand by him. Back then, his actions had given him a sense of self-worth he’d never known before. He’d discovered that he was not a ‘good-for-nothing’ after all.

Right now, Miss Hutton looked as though she could do with having someone to stand by her, too. Even if it was the very man who was responsible for luring her out on to the dance floor where she was afraid she was about to make a spectacle of herself.

Which didn’t surprise him actually, not when he recalled the way she’d knocked his cup of water from his hand at their first meeting. The way she’d very nearly sent her companion flying when executing the most awkward curtsy he’d ever seen, outside the theatre. It just went to confirm Lady Rawcliffe’s description of her as an awkward giantess. He’d dismissed her evaluation, up ’til then, because Lady Rawcliffe was one of those tiny, dainty, fairy-like females who always got a crick in their necks when attempting to look him in the face. The kind who always made him afraid he’d accidentally crush them if he turned round too quickly without first taking note of exactly where they were standing. But now he saw that Miss Hutton herself believed all those things Lady Rawcliffe had said of her. To the extent that she was discernibly trembling at the prospect of stepping out on to the dance floor, when other females would have been looking on it with anticipation.

Just as he was sweating with his own nerves. Which gave him an uncanny sense of kinship with her. He knew what it felt like to be robbed of the kind of pleasure most people took for granted, right enough. It had happened first in his childhood, when his family had fallen apart. And then when he’d been taken out of school just as he’d begun to find his feet. And again when the French had taken him prisoner. Each time he’d hated that feeling of being weak and helpless in the face of cruel fate and no longer able to partake in the activities others enjoyed almost by right.

She darted him a glance that was half-trepidation, half-despair as they took their places in the set. He heard the murmurs going through the assembled crowd of onlookers. Saw people nudging each other and looking in their direction. And probably speculating on the likely outcome of having two giants attempting to weave in and out of the band of pygmies who formed the rest of their set.

He wanted to tell her she wasn’t going to have to face it alone. That he would protect her from the stares, the gossip, the sniggers. But how could he? It was his fault she was going to have to endure it all.

But one thing he could do. He could show her that though they were not cut from the same cloth as most people, that didn’t mean they had no right to enjoy themselves. For the next half-hour he would do his level best to provide Miss Hutton with the fun that seemed so sadly lacking in her life, from what he’d both learned and observed of her so far.

‘You know,’ he remarked casually, ‘when at sea, it is a general principle that the smaller, nippier craft treat the larger, ocean-going vessels with respect.’

‘Respect?’ She cast a doubtful look round the others who’d come on to the dance floor before them and who could now not retreat without looking craven.

‘Yes. If they don’t want to get broadsided, then they take jolly good care to keep out of the way.’

‘That is a nautical principle, is it?’