Victoria Hanlen - The Trouble With Misbehaving

Nothing about this supposed business meeting had been typical, but life and freedom were meant to be enjoyed. Why not dance with a pretty woman? Beau could ask questions with her in his arms as well as anywhere else. “Shall we take a turn about the dance floor?”

She turned to him in surprise. “You know this new polka, Captain?”

Her response gave him pause. Women had often complimented him on his dancing. How hard could it be? He glanced at the dancers’ antics while positioning his hat on his head. “We’ll soon find out.”

***

C.C. placed her gloved hand on his arm and let him lead the way toward the packed dance platform. Could this truly be Captain Tollier? Having not met him until now, she’d counted on his portrait, painted a dozen years before, to at least somewhat resemble him.

Above, the orchestra increased its tempo. Couples spun faster, skipped and twirled in wild gyrations, barely missing one another. She gazed about the roiling mass of bodies.

Discussions would be difficult on the rowdy dance floor, and the stakes were too high to risk misinterpretation. Though C.C. grew up in New York, after her father’s death, her mother moved back to be with her family in North Carolina. Now they were in desperate need of her help. It was imperative she persuade Captain Tollier to take her through the Union blockade.

“We must discuss my proposal. The gardens are quieter,” she shouted over the music and pulled on his arm to guide him toward the path around the platform.

His brow rose and a glint sparked in his deep-set aqua-blue eyes. Magnetism hit her like a gale-force wind. Her pulse began to pound in her ears. Laws , what had she been thinking? Dealings of this sort should take place in a dignified business setting with no prying ears.

When the captain didn’t answer her first two proper meeting requests, she’d reckoned he might respond better to something rather improper . It had worked, but now she wondered at the wisdom of that bright idea.

As they moved through the throng, the sweet smell of cinnamon apple tarts eddied on the breeze. Deafening cheers erupted from the game booths. Suddenly, the crowd surged. A large man nearly knocked her off her feet.

The captain circled a muscular arm around her shoulder, steadying her. “I know a shortcut. Let me lead the way,” he announced, his deep voice full of command. The side of her body locked against his tingled, even as his assumption of control began to annoy.

She needed to keep charge of the situation. This whole endeavor depended on her ability to work with this man. He’d a reputation for being wily and unpredictable and clever as a fox. No doubt he’d an impressive stubborn streak as well. But then, he was a captain.

As he forged a path through the chaotic revelers, she slyly studied him. Pleasant features could hide all sorts of unpleasantness. Of this she was well aware. His younger, callow portrait had resembled a blond Adonis, and accounts of his bravery and adventures had kept her spellbound.

Now up close, she could see his face had become leaner, more honed. Years at sea had weathered his skin, transformed the handsome face of a youth into that of a formidable man. Strength and resolve now etched his striking features, carved distinction into the shrewd line of his jaw and made his lips all the more sensuous with an added cynical curve.

Heavens! Desist! She sounded like a starry-eyed girl. She tore her gaze from him as they entered the shadowy gardens’ main walkway. Scents of vegetation wove through the air. Fog had rolled in off the Thames, cloaking the elms’ and poplars’ branches in a murky haze. Goddess-shaped lampposts stood on the long path like sentries guarding the well-tended flowerbeds. Their gauzy areoles of light marched into the distance.

“I take it you are familiar with Cremorne?” the captain drawled.

Were her ears playing tricks on her, or did that certain note in his voice refer to the garden’s ribald reputation after dusk? Surely he didn’t think this meeting included something a little more ribald, did he?

C.C. cut him a quick glance and tried to smile. “Oh yes, it is most enjoyable. I bring the children here when they’re good. We especially like the games. The darling poppets and toy prizes make nice rewards.”

“Poppets? Toys?” He sounded confused. “Something must be amiss. The letter said highest rewards and benefits?” He quickly cut her a glance and said in astonishment, “You have children?”

“They’re not mine, exactly. They live at the Freesdale Orphanage.”

“You keep looking around. Is your husband aware of this meeting?”

“Husband. Dear me, that is funny.” She attempted a laugh. “I’m looking for an empty bench where we can sit and talk.” She gazed down the long line of couples strolling the pathways. “So many people are here tonight.”

His white teeth flashed mischievously. “We probably could find someplace more secluded if you like.”

Her pulse launched into an uneven skip. Oh he was a rascal . This meeting at Cremorne was beginning to look more and more misguided. For goodness’ sake , she’d taken such care with everything, including her no-nonsense business attire: a worn shopkeeper’s gown, hair in a plain style and a brush of coal dust. All to avoid recognition by acquaintances and hopefully ensure Captain Tollier took her seriously.

She drew herself up primly. “Since you didn’t answer either of my first two letters, I assume something in them didn’t meet with your liking.” Tonight she was determined to discover what those things were. “If we can find a calm, quiet place to discuss my proposal, I feel confident we can come to an amicable agreement.”

***

Beau extended his arm to point. “Look, there in the fog, I think I see a bench.” As they made their way toward it, they passed under a lamp allowing him a closer examination. Nothing about this mysterious woman added up. Not a bauble or jewel adorned her person. Her coarse shawl and worn, dark-purple, high-necked gown might indicate any number of occupations.

What was she? A shopgirl? A governess? A Union spy? A tart? He studied her entrancing lips. A kiss might identify one vocation. Yet the way she carried herself shouted prim, proper and upper crust. If he were to needle her in the right manner, he’d not be surprised to find the airs and graces of a ‘papa’s little princess.’

Enough. He needed some answers. He pulled her to a stop. Taking her hand, he kissed a gloved knuckle. Her enticing vanilla and honeysuckle perfume blossomed through his senses—the same fragrance as on the letter. Lord , she smelled good. How long had it been since he’d even noticed a woman’s perfume?

Clearing his throat, he said, “Now then. Would I be correct if I said your initials are C.C.?”

“Yes, they are,” she said with an air of self-possession.

He didn’t know what he’d expected, but he never would have imagined a woman like her. “Why have you asked me to meet you here tonight?”

She waited for a couple to walk past before leaning in to whisper, “Did you not read the letters?”

He pulled the note from his jacket pocket and held it up. “I read this one.”

Her features tightened. “You should have received two more. Did you read them?”

Rather than deny he’d gotten the letters, he merely said, “No.”

Two elegant brows drew into a frown. She lifted her chin. “Why not?”

He almost laughed at her presumptuousness. Who was she to take him to task for not reading her letters? She reminded him of an autocratic Greek tutor he’d once had, although he found her much more interesting. “Madam, before a few minutes ago, you were a total stranger. When I receive unsolicited letters from unknown addressees, alas, they go into the fire.”