Lily George - Captain of Her Heart

She had not attended a dance since her London season. And really, those balls were never very much fun. She hated being a wallflower and always disappointed Mama, so pleasure was impossible. Refreshed in spirit after her brief discussion with Reverend Kirk, Harriet cast off the previous year of penury and grief like an ill-fitting cloak. That was the reason, and nothing more.

Carriages, horses and villagers in their country best packed the green in front of the village hall. Harriet clasped her gloved hands together. How delightful to be part of the milling crowd, especially after all those months of being shut up in the cottage. Not that she minded taking care of Mama, of course. Harriet snuck a glance at her mother. Mama’s face wore a drawn expression, as though she had tied a ribbon too tightly at the base of her neck. Harriet linked her arm through her mother’s. “Come, Mama, we shall find a place for you to sit and watch the dancers.”

The ladies handed off their wraps and stood briefly in the vestibule. The bright lights and crush of people dazzled Harriet, and she lost her bearings. She had to find Mama a comfortable place to sit. She peered around the room, her mouth going dry as panic set in. Relief flooded through her when she spied a clutch of dowagers in black, fanning themselves in a corner of the ballroom. She took her mother’s elbow, steering her toward the women.

One of the women rose, spying Harriet and her mother. “Lady Handley!” she effused. “Do come and sit with me.”

Harriet breathed a sigh of relief. She recognized the woman as Lady Reese, one of the gentry who had a home in nearby Lumsdale. Harriet blinked. Lady Reese did not seem as concerned about Lady Handley’s reduced status as her peers in Matlock Bath had done. Harriet shot her a grateful glance.

Lady Reese beamed in return, and linked her arm through Mama’s, guiding her over to a little wooden chair. Straightening her gloves, Harriet looked around for Sophie, whom she had lost in the crush of guests. Two women, one wearing a dancing ostrich feather, parted in front of Harriet. She stopped in her tracks, her mouth dropping open as she stared straight ahead.

Sophie was gazing up in wonder at a tall soldier in uniform, smiling frankly and openly. He smiled down at her carelessly, the smile quirking the corners of his mouth. They stood much too close together. Though they were ringed on all sides by a milling group of guests, they were apart from the crowd, as though covered by a bell of silence. Harriet gave her head an impatient shake. She needed to break through that spell.

“Sophie!” she called, starting forward. “I thought I had lost you.”

“Come, Hattie, I want you to meet someone.” Sophie smiled up at the young soldier dreamily.

He held out his hand. “Lieutenant James Marable, at your service.”

Harriet bobbed a brief curtsy. “How do you do, sir?”

“Very well, thank you.” He smiled down at Sophie meaningfully. She blushed and dropped her gaze.

Dangerous territory indeed. What if Captain Brookes walked in at this very moment? She tugged impatiently at her sister’s arm.

“If you will excuse us, Lieutenant, my mother wishes to speak to my sister.”

“Of course.” He bowed low. “Miss Sophie, may I claim you for the next dance?”

“You may.” Sophie dropped a little curtsy. “Until then?”

He smiled, flashing brilliant teeth, and moved away.

“Whatever is the matter?” Sophie huffed, her brows drawn together in annoyance.

“You were standing entirely too close to Lieutenant Marable. What if Captain Brookes had seen you?”

Sophie shrugged her shoulders, refusing to reply.

Harriet sighed. “Promise me one thing. Be courteous to the captain tonight. Do not provoke him to anger by flirting with another man.”

“I won’t provoke anyone. I want to enjoy myself.”

“Do not enjoy yourself at Captain Brookes’s expense.” Exasperation surged through Harriet. How dare Sophie toy with the emotions of a good man?

Sophie flinched. “I will not deliberately hurt him.”

The lively little orchestra struck up the next dance, a cotillion, and Harriet watched Sophie glide off toward the dance floor with Lieutenant Marable. Her high spirits evaporated like a puff of smoke. Embarrassment at being left alone rooted her to the spot. Her blue gown was too noticeable. She must look ridiculous. What was the phrase? Mutton dressed as lamb? Harriet’s face heated and little drops of perspiration pricked the roots of her hair. Perhaps she should find a comfortable spot to wedge herself, where she could stay unnoticed. After all, she perfected the art of being a wallflower during her London season.

“Miss Harriet?” A pleasant voice rumbled, bringing a smile to Harriet’s face.

“Captain Brookes.” She sighed with relief, turning to face him. He held two glasses in his hand and extended one to her with a smile.

“Would you care to sit down?” He motioned away from the dance floor with a brief nod of his head.

“Most definitely.” She wove her way through the throngs of people, spying two empty chairs along the wall. She sank down in one, patting the seat of the other with her gloved hand.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” He sat beside her, taking a long draft of his drink.

“To be honest, Captain, no, I am not.” She took a tiny sip of her punch, allowing it to flow through her body, restoring her spirit.

“Why not?” He turned to face her squarely, cocking one eyebrow.

“Balls are not my favorite pastime, I’m afraid.” She took another refreshing taste. “Even during my London season, I never enjoyed attending one.” She cast a worried look over the dancers. Would Brookes spy Sophie in the cotillion with his ghost?

“I have not attended a ball since Waterloo,” he commiserated. “The Duchess of Richmond hosted one the night before the battle.”

“Before the battle!” Harriet echoed, caught off guard. “That seems a rather frivolous occupation before entering the fray.”

“It was.” He took another drink of his wine. “In the midst of the general merrymaking, we learned Bonaparte had crossed the frontier.”

“What did you do?” Harriet leaned toward him.

“Wellington and the Duke of Richmond shut themselves up in a dressing room, strategizing. Then Wellington decided we would attack on the morrow. I left when I got word so I had time to make my men ready.”

“Of course,” Harriet replied, gently urging him to keep talking.

“But many of the men elected to stay until dawn. They didn’t have time to change clothes, and fought in evening dress. The strangest thing of all was that, of all the men who danced that night, I reckon half were dead or wounded by the next evening. I was one of the lucky ones.”

His matter-of-fact voice cut her deeply. Her eyes stung with unshed tears. “I’m sorry.”

He looked at her, surprise opening his gray-green eyes wide. “Why are you sorry? That is a soldier’s lot in life.”

Harriet shook her head. “It seems a terrible waste, is all.” Her voice sounded so thick she hardly recognized it.

“No tears at a ball.” He took the glass from her hands. “I apologize for bringing the matter up at all. It seems strange to me, that this is the first ball I have attended since that fateful night.”

She swallowed and nodded her head.

“Would you like more punch? I might take another glass of wine myself.” He stood up, looking down at her expectantly.

“Yes, if you please.”

In his absence, she struggled to regain her composure. Flicking a glance over the crowded ballroom, she spotted Sophie, still dancing with Lieutenant Marable. A flash of anger suffused her, leaving her breathless. Did her petulant sister, so young and so headstrong, deserve a man like Captain Brookes?