Regina Scott - The Captain's Courtship

She squared her shoulders and marched to the door. She’d let Jones go this afternoon, with a glowing recommendation she could only hope would help the footman find other employment. She had nothing left to pay this new challenge but her mourning clothes, and she was ready to give them away.

She pulled open the door, and Richard barreled into her house. It had begun to rain, and the drops clung to his greatcoat, peppered his russet beard with silver. She had to clench her fists to keep from reaching up to brush them away.

“Did you even wait until I was down the street before spending my money?” he demanded.

How rude! Claire shut the door with shaking hands. “Moderate your tone, if you please. I’m certain you would not want my neighbors to think you had me under your protection.”

He turned to face her. “I will moderate my tone, madam, when you offer me an explanation.”

Claire raised her chin. “I believe you are referring to the gowns I commissioned this afternoon. Clothing takes time, sir. I thought you’d prefer that I make the most of yours. Surely you wouldn’t want Lady Everard sitting at home for her first two weeks in London, waiting on me.”

“Perhaps not,” he allowed, though the stiffness in those broad shoulders told her that he was not mollified. “But a thousand pounds, Claire!”

She spread her hands. “I told you fripperies do not come cheap. If it makes you feel better, know that I plan to spend twice that on your cousin.”

“Twice!” He yanked his hat from his head, disheveling his hair. “Madam, strike your colors!”

Claire raised her brows. “I will not pretend I know that expression. But I stand by my plans. If you want the girl to be a success, you must do things correctly. I can explain the entire process on our trip north tomorrow. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to change. My carriage will be here shortly.”

He stared at her. “I knew it! You did buy a carriage!”

“Certainly not. I meant the carriage I hired to take me out this evening. I must keep a promise to a friend.”

His eyes narrowed, and he took a step toward her, glaring down at her. She imagined the sailors on his ship would quake at the sight. “Friend?” he asked, voice low and deceptively calm. “What friend?”

She felt the polite face slipping into place again. Habit. It had seen her through Winthrop’s drunken tirades, his denials the day after that he could ever be less than a gentleman. For ten years, she’d been at one man’s beck and call; for seventeen years before that, she had done her father’s bidding. She was not about to let herself be put in that position ever again.

She tilted back her head to meet his gaze, so dark, like the sky on a stormy night. “You did not purchase a slave, Captain Everard. I promised to bring out your cousin for a reasonable compensation. I did not give you permission to question my acquaintances.”

“We have an agreement, madam. I have the right to know whose company you keep. I will not have your behavior reflecting poorly on Samantha.”

Another woman might have felt slapped by his words, but she’d taken harder blows. Claire turned and reached for the door. “I believe you’ve made a mistake,” she said. “If you leave now, you might find another lady to serve as sponsor. I suggest you treat her with considerably more respect.”

He frowned as if not understanding. “You’re throwing me out?”

“Certainly not, Captain Everard,” she said, opening the door. “I hope I am a better hostess than that. But London is rather thin of company as yet. If you want to find another sponsor, you’ll have to start looking this very moment.”

He sighed, shoulders coming down. “I don’t want another sponsor. I want you.” He swept her a bow. “Forgive me, Claire. I’m a jealous fool.”

Jealous? He was jealous? She should take no pleasure in that ugly emotion, yet some part of her trembled with the knowledge that he might actually still care a bit for her. Immediately she chided herself. He couldn’t care for her. Very likely he was only jealous of the time any friendship might take away from her attentions to his cousin. He knew nothing of what she’d become. Perhaps he was right to wonder about her associations.

“I will do my duty as sponsor,” she promised. “Please trust that I have your cousin’s best interests at heart.”

He inclined his head. “Very well. I will hold you to your word.”

He did not add this time, but she heard it nonetheless. “Good,” she replied. “Now, I bid you good-night, sir.”

He made no movement toward the door, where the sound of rain rose louder. Cool air rushed into the entry, chilling her.

“May I ask where you are going this evening?” His tone was considerably kinder, but she still could not like his interference.

“You may not.”

“Cut line, Claire,” he said with a sigh. “I’m only trying to determine whether I can join you.”

Claire raised her brows. “Join me? You mean, you want to escort me to the ball?”

He made a face. “A ball, is it? Ah, well, I suppose I’d better get used to it, for Samantha’s sake. Yes, if you’ll have me. I’d be honored to escort you.”

Did he have any idea of the ramifications of what he had suggested? A gentleman generally escorted a lady to a ball if he was considered a member of the family or intent on courting. Some in London would remember how she’d jilted him ten years ago. She knew what they would assume now that she was widowed, and he was still unmarried, from the gossip she’d heard. But she wasn’t ready to be the object of the captain’s courtship, even if that courtship was only a fiction in the minds of her friends.

“I’m attending Lady Widmore’s ball,” she told him. “If you don’t already have an invitation, I sincerely doubt you will endear yourself to her by showing up at the door.”

A light came to his eyes. “Widmore, eh? That shouldn’t be a problem. Give me a few minutes to go home and change, then I’ll return for you.”

She peered closer, and he arranged his face in a charming smile that did not fool her. “She will expect you to dance, you know,” Claire warned him. “A presentable gentleman cannot stand along the wall like a girl fresh from the country.”

He laughed, and the sound warmed her. “Then I’ll be fine. No one ever considered me a presentable gentleman.” He bowed again. “I’ll be back shortly.” He dashed out into the rain.

Claire shut the door behind him and leaned against it. Feelings swirled around her like pigeons on the steps of Saint Paul’s. A handsome gentleman wanted to escort her to a ball. She should be in alt. But having Richard beside her all night was a sure way to go raving mad.

How would she achieve her purpose when all she could think about were other balls, other nights when he’d refused to leave her side? The only thing that had mattered then was being together—listening to him talk of his dreams for glory, sharing her wishes to marry for love rather than position or wealth. How young she’d been! She felt as if she’d aged a lifetime.

And why was it men never saw the difficulties in their sweeping statements? So the Widmores would be no problem, eh? She knew his uncle had been a particular friend of the marquess, but one did not attempt to enter a ball uninvited. Perhaps she needn’t worry after all; perhaps they’d simply refuse him entrance.

Claire shook her head as she made her way carefully up the stairs. Even after three years, the first turning still made her body clench in memory and set her knee to throbbing. She did her best to ignore it, continuing on up the marble flight for the chamber story, where Mrs. Corday was waiting to help her.

The cook curtsied as Claire entered the bedchamber that had been hers since her marriage. Stripped of most of its furnishings, save the great bed and her dressing table, the pale blue room felt no more welcoming than it had when it had been stuffed with fine woods, costly fabrics and delicate porcelain.