Regina Scott - The Captain's Courtship

“I know more about baking than buttons,” her cook murmured, as she helped Claire into the black evening gown she hoped would be suitable for the ball. The bodice was covered in black lace, and the back was gathered to spill from her shoulders in graceful folds. Had it been any other color, she might have delighted in it. Still, she was lucky Lady Widmore was an old friend and had been gracious about Claire’s last-minute decision to attend, sent only this afternoon.

“Any fingers strong enough to knead bread are strong enough to fasten these infernal tapes,” Claire replied. “And I thank you, so much, for all your help. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“There’s strength, and then there’s strength,” Mrs. Corday said, stepping back to smile at Claire. “And you’ve strength aplenty, your ladyship, if you don’t mind my saying. I’ve seen it.”

She had indeed, but Claire didn’t want to remember that dark day when her cook had had to intercede for Claire’s life. “We’ve been through a lot together. And I appreciate everything.”

Mrs. Corday’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “That captain’s a better man, your ladyship. I’d bet my life on it.”

Claire merely smiled. She’d already bet her life on a man’s character, and she’d nearly lost. She thanked Mrs. Corday again and sent the woman back to her other duties.

Claire’s standing looking glass was long gone, so she bent to peer at herself in the glass on her dressing table. The square-cut neck of the gown demanded a necklace. A shame that in the last months she’d had to quietly sell every piece Winthrop had given her, just to pay bills. Even the jewelry box was gone. There was only one piece left, one she hadn’t worn in ten years.

She slid open the little drawer on her dressing table and reached far to the back. The amber cross came out in her hand, its sterling chain turning dark with age. No more than an inch long, the stone glowed in her hand. She should have returned it when she’d accepted Winthrop’s offer. But, like her memories, she simply couldn’t part with it. Did she dare wear it now that Richard Everard had returned to her life? Would he see it as an admission that she still cared for him?

Very likely, he wouldn’t notice or even care. He hadn’t returned to her, not really. He was here merely because his cousin needed someone like her. If he’d known any other suitable lady, he would never have come knocking on Claire’s door. When the Season was over, he would leave her life as quickly as he’d entered it. And she would be left with memories again.

Memories, and a chance for a future. She was certain he’d keep his word. If she brought his cousin out in style, she could lay claim to a house, some place snug and safe, anywhere in England. The bit she’d managed to save to purchase a cottage could go instead to keeping her clothed and fed. With a little garden, she might be able to eke out an existence. True, she’d forfeit her standing on the ton, but she’d gain security. She had to focus on that hope.

She fastened the chain around her neck, feeling the cool weight of the stone against her skin. She’d had a purpose for attending this ball tonight; she must look like a proper lady to achieve it, and the necklace would help. If Richard remembered the day he had given the cross to her, she would simply have to deal with his reaction.

And pretend her own didn’t eclipse it.

Chapter Six

Claire had barely finished the last touches on her toilette when the knocker sounded again. This time, Mrs. Corday beat her to it. Claire was still descending the stair when the cook opened the door. The white-haired woman stared a moment, then bobbed a curtsy.

“Goodness, Captain Everard, sir. I barely recognized you!”

Claire felt the same way. Richard’s reddish hair had been brushed nearly smooth and pomaded until it shined. His white cravat was spotless and elegantly tied. The black evening coat hugged his shoulders, just as the white satin breeches brushed his thighs. Gone were any vestiges of the eager boy she’d known. This was a gentleman born to command, accustomed to obedience.

But he could not expect hers. She raised her chin, determined not to be easily swayed.

“Even an old sea dog knows how to polish the brass before escorting an admiral, ma’am,” he told Mrs. Corday with a smile.

Claire reached the bottom step. “Hardly an admiral, sir.”

His gaze met hers, and the admiration in it nearly stopped her progress. His smile broadening, he offered her a bow. “My mistake. Clearly royalty.”

His tone was teasing, so she decided to take the statement as a compliment. “And dare I hope you managed some suitable conveyance as well?”

He stepped aside so she could see down to the street. “Will this do?”

Claire was at the door before she remembered moving. “Oh, Richard, she’s a beauty! Where did you find her?”

“She belongs to my cousin Vaughn,” he said, gazing down, with almost as much admiration as he’d shown her, at the sleek blue chariot and its pair of matching white horses. “It appears the Everards have a carriage after all. I’d offer to let you take the reins, but I wasn’t sure you’d want to arrive at the ball in that sort of style.”

And why was she so disappointed by that truth? She hadn’t driven her own carriage since she’d married. Winthrop had always insisted on either driving his phaeton himself or having their coachman drive the larger carriage. At first, she’d thought he was merely being a gentleman, but he’d been aghast the day she’d asked to try her hand at his sporty carriage.

“My wife will not be seen behind a team of horses like some farmworker.”

Even now the remembered contempt on his face cut her. She realized her hands were clenched at her sides and opened them. “Quite right,” she said to Richard. “I’ve outgrown such antics.”

For a moment, she thought she saw a disappointment matching her own flicker in his dark eyes. Then Mrs. Corday stepped forward with Claire’s black velvet evening cloak. “You’ll be needing this, your ladyship.”

“Allow me,” Richard said, and took the cloak from her to drape it over Claire’s shoulders. The brush of his hand against her cheek as he drew back was as soft as a caress.

Claire’s fingers trembled as she fastened the cloak at her neck. She looked up in time to see him erase a frown from his face. The amber cross seemed to press against her skin. But if he’d noticed it before the cape had covered it, he made no mention of the fact as he took her arm and escorted her down to the carriage.

Lord, now what do I say to him? she prayed, as they sat beside each other on the leather seats. No ideas popped into her head, but she was thankful that Richard seemed just as indisposed to talk, as he gazed out the windows at the lighted town houses they passed. She was also thankful the ride to the Widmores’ on Park Lane was mercifully quick, and the coachman was adept at maneuvering the chariot right up to the door.

Climbing out was always a gamble, and Claire prayed that her knee would oblige. But Richard stepped down first and fairly lifted her from the vehicle, his hands strong on her waist. She wasn’t surprised to find all her limbs trembling as he led her to the door.

The Widmore home was large, with a full ballroom on the second story. Soon Claire was in the receiving line with Richard, their cloaks taken by a strapping footman, the finest of London society around them. Music drifted from the ballroom beyond, flowing down the stairs. Already the murmur of voices threatened to drown it out, so numerous were the guests in their satins and velvets.

Claire wasn’t sure what to say about her escort to her friend Lavinia Devary, Lady Widmore, who stood with her husband and daughter outside the ballroom doors. All three were dressed in velvet, from the white of young Lady Imogene to the raisin-colored gown of her mother and the black coat of her father. As Claire and Richard approached, however, Lord Widmore spoke first. “Ah, Everard. I’m glad you sent that note about attending. You remember my dear wife and daughter?”