Regina Scott - The Captain's Courtship

Her attitude grated on his nerves, already too high for his liking. In fact, his cravat seemed to have tightened since he’d arrived in the house, and he tugged at it now. “Perhaps we could sit down.”

That oh-so-proper smile did not waver. “I fear I’ve nothing to offer you, Captain Everard, by way of seating or assistance. I’m sure you’ll find another lady far more suited to your purpose. You should go.”

So she was throwing him out. Why had he even considered asking her for help? She was more high-handed now than she’d been as a girl. Nothing he’d said back then had mattered. Why should today be any different? If I needed a lesson in humility, Lord, this is it.

“No doubt you’re right, Lady Winthrop,” he said with a bow. “As I recall, you had the annoying habit of always being right. I bid you good-day, madam.” He took the handle from her grip and swung open the door.

She sighed. It was the smallest of sounds, hardly audible, because of her own good breeding and through the noise from the busy street. But the dejected breath cut through his frustration—awakened something inside him he’d thought long dead. His foot on the step, he turned to gaze back at her.

“Are you all right, Claire?”

An emotion flickered across her oval face. Was it because he’d used her given name, or was she truly in trouble? Still, that infuriating smile remained pleasant. “Certainly, Captain Everard. I have all I need. I am quite content.”

Content? The Lady Claire he remembered had never been content. The latest fashion, the fastest carriage—she had to have them all and much sooner than half of London. She had ridden with more skill and danced with more enthusiasm than any other woman he’d ever met. He truly hadn’t been surprised when she’d chosen a wealthy, titled peer over a second son of a second son of a newly minted baron. Just crushed.

She shifted as if eager to have him leave, and he caught a clear view into the entryway. For the first time, he noticed the darker rectangles on the papered walls where paintings must have been removed, the scuffs on the parquet floor where large pieces of furniture had no doubt been scraped as they’d been carried out. A house this size ought to boast a half dozen servants at least, but no maid had attended her during her conversation with the tradesman, and no butler came hurrying to see him out now.

“You don’t have a sofa to sit on, do you?” he asked.

Her smile slipped at last. “That, sir, is none of your concern.”

He put a hand flat on the door, shoved it wide and strode back into the house. “It may not be my concern, madam, but it is to my advantage. I have a proposal for you, and I advise you to listen.”

Chapter Two

A proposal? Claire stared at him, mouth dry. No, he couldn’t mean a proposal of marriage. She’d destroyed any tender feelings he’d had for her. And her own feelings had been folded away like a favorite gown, tucked between sheets of tissue for safety. Some might say that a marriage would solve her problems, but she couldn’t believe that. And marriage to Richard Everard? Never.

But he didn’t wait for her response. He strode to the sitting room door, the slap of his brown boot heels echoing against the wood floor, and glanced inside. Apparently disliking what he saw, he stalked across the space to glare into what had been her husband’s library.

“You really don’t have a sofa,” he declared, as if that was somehow a moral deficiency.

Claire tugged down on her sleeves, careful to keep him from seeing the edge she’d so carefully patched. Her mother would never have imagined the ends to which Claire would have to put the embroidery skills she’d been taught.

“The sofas in this house were shabby pieces,” she told him. “I am well rid of them.”

He returned to her side, dark eyes narrowing. “So you’d have me believe you merely tired of all your furnishings.”

It was close to the truth; she’d tired of any number of things. Claire waved a hand. “I’ve grown weary of the whole, tedious social whirl. The town house has been sold, and I plan to leave London before Easter. I thought perhaps Bath, or Italy. I have yet to decide.”

She had hoped her tone was as breezy as her wave, but he shook his head. “The Claire I knew would have crawled to London over broken glass rather than miss the Season.”

“Then perhaps, sir, I am not the Claire you knew.”

He laughed as if she’d said something remarkably clever. He had no idea how difficult the last ten years had been, how much she’d changed, how much she’d had to mature. At least that much good has come of it, Father.

“We’ll see about that,” he said. “But I can’t keep you standing about like this. Is there nowhere in this house we can sit down?”

She thought about turning him away more forcefully, but truly, did it matter? He would say his piece, she would decline, and he would be gone. If he told anyone about her constrained circumstances, she’d be miles away before the gossip grew to any magnitude.

“We still have a table and chairs in the kitchen,” she told him. “This way.”

She led him down the corridor beside the stairs toward the little kitchen at the rear of the town house. Her right knee twinged just the slightest, protesting all this moving about. Not now, Lord. Please, keep it strong until I’m finished with him. She refused to see pity or, worse, pleasure at her pain. Though, who could blame him for thinking she deserved what she’d gotten from her marriage? She was the one who had broken her promise.

Shoving the memories aside, she pushed through the kitchen door with Richard right behind her. Mrs. Corday looked up from the potatoes she’d been peeling, hand frozen on the knife.

“This is Captain Everard,” Claire said, as if she normally entertained guests in her kitchen. “He wishes to have words with me.”

Her cook blinked bleary blue eyes wreathed in wrinkles. “And would you like me to stay, your ladyship?”

Claire glanced at Richard, who looked surprised she’d think twice about trusting herself alone with him. Claire focused on her cook. “Please go about your duties. Don’t let us disturb you.”

The cook’s snowy brows went up, but she ducked her head and set about whipping the peelings off the crusty vegetables as if her life depended on finishing.

Claire hadn’t spent a lot of time in her kitchen until the furnishings had been taken, but she’d been surprised to find it a dark and dismal place, with a gray stone fireplace that took up one entire wall and oak cabinets painted a lacquered black that had dimmed with time. The only bright spots were the copper tools hanging from the walls around the hearth and what was left of her china, creamy white with rosebuds along the edges, piled haphazardly on the sideboard for packing.

Still, she could remember how to be the proper hostess, even if she had to take the role of servant. “May I take your coat, Captain Everard?”

“Thank you.” He shrugged out of the multicaped greatcoat and folded it over one arm to hand it to her. Under it he wore tan breeches and a tailored brown wool jacket. An emerald-striped satin waistcoat peeked out through the lapels. She could find no fault in his clothing or the elegantly tied cravat at his throat. In fact, he looked every bit the gentleman.

“Please, have a seat,” she said, motioning him to a ladder-back chair farther down the oak worktable. She went to hang his coat on a curved-arm hall tree by the kitchen door. “Would you care for some tea?”

She turned in time to see that he had pursed his lips as if he doubted she could produce the brew. “Certainly, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Meeting Claire’s gaze, Mrs. Corday jerked her head toward the fire. “Kettle’s already on the boil, your ladyship. There’s enough for a few more cups in the caddy.”