Regina Scott - The Captain's Courtship

“Thank you,” Claire murmured. Fully aware that Richard’s gaze followed her every step, she went to the fireplace and took the kettle off the hook. Carrying it to the sideboard, she set about pouring the steaming water into one of her china cups.

She nearly sighed aloud when she peered into the satinwood tea caddy. This was the last of her bohea. Funny how little things had come to mean so much now. Would she be able to get the mellow tea in the little town where she hoped to retire? For, regardless of what she’d told Richard and a few close friends, her funds would never extend to Bath or Italy. She was considering a two-room cottage in the tiny village of Nether Crawley, a day’s ride from London. Of course, with no carriage or horse, the distance was immaterial. Very likely, she would never see London again.

Help me remember why I made that choice, Lord. It does no good to wish it otherwise now.

She returned with Richard’s tea and set it in front of him. Lifting the cup to his mouth, he took a cautious sip. Now, why did that smile please her so much? She’d have thought she’d played a complicated Mozart sonata in front of the king.

“Are you certain you want to leave London?” he asked as he lowered the cup.

“Quite,” she replied. She turned her back on his frown and went to pour for herself.

“What if I could give you another Season, all expenses paid?”

She could not even reach for the teapot. Stay in London? Enjoy the balls, the parties; reacquaint herself with her friends, with no thought of tomorrow?

Ah, but she’d learned there always came the time to pay the piper. Tomorrow, however much she wished otherwise, would come. He only offered a reprieve. She would have to leave London regardless, before the Season, after the Season, for the same small house at the back of beyond. In the meantime, she would have to continue to pretend that her life was perfect, that she was perfect. No, not that. Lord, You know I am so tired of that.

She poured the last of the brew, the steam curling up to her face. “I fear my mind is made up, sir.”

“Then it’s my duty to change it.”

She turned to find him regarding her, his cup sitting in front of him, his hands braced on either side of it as if he meant to keep it captive.

“Sit down, Claire,” he ordered.

Mrs. Corday’s hands were moving so fast Claire thought the potato might fly across the table and embed itself in Richard Everard’s waistcoat. She left her cup on the sideboard and went to lay a hand on her cook’s shoulder.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Corday. Our guest is a sea captain. He’s no doubt forgotten that it isn’t polite to give orders to people who are not his subordinates.”

Mrs. Corday cast Richard a quick glance. “As you say, your ladyship.”

He had the good grace to incline his head, and the light from the lamps overhead made a halo on the crown of his auburn hair. “Forgive me, Mrs. Corday. You are the captain of your kitchen. I should have asked permission to come aboard.”

The older woman’s rosy lips quirked as if she were fighting a smile. “It’s no trouble, sir. Would you care for a biscuit to go with your tea?”

“If you made it,” he said with a smile, “I’m sure I’d enjoy it.”

She set down the potato and hurried to the pantry.

So, he could be perfectly charming to the staff, but not to Claire. Well, she wasn’t going to allow him to order her about, either. She swept back to the sideboard and busied herself adding sugar to the tea. Normally she preferred three teaspoons, but she had to economize. She took a sip of the flavorful brew, even as she heard Mrs. Corday murmuring to their guest and the clink of porcelain on oak as she set the plate of the last biscuits on the table.

“Please sit down, Lady Winthrop,” Richard Everard said quietly. “I have a great deal to explain.”

Claire steeled herself, picked up her cup and turned. His smile was contrite, his face composed. She couldn’t trust what lay beneath that fair surface, but she went to join him at the table. Her cook began cutting the potatoes into a copper pot.

“I should probably start with expressing my condolences on your loss,” he continued in that gentle tone.

“And mine on yours,” she acknowledged. “Though, as I recall, you and your uncle were no longer close.”

He rubbed a long finger along the wood grain of the table. She’d always thought he should play the piano with those hands. Certainly he could have managed the octave-and-a-half reach that still eluded her. And he’d definitely had the fire to play with enthusiasm, once.

“Uncle had changed recently,” he said. “Tried to make amends, to me, my brother and cousin, as well as his daughter.”

“So he really has a daughter?” Claire could not see the pleasure-loving Lord Everard as a doting father. His exploits—from duels at daybreak to wagers at one in the morning—were legendary. “Where has she been all these years?”

“Cumberland, in an old manor house. She was raised to be a lady, Claire. You need have no worries on that score.”

She should protest the way her first name kept coming so easily to his lips, but the sound of it was sweet. With her father and husband dead, no one called her Claire anymore. “You intend to bring her out this year?”

“Right after Easter. She’ll need a coming-out ball or some such, I suppose—clothes, of course—oh, and presentation to the queen.”

So that was why he needed her. He could have found someone to cater an event, issue invitations, and certainly any dressmaker could have gowned the girl. But to be presented to the queen, Richard’s cousin needed someone who had already been presented, a lady of some social standing, a lady like Claire.

Which meant that Richard Everard needed her help, almost as badly as she needed his. Was it possible she could parlay his request into more?

Is this a door You want me to walk through, Lord?

Aloud, she murmured, “I imagine she has her heart set on this Season.”

“She’s actually a bit intimidated by the prospect,” he confessed with a fond smile. “She needs a good example.”

Now, that would be pleasant, serving as an example to a young girl, helping her avoid Claire’s mistakes. But did she really want to relive those mistakes any more than she already had?

“Perhaps you should wait a year, then,” Claire replied. “She’s only sixteen, you said. Plenty of time.”

He shifted on the chair, spine straightening, chin lifting. Sitting beside him, she could see the physical influences of his profession—the golden tan of his skin where the sun had caressed him, the lines at the corners of his eyes where he’d gazed across the horizon.

“It must be this year,” he said.

Interesting. Why was he so insistent? She’d been pushed to do her duty too many times to force it on another, particularly a girl fresh from the schoolroom. “Nonsense, sir. I assure you a maiden needs a certain level of maturity to do well in London. Would you pluck a peach before it had ripened?”

“Lady Everard is hardly a fruit.”

Claire sat taller. “Lady Everard? Then she has the title. Oh, your brother must be beside himself.”

Even with his close beard, she could see the tension in that square jaw. “My brother Jerome is delighted with the turn of events. He was married four days ago and is busy setting up his household.”

“Indeed. I must send him a note in congratulations. Who is the lucky bride?”

He leaned back from the table. Oh, but he didn’t want to give her the information. Claire kept her smile polite. A lady did not gloat in triumph at discomfiting a troublesome guest, however sorely she was tempted.

“Her name is Adele Walcott,” he said.