He did so in a remarkable series of movements. His height did not seem as if it would fit in the small French chair beside hers. It did.
She had hoped he would choose the settee at a greater distance. However, he managed it, even if he did appear like great eagle perched on a tiny promontory. Somehow, she had no idea how, he did not look ridiculous.
“Sugar?” she asked.
“No. I loathe the stuff.”
“Why?”
“I have my reasons,” he said quickly. And one might have thought it was merely because, like some, he cared for his figure. But she could not help but feel there was something darker there. For the briefest of moments, the mirth had turned into something harder in his gaze.
Deciding not to pursue it, she asked, “What do you mean exactly? About playing the American?”
Still, with a beautiful straight back, he relaxed into his chair. A careless, appealing movement. “The English nobles have some very strange ideas about how Americans behave. I enjoy increasing those thoughts.”
“Not terribly diplomatic of you,” she said as she thrust the teacup at him.
“I’m a captain, not a diplomat.” He reached for the cup.
“Is your vessel large?” she asked suddenly.
His brows rose ever so slightly, his hand stilling.
She blushed. Immediately, the comment seemed amiss, but she could no longer take it back.
“Yes,” he went on smoothly, taking the steaming cup of tea painted with gold.
Briefly, their fingertips touched. Both of them ungloved. For one flash, their eyes met and it was like being seared by the most powerful heat that somehow did not burn.
She nearly snatched her hand back, so unaccustomed was she to such an intimate experience.
“It is a large vessel,” he teased, clearly pretending that nothing had transpired. “Three masts. Cannons. A host of souls.”
“Cannons?” she exclaimed, pouring her own cup and, to her surprise, she did not put sugar into her cup.
“Indeed.”
“Why do you need cannons?” she asked, carefully turning the cup and holding the saucer on her palm.
He winked as he balanced his own saucer, which appeared minuscule on his massive palm. “Haven’t you heard? I’m a pirate.”
“Real pirates don’t exist anymore.”
“It all depends on what you mean by ‘real’,” he said seriously, the teasing dying from his voice. “But I do liberate property.”
At this last sentence the amusement vanished from him and there it was. That hardness.
“How have you not been arrested?” she asked bluntly. The English took theft of property very seriously. Hanging or transportation was the usual result.
“It’s been close a few times,” he confessed, sipping his tea. “But your government is now particularly favorable to my work. That is why our offices are opening in London.”
She shook her head, feeling terribly confused. She could not imagine a circumstance in which the government would support theft. “Your work? Liberating property?”
“Slaves,” he replied bluntly, his eyes granite now.
She swallowed. “I beg your pardon?”
“My brothers and I,” he continued with remarkable calm and stillness. “We have, over the years, stopped slavers, boarded them, and freed those aboard. Soon, I think your own Navy vessels will be performing such acts.”
“My God,” she whispered, staring at him in an entirely new light.
He frowned and his casual easiness started to slip away. “Given your family, I did not think I would meet disapproval. Am I mistaken?”
“Not at all,” she protested. “I am angry with myself.”
“Why?” he exclaimed.
“I knew you were wild,” she rushed, her mind a mix of confused feelings and thoughts at this revelation of his. “But I never thought you noble.”
He groaned. “Please do not use that word. We fought a revolution to escape that particular word.”
“Honorable then?” she posited.
“Honor really has little to do with it. It is necessary. It is the right thing to do.”
Her chest rose and fell in quick breaths, suddenly realizing that the man across from her was no idle adventurer. His entire life had been useful and good in a way hers never had been. And she had had such unkind thoughts about him. “Not everyone thinks so.”
“Not everyone has a functioning brain,” he drawled as he took a long drink of tea.
She laughed. A full laugh. It tumbled past her lips and through the room. So rich was it that she immediately clacked her teeth shut.
“Not used to it, are you?” he asked softly, kindly. “Finding the humor in a situation.”
Before, she might have avoided such a personal question. But here? Now? She immediately realized he was a man intimately acquainted with pain and it would be the height of self-centeredness to think her own might supersede his. “Not anymore.”
“It’s not a betrayal you know.”
She shook her head. “Of what?”
He placed his teacup down and leaned forward. “Your family.”
To her horror, her throat tightened. “I beg your pardon?” she managed to gasp.
“To laugh. It’s not a betrayal of them.”
“I- I- I beg your pardon, but I should prefer it if you ended our interview. Surely, you have fortified yourself and you have done what you came to do.”
“What I said. It hurt you. For that, I am sorry. And if you’d truly like me to go, I will. But I know something of this.”
“Do you, indeed?” she gritted, blind pain taking over. Her earlier goodwill and understanding of his own suffering were replaced by something deep and unpleasant inside herself. “Your entire family is dead?”
He stilled and braced his hands on his knees. “My little sister, Blythe, died when she was eight years of age. I was eighteen. I fancied myself a man grown, but she was my heart. I lived to make her happy. My brother— Won’t even speak her name.” A wave of self-reproach washed over her. She’d done it again. She’d clung to her own suffering despite the possibility that he had suffered, too. It was a moment of awakening that only brought tears to her eyes. “I am sorry.”
He smiled gently. “Thank you. And if you must know, I’ve seen things which would rob the joy from the merriest of hearts. There was a time in which I could not smile. In which I could not lift myself from the hell I saw.”
She could not move. Why was he saying these things? They were so intimate, so honest, so raw. To her horror, she realized he was saying these things because they were both victims of this cruel world.
“I should like to be your friend,” he replied honestly.
She shook her head, desperate to avoid the feeling suddenly rushing to her fore. “I am not in need of friends.”
“You are,” he countered. “We all are. And I think we’d have a great deal of fun.”
“Fun?” she echoed. “I do not know what that is now.”
A gentle smile turned his lips. “Then let me help you become reacquainted with it.”
She stared at him. Stared for several moments as if a gulf of understanding was opening between them and he was asking her to leap into it. “And if I am not ready?”
“You will never be ready,” he informed her, seriously. “If you are content and think your family would approve of your current state, I will walk out of this room and leave you to it. But I do not think that you are content or that your family would approve. Still, I will not press.”
“You pity me,” she breathed. Hating that.
“I find you to be a most interesting young lady and would like to know you better,” he corrected. But then he gave that careless shrug of his. “And, while I might agree to what I imagine you shall protest next, there are many fine ladies in London to befriend.”
Slowly, he stood, his powerful gaze holding her. “There is only one Lady Beatrix. And for whatever reason, my spirit has beco
me sympathetic to yours. Something altogether different from pity.”
With that, he inclined his head. “I shan’t keep you longer. I will be waiting.”
As he placed the teacup down on the table beside her, his scent surrounded her. Remarkably, despite being in town, he somehow embodied the sea. Fresh, sharp, unpredictable.
He bowed again slightly then headed for the door. Instead of waiting for her to reply, he simply strode out. Her hands seemed restless, as if she had no idea what to do with them as she gaped at the door.
Had he truly just argued such a case and then made a quick exit? It seemed he had. Now, what in the blazes was she to do? To her surprise, she pushed herself up from the chair and shuffled to the window.
His tall form headed out into the summer sunshine. His dark blue coat stood out amidst the others on the pavement, for his shoulders were positively Herculean. His matching tricorn sat upon his blond head at a jaunty angle. And he headed out into the mass of people as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Suddenly, her heart fluttered as she studied him and felt enveloped with awe and envy. She wanted that carefree air. She wanted that again. Could she dare to take it? There was only one way to find out.
Chapter Eight
The next morning, after considerable thought, Beatrix was still flummoxed at how best to proceed. One could not easily be friends with a man. Not when one was unmarried. For instance, she couldn’t exactly go to his home, call upon him, and have tea. It just wasn’t done. Surely, there was another way to proceed.
She supposed she could write Captain Duke a letter, asking him to visit her again, but she had tried again and again to compose a missive. The words, the right words, just would not form themselves.
So, she’d spent a mostly sleepless night, wishing she’d been born a man. A man could come and go as he pleased. A man was not held captive in his home. Nor did he need a chaperone or servant to accompany him if he ventured out.
Dawn had arisen and nothing had magically altered through the night. Still at a loss, she’d come downstairs, poured herself tea, masticated a slice of toast and eyed her cousin, Lock, who looked as if he’d had a very good night out being a young man. It made her long to throw her toast at him, though it was no fault of his own. One could not control the gender of their birth after all.
“You told me he was a brigand,” she blurted.
Lock stared at her as if she’d grown a second head. “Good morning to you, too, Cousin. Of whom do we speak?”
Beatrix rolled her eyes. After all, how many brigands had they discussed? Butter knife in hand, she found she was exceedingly hungry after a night of soul searching. “Captain Duke.”
Lock shrugged as he ate his eggs. “He is.”
“He is not!” she protested. “He does the most important of work.”
Eyeing her carefully over his tea, Lock asked quietly, “You’ve been reading about him?”
She placed her knife along her plate which was painted with pink and blue flowers. “I saw him.”
Lock groaned.
“He called upon me yesterday.”
Lock thunked his silver fork, embossed with the ducal crest, down. “And he waxed poetic regarding his noble endeavors?”
“Hardly,” she replied, wondering why the devil her cousin so disliked the man. “But he did mention what he does and it’s not piracy. Well, it shouldn’t be considered as such, in my opinion.”
“I value your opinion,” Lock said evenly as he smoothed the front of his dark waistcoat. “I even agree with it, if you must know. Half the world does not.”
She sniffed. “Well, half the world is wrong.”
Lock smiled, but it was not a smile of amusement. It was one of great understanding of the machinations of the world’s misfortunes. “It often is.”
His look gave her pause. “If you feel thus, why would you say such dismissive things about him when he frees-”
“Because, he does break the law,” he cut in firmly. “Because he is at war with himself. And he flouts the rules of his own land. After rebelling against ours. He is a man without a country.”
“I thought he was an American,” she teased, hoping to bring the serious subject some lightness. “You clearly labeled him thus the other day.”
Lock snorted. “He was born there. His family supported the rebellion. What else is there to say?”
“Apparently a great deal since now you say he is a man without a country,” she said, taking up her tea.
“He is a rebel,” Lock said, as though it was the worst insult in all Christendom. “Through and through.”
A rebel.
How freeing. Again, she recalled how he had ridden through the park, not a care in the world. The envy she’d felt had nearly overwhelmed her.
Once, she’d had no desire to be anything other than what society expected her to be. Once. . . Now? Now, she knew that one was always a moment away from being cast out. Or, at least, set apart.
“He is not good company for a young lady,” Lock said, his voice almost pleading.
“I’m sure you’re correct,” she replied, mostly to avoid suspicion and because she had a definite inkling that her cousin disliked the American for reasons she could not fully appreciate. But Captain Duke seemed to be admired by most of those who knew him, or so her lady’s maid had declared when brushing Beatrix’s hair the previous evening.
So, she nodded at Lock and kept her counsel to herself. As she ate her own toast, she knew exactly what she was going to do. And love her cousin though she did, it was not going to be his advice that she followed.
* * *
Adam drank his coffee, absolutely loving the dark liquid which revived him each morning as if by magic. It was a beverage fit for the gods.
Last night, he’d been invited to several places for entertainments. He had not gone. He’d eschewed everyone, feeling a strange and unfamiliar turmoil. He’d had no wish to smile and make jests while so at sea. He should have gone. For, at least, if he’d headed out to the whirl of parties or even the danger of the docks, he might have been distracted. Instead of lessening, the emotions within him had only deepened.
What the devil had he done yesterday?
Even by his standards, he’d been remarkably forward with Lady Beatrix. And it had not succeeded.
Quite madly, he had waited, listening for the sound of a footman brining a note. Beyond all reason, he’d hoped that she might relent not long after he left and invite him to another meeting.
He couldn’t fathom why it mattered so much to him that she didn’t wall herself up and wither away. He’d done his best. Surely, that was enough.
Then again, perhaps. . . Perhaps, he felt that it was damned wasteful to throw away such a promising young life when his own little sister had never had the chance.
Was that it?
Was it so simple?
He closed his eyes, resting his hand over them, as if it might alleviate the pain of the past. He still missed the little girl who’d taken his hand and run through the fields, looking for frogs and rabbits. What an adventurer she would have been.
A soft smile pulled at his lips and he dropped his hand to his lip. The memory still hurt and, yet, thoughts of his sister could still fill him with joy. Opening his eyes, he drew in a deep breath, knowing he had to shake himself from his present state. Long hours alone did him no good.
Sharp, efficient knocking resounded on his door and he turned towards the sound, a traitorous hope springing up in him. Generally, he didn’t have callers at his London abode. Bachelor’s lodgings made unexpected visits a rarity, something he enjoyed.
Most of his cohorts were creatures of the night. Ellesmere and Tony were likely still abed. The two had gone out, carousing until all hours of the night.
There was a chance it was a business associate, but they usually left a message at the forming office.
When his man, Argyle, a big, red-haired, Scotsman, peered into Adam’s study, the man’s weather-b
eaten face was a mask of bemused astonishment.
The lack of a note in his hand instantly caused Adam’s spirits to drop. A dismaying thing.
“Yes?” he queried.
“Captain,” Argyle began, his burr thick with distress. “A young lady is waiting outside to see you.”
“Does she have a companion?” He wasn’t about to let a young lady into his house without a proper chaperone. Even he knew what disaster lay in that. It was damned odd for a young lady to call upon him at all given that he had few female friends in the capital and all those were the wives of either the recent family he had acquired through his brother, or of the dukes that seemed to come hand in hand with them.
“She does have accompaniment,” Argyle said tightly.
“Then send her in,” he said, hoping whoever it was might cause his thoughts to dance away from Lady Beatrix.
Argyle cleared his throat. “She says it will be too difficult to get back up on the horse.”
Adam’s brow furrowed. “She’s on a horse?”
“Yes. Her groom relayed the message.”
Adam shot up from his leather, wing-backed chair and headed for the window.
He searched the street clogged with hackneys and carts laden with produce for the markets. He grabbed hold of the windowsill, barely able to believe his eyes.
Surely not.
Lady Beatrix sat atop her saddle in haughty splendor, her scarlet red riding habit draped over the withers of a black mare.
She sat clasping the reins with ease with elegant black gloves, but her back was ramrod straight, the trail of her dark veil dancing between her shoulder blades. He could not see her face under the fine veil of her hat which was designed in the military style.
“Did she say anything else?” he asked, agog.
“She asks if you would like to ride in the park.” Argyle’s usually low, rumbly voice was pitched high, as if he couldn’t quite believe the message he was conveying.
“Have my horse brought around,” he said immediately.
Dashing Dukes and Romantic Rogues Page 15
