The Captain of Her Fate: A Regency Romance (The Other Bennet Sisters Book 1)

by Nina Mason

  “Are you sure you are not bored by the minutia of my dossier?”

  “Quite the contrary, I assure you,” Sir Steven replied. “I am positively enthralled.”

  Satisfied that his guest was indeed interested, Theo cleared his throat and continued. “A year later, I took command of a frigate, after which I served briefly in the West Indies before returning to Britain. A few months thereafter, with the resumption of the Napoleonic War, my ship was deployed into the English Channel and the Bay of Biscay, to take part in the Battle of Finesterre.”

  When Theo took a break from talking, Sir Steven cajoled, “Come, come, Captain. You cannot expect to satisfy me with such a brief accounting of the part you played in the battle.”

  Theo licked his lips and raked his fingers through his hair, which he wore almost as long as he had in the navy. “Well, sir, since you insist upon knowing the specifics, we were dispatched to scout for the Franco-Spanish fleet patrolling off the Cape. After spotting the enemy, whilst towing a captured merchant ship, we closed in on the frigate following the van, intending to cut her off and board her. Before we could, however, the whole of the enemy fleet did an about-face. All at once, we found ourselves facing the entire enemy armada, which was fast bearing down on us. Fortunately, they observed the conventions and held their fire, although not for long. When the whole of our fleet came into range, engagement ensued, during which we took fire. In the exchange, two of my men were killed and three others wounded.”

  “Capital, capital!” Sir Steven displayed the height of excitement. “And what do you think will happen next in France?”

  “Engagement with the coalition forces appears unavoidable,” Theo told him. “Though where that confrontation shall take place, remains to be seen.”

  The Admiralty had thought the war with France over after Napoleon Bonaparte’s defeat, abdication, and banishment last year. Such, as it turned out, was not the case. Somehow, the exiled emperor had escaped and returned to France. Now, having reclaimed the reins of power, he was in the process of raising an army. To battle this new threat, a coalition of allied troops was presently being mobilized under the command of Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington.

  Before Theo could say more, a clock chimed somewhere nearby, announcing the hour as five o’clock. Sir Steven rose from his chair and bowed as low as he could with his paunch. “My sincerest thanks…and apologies, Captain. As much as I long to hear your further thoughts on the matter, I must leave it for another time. For I fear I have overstayed my welcome already.”

  “Not at all.” Theo struggled to his feet with the aid of his cane. “I thoroughly enjoyed our discussion.”

  “Thank you for indulging me.” Sir Steven offered his host an agreeable smile. “Perhaps we can pick up where we left off at tomorrow’s gathering.”

  Two

  Though the advantages of living in Much Wenlock were many, life in a small rural parish was not without its drawbacks. The greatest of these was a deficiency of eligible beaus in the social circle to which Louisa Bennet’s family belonged. Another, which she found equally provoking, was the trouble she had acquiring new novels. For two whole years she had waited for the village’s only bookshop to stock Pride and Prejudice, the new romance by the author of Sense and Sensibility.

  But now, God be praised, Pride and Prejudice, in all three of its leather-bound volumes, was in her possession at last—nay, in her very hands!—and she was determined to spend the rest of the morning devouring the long-awaited prose. For there was nothing Louisa liked better in this world than losing herself in a good novel—except perhaps riding over hills and hedges on her beloved black hunter.

  Giddy with anticipation, Louisa settled into her reading chair in her bedchamber’s window alcove and opened the first volume. She had only read a few pages when her mother shouted up the stairs: “Louisa, Georgianna, Henrietta, Charlotte—do come down at once. Sir Steven has called to share news of our new neighbor, which I am sure you all are as eager to hear as am I.”

  Excitement fluttered in Louisa’s belly. She was indeed eager to hear news of the new tenant of Greystone Hall. Rumor had it he was a man of means and, all the better, a bachelor. Was he also handsome and affable like Mr. Bingley? Or was he proud and standoffish like Mr. Darcy? Either way, she had already made up her mind to marry the gentleman.

  For he could not be half as horrid as the cousin her father was arranging for her to marry at this very moment.

  Louisa felt a sudden chill, despite the heat of the fire, her woolen shawl, and the long-sleeved morning dress she’d put on to visit the bookstore. Evicting Charles Hillsworth from her thoughts, she set her book on the chairside table and hurried down to find Sir Steven Baldwyn and all her female relations assembled in the drawing room.

  Louisa settled herself upon the Chippendale settee beside Georgianna—Georgie for short— her closest sister in age, beauty, friendship. Her mother and the Baron occupied the tea-green sofa across from them, while Henrietta and Charlotte sat in the bordering chintz armchairs.

  Their maid-of-all-work bought in a tray of tea and cake. As she poured out a cup for each of them, Louisa looked out at the weather. Seeing sunshine and clear skies, she felt a peculiar sense of renewal, along with the strong desire to go riding. After Sir Steven left, perhaps she would take Midnight out for some exercise rather than return to her book. Pride and Prejudice would always be there, after all, while the fine weather might not last the hour.

  When they all had their tea and cake in hand, Sir Steven cleared his throat. “Before I came here, you will be interested to know, I paid a call upon our new neighbor at Greystone Hall.”

  “Oh, Sir Steven, you must tell us all about him,” Charlotte implored with the fire of excitement in her hazel eyes. “What is his name? What is he like? Tall or short? Handsome or ugly? Young or old? Good-humored or ill-tempered?”

  Sir Steven chuckled affably. “Well, to start with, his name is Raynalds. Captain Theobald Raynalds, formerly of the Royal Navy. He has moved here from Portsmouth…or was it Plymouth? I always get those two confused. In any event, he made his fortune in the last war with France and Spain.” The jovial Baron smiled at them all before adding, “And as to his countenance, I can tell you this much: He is neither short nor old nor ugly nor ill-tempered. In fact, he has what I suppose you young ladies would call ‘fine blue eyes’—a reflection, I am sure, of all the years he has spent at sea.”

  Louisa’s heart dropped into the pit of her stomach. In her father’s eyes, officers belonged to the same lesser class as the merchants, bankers, and mine captains who had achieved affluence through gainful employment rather than bloodline or birthright—the “new rich,” Papa called them in a tone of condescension. Such personages, to his great consternation, now outnumbered the bluebloods inhabiting County Shropshire.

  Not that Papa’s elitist attitudes would matter a whit if she and the Captain were to… Heaven and Earth! If she did not take the trouble to check her ambitions, she would appear too keen when they were introduced. Moreover, she was too much of a lady to throw herself at anyone, even under the desperate circumstances in which she presently found herself.

  “Is he to come to the assembly tonight?” Mama asked Sir Steven.

  “The Captain said he would come, but is disinclined to dance,” he answered. “Still, be not too disappointed, my dears, for he is bringing with him a friend—a Lieutenant Churchill, whom, Captain Raynalds assures me, is excessively fond of the amusement.”

  His words were a slap in the face. If Capt. Raynalds was averse to dancing, how would she ever win his regard? For everybody knew that dancing and poetry were the best ways to encourage affection—and her pathetic couplets were not up to the task. Besides, writing love poems, like everything else in this world worth doing, was the man’s prerogative. The woman’s role was to be pretty, passive, and patient—however much it frustrated her natural inclinations.

  “Is his friend also unmarried?” asked Georgie—Louis
a’s nickname for her favorite sister.

  “I believe so, but was led to believe he will not be easily caught,” Sir Steven told her. “So you ladies will have to work extra hard to win his special attention.”

  “Well, that is still good news,” Mama said, her blue eyes afire. “If I could only see my two eldest daughters happily settled with husbands in a position to look after the rest of us, I shall be perfectly satisfied.”

  “Really, Mama,” Henrietta interjected reproachfully. “You are galloping ahead of yourself, are you not? For we know nothing of their character and disposition, nothing to suggest they merit our good opinion, and nothing at all to indicate they would make my sisters suitable husbands.” In a lighter tone, she added, “Should they not at least meet the gentleman before you start throwing rice at them?”

  “And besides,” Charlotte chimed in, “Louisa is practically engaged already. For is Papa not in Town this very minute finalizing the marriage contract with Cousin Charles?”

  The mention of her father’s purposes in London tied Louisa’s entrails in knots. When they were children, Charles made a game of tormenting her. He pulled her hair, twisted her arm until her flesh burned, and forced her to watch as he tortured the small birds and animals he caught in his traps. When they were older, he forced a kiss on her—a devilry that was not to be borne!

  And now, Lord help her, she might be forced to marry that villain!

  Mama fixed her youngest with a heated glare and said, almost spitting the words, “I would rather see Louisa dead than married to that detestable man.”

  Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Oh, Mama. Must you be so overdramatic?”

  Louisa agreed with her mother. Better to be dead than married to a monster like her cousin. Regrettably, she had little chance of escaping her fate unless she could persuade someone else to elope with her before the wedding took place. And, curse her luck, that someone might not be her new neighbor after all.

  Still, she must not abandon hope quite yet. Just because the Captain did not care for dancing did not mean he had no other interests in common with her.

  “Is the Captain perchance an avid equestrian?” Louisa could forgive his dislike of dancing if he loved to ride as much as she did.

  “I cannot tell you,” came Sir Steven’s disappointing reply, “as I have set eyes upon the Captain out of doors but once…and he was in a carriage at the time—a convertible landau, to be precise.”

  Louisa pressed on, despite her mounting disenchantment. “Is he a man of information?”

  “I saw no books when I visited him,” the Baron replied, “though that might only mean his library has not yet arrived…or is perhaps still crated.”

  Her aspirations with regard to the Captain now significantly diminished, she decided to make one further attempt to resuscitate her hopes. Addressing herself to Sir Steven once more, she asked, “Is there anything else you can tell us about the Captain? Anything at all?”

  “Only this,” said he with an affable smile. “When I brought up your name, he seemed to take an interest, despite his aversion to marriage in general. Beyond that, you will have to form your own opinions at tomorrow’s assembly.”

  After Sir Steven took his leave, Louisa remained in the parlor with Mama. She was too depressed to read—or even to go riding. She had foolishly pinned her hopes on a man she knew nothing about—a man who was not of her class, cared nothing for dancing, and was not in want of a wife.

  Bless my soul! Whatever am I going to do?

  All at once, the paneled walls seemed to close in on her. Tears welled in her eyes, but she forbade them to fall. Crying was a sign of weakness, which she refused to show, however much her father smashed her hopes or crushed her dreams. For giving Papa more power over her than he already held would leave a crack in her spirit time would never repair.

  Suddenly afraid of her father’s wrath, Louisa said to her mother, “Are you sure this is a good idea? For you know as well as I that if Papa should find out what we are conspiring to do, he will doubtless punish the both of us severely.”

  “Then we must take pains to ensure he does not find out,” Mama returned with fiery eyes. “For I refuse to stand by as he forces you to marry a man you despise for good reason, My father did the same to me, and my mother made not the smallest effort to help me. I want to see you happy in your marriage, dearest Louisa, not ill-treated as I have been all these years.”

  “Oh, Mama,” Louisa cried, her heart breaking for them both. “I want that, too. More than anything in the world.”

  Biting her lip to stem her tears, Louisa fixed her gaze on the ormolu clock in the middle of the mantel. Day and night its gilded cherubs—like tiny angels of death—recorded the passing of her existence with a thin pinging succession of chimes. Part of her mother’s dowry, that awful clock—and all else belonging to Craven Castle, including the house and property—would be hers one day if she married Charles Hillsworth. So would his great estate in Somerset and his mother’s fashionable townhouses in London and Bath.

  Louisa sighed and looked down at her hands. Perhaps she should just resign herself to her fate and put away all her dreams of a happy home and a loving mate. Perhaps she should accept that she would never elude the taunting of that clock or the pain, fear, and grief she had hoped to leave behind when she left her father’s house for her husband’s.

  If she married Charles, her mother and younger sisters could stay in the home they’d always known and continue to live in the style to which they were accustomed. If she did not, Charles would evict them all—to spite them if for no other reason.

  Yet, despite the material advantages of the match, every feeling within her rebelled at the thought of marrying her horrible cousin. Was it because she was a selfish creature who cared only about her own happiness? Or was it because she knew she could not endure a lifetime of misuse?

  She could not say for certain. She only knew that she would rather die than spend the rest of her life chained to a man like her father. When Papa was at home, they all walked on eggshells for fear of provoking his temper. Only when he was in London, like now, was there peace at Craven Castle.

  It would be the same with Charles. She would be his property to use and abuse as he saw fit. Every moment of her life, he would bully, berate, and belittle her, just as Papa did to his wife and daughters. Little by little, like rain, Charles would erode her spirit until there was nothing left but a submissive, fearful shell of the spirited person she’d once been.

  And that, she would never allow—and the reason she must marry the Captain if she could get him. If she fell in love with him—and he with her—all the better, but ardent attachment was not a requirement. She was no Marianne Dashwood. She did not need to burn—to be on fire—like Juliet or Guinevere or Eloise.

  Oh, but how glorious it would be to feel such overpowering emotions—and to be the object of them in return! She would, however, be only too happy to settle for the so-called “polite affections” shared between Marianne’s more sensible sister and Edward Ferrars.

  With mutual regard and respect she would at least have peace of mind and some chance at happiness—and that would be vastly preferable to the life to which her father had condemned her.

  * * * *

  After Theo bathed and dressed for dinner, he went into the dining room to find Winnie reading Pride and Prejudice at the table. Clearly, she would be as silent and preoccupied at dinner as she’d been on the ride from Wales.

  With annoyance churning in his gut, he took his seat at the head of the table. “Is Churchill not joining us this evening?

  “He said he was too fatigued to come down,” his sister answered without lifting her gaze from the novel.

  Too fatigued? Had not the man slept the duration of our journey?

  Theo shook out his napkin and laid it across his lap. Then, training his gaze on his sister’s bowed head, he said, “Do tell me about your book, sister dear. For you obviously find it more interesting than anyth
ing I have to say.”

  She looked up from the page and rolled her eyes. “That is rich coming from the man who has barely said two words together since we left the inn this morning.” Wrinkling her nose at him, she added, “In fact, you have been moody since dinner last night, which has made you very poor company indeed. So, if you cannot make more of an effort to be amiable, I cannot be blamed for choosing a book over my brooding brother’s company.”

  Though truthful, her accusations stung like the lashings Theo had suffered early in his naval career, often for no good reason. “I apologize if I have been sullen, it is just that…well, suffice it to say, there is a great deal occupying my mind at present.”

  Her irritated expression softened into one of concern. “About the move?”

  “Mostly, though other things as well.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Anything I can help with?”

  “You can help by telling me about your book, which will at least distract my thoughts for a time.”

  “Very well.” With a sigh, she lowered the book, closing her forefinger between the pages to mark her place. “It is about a young woman named Elizabeth Bennet, who is determined to marry only for love, but has no prospects.”

  A teasing smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Not unlike a certain person we both know…”

  She glowered at him. “May I continue?”

  “By all means do, sister dear.”

  She moistened her lips and furrowed her brow. “I’ve forgotten where I was.”

  “Elizabeth Bennet is determined to marry for love, but has no prospects.”

  “Oh, yes.” She cleared her throat. “Well…at the start of the book, a man of means moves into the neighborhood and brings with him his two snippy sisters and a handsome albeit prideful man named Mr. Darcy. While Mr. Bingley is agreeable, Mr. Darcy quickly makes himself the contempt of all who meet him. Lizzy, as the heroine is called by her familiars—or, sometimes, Eliza—especially hates him, for she overheard him insult her at an assembly ball. Jane, her elder sister, takes a fancy at once to Mr. Bingley, and he to her…but they are torn asunder by Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley’s sisters, who persuade him to doubt Jane’s affections.”