A Gentleman ’Til Midnight

by Alison Delaine

  Captain Warre’s lips curved like a scratch in ice. “Apparently the man has no care for his particulars.” He paused. “I shall deal with Winston.”

  “I can’t imagine how, without giving the impression the only carriage cushions I’ll be experiencing are yours.”

  His eyes shot off the page and met hers, blazing. A pulse leaped in the base of her throat, but it was too late to yank the words back.

  “Six days is an eternity in the world of the ton,” he told her. “Reputations have been made and broken in less—depending, of course, on one’s behavior.”

  “Of course.” The time she’d already spent in London felt like an eternity.

  Dodd appeared in the doorway once more with his damnable silver tray. “Your ladyship, Viscount Fenley—”

  “Tell Fenley she’s not here!”

  Katherine raised a brow at Captain Warre’s explosion. “Yes, Mr. Dodd. Please send him away,” she managed evenly. She could not offend every member of the Lords, no matter how little they cared about offending her. A possessive light glowed at the edges of Captain Warre’s anger, and a little flutter winged through her belly. She ignored it. “Tonight there is Vauxhall. Tomorrow night I shall attend the theater at your sister’s suggestion. I have more than half a mind not to go, as I have the distinct impression she is among those who believe I should take a husband.”

  “Which, naturally, you have no intention of doing.”

  A thin edge in his tone gave her pause. “Is that a solution you advocate, Captain?”

  He tossed the invitations on the desk and exhaled. “I despise the theater. What a debacle this is.”

  The nonanswer made her a little sick. “A debacle that could be solved if I marry?” she pressed carefully.

  “I’ll not waste time discussing a subject that has no grounding in reality. I am well aware that you will see Holliswell seated at the head of Dunscore’s table before you will tie yourself down in marriage to keep it.”

  His words hit their mark, and a cold, awful chill snaked its way across her skin. She thought of Mr. Allen, father’s solicitor, and made herself voice the unthinkable. “Could it be possible that marriage is the only solution?”

  “There is never an ‘only’ solution. I shall be at Westminster again today taking up your cause. Let us hope I meet with receptive minds.”

  He looked exhausted, frustrated and patently unenthusiastic. He didn’t want to go to Westminster—she could see that much. But he would go because of his guilt.

  “I appreciate your efforts,” she told him, catching herself—and him—by surprise.

  He looked at her a moment, then turned away, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t like that the committee will meet so soon.”

  “What could it mean?”

  “Anything.”

  Please keep trying, she almost said. But Captain Warre had seen enough of her vulnerability. He would not see more. “But this nonsense can still be stopped before a third reading,” she said.

  “I’d hoped to stop it before it got this far.”

  “Perhaps the quickest way is to accept the duke’s invitation, after all, if he is to chair the committee,” she scoffed, to hide her fear.

  He spun on his heel, leaned across the desk and grabbed her chin in his fingers before she had time to think. “You’ll not whore yourself for Dunscore,” he bit out. “I won’t allow it.”

  “A joke, Captain.”

  His fingers burned into her skin. His eyes burned into her, too—hot and hungry, dropping to her mouth. Her breath turned shallow.

  “Some topics don’t lend themselves to jest,” he said.

  A movement in the doorway caught her eye. It was Miss Bunsby, retreating into the corridor. Captain Warre released her chin suddenly and backed away.

  Katherine left him standing there and went to see what was wrong.

  “One of the upstairs maids let slip that his lordship was here,” Miss Bunsby said in a hushed tone, “and now Lady Anne refuses to do anything until she sees him. I’ve tried to distract her with her doll, her beads, even a game of draughts, but she won’t be swayed. She’s raising a terrible fuss.”

  Dearest Anne. Katherine cursed under her breath.

  “I tried telling her his lordship was likely in a great hurry, but she is adamant that he will see her.”

  “Tell her Captain Warre has gone,” Katherine whispered. Guilt clawed at her, but nurturing Anne’s attachment to Captain Warre would only break her heart in the long run. “By the time you return upstairs it will likely be true.”

  Miss Bunsby’s gaze suddenly shifted past Katherine’s shoulder. Captain Warre stood in the doorway.

  “Who are you telling I’ve gone?”

  A small voice drifted from the upstairs balcony. “Captain Warre? Captain Warre, are you here?”

  “Anne!” Katherine rushed to the entrance hall just in time to see Anne’s groping hands find the rail at the top of the stairs. Panic exploded in her chest. “Anne, stop!” She flew up the stairs with Miss Bunsby on her heels.

  “Lady Anne, you mustn’t leave your rooms alone,” Miss Bunsby told her firmly. “It isn’t safe.”

  “But I heard his voice!” Anne cried as Katherine pried her away from the railings. “He will see me, Mama. I know he will! Captain Warre!”

  “Hush, now,” Katherine scolded, watching Captain Warre take the stairs with a grim mouth and measured precision. “Do you remember our rule about you going on deck? You must always be with someone. Always.”

  “But I heard his voice!” Anne’s lip began to tremble, and Katherine’s heart squeezed hard.

  “I’m here, Anne,” Captain Warre said, reaching the top of the stairs.

  “Captain Warre!” Dearest Anne—heart of her heart and soul of her soul, with her olive skin, black hair and exotic Barbary eyes—threw her arms toward him with delight. “Oh, I’m so happy you’re here!”

  He lifted her away from Katherine with a hundred questions in his eyes, daring her to object. “What’s all this fuss?”

  “I’ve missed you,” Anne said, patting his shoulders and winding her arms around his neck.

  His arms tightened around her. “I’ve missed you, too.”

  “And I miss the ship. Mama says we can’t go back, but I want to. I want to so much! I hate London. Millie went away, and my dresses are stiff and tight, and it smells bad all the time.” Her pouting lip trembled, and she buried her face in the crook of his neck.

  A familiar, strangling helplessness closed around Katherine’s throat.

  “Well, I won’t deny the smell,” Captain Warre said. “But your dress is lovely. You look like a little princess.”

  “Mr. Bogles is locked in Mama’s dressing room because he climbed the drapes in my bedchamber and they tore,” came Anne’s muffled voice. “He’s been very bad.”

  “I don’t suppose he’s used to being inside a house. But surely something good has happened since you’ve been in London.”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Oh, I can’t believe that,” he said doubtfully, and began to question Anne in detail as he started toward Anne’s rooms. By the time he set her on her bed they’d come up with four good things that had happened in London.

  Katherine watched him brush Anne’s hair from her face with the same hands that had directed men to fire at the Merry Sea, and a deep yearning curled around her heart and squeezed.

  * * *

  HE WAS SINKING.

  James stretched out on his bed, fully clothed, and stared up at the brown drapery while his valet fidgeted nearby.

  “Your lordship, shall I—”

  “Leave me. I shall take care of it.”

  “Your shoes—”

  “Will be fine. That will be all until I’m re
ady to dress for the evening, Polk. Thank you.”

  A few more fidgets, a long hesitation and Polk left him in blessed solitude. The canopy’s fringe hung lifelessly, more beige than gold in the muted afternoon light.

  James breathed in as much air as his lungs would hold and held it. Held it. Held it. Exhaled slowly. Inhaled again. Exhaled.

  And wished, to his shame, that he had informed Katherine about the committee in a note. He could still feel Anne’s small arms winding a strangling sense of responsibility around his neck, even as his mind raced to think of something—anything—he might send her to add to her list of good things about London.

  Katherine had been prepared to lie to keep him from Anne. That fact rankled more than anything. He pushed her from his mind, only to have her reappear, trickling inside him the way water seeped through a hull that needed fresh tar.

  He’d lost control last night at Lady Carroll’s. It was inevitable that he would. A devil inside him had driven him to follow her into that arbor, knowing damned well what would happen. Wanting it to happen. He was no better than any of those whoremongers Honoria had dredged up.

  Worse, in fact. Because he could see the smoke and the flames, the listing Merry Sea, the bloodthirsty corsairs wreaking terror on board. He could hear the screams. Smell the gunpowder. He knew what she’d gone through, how terrified she must have been. And still it didn’t stop the fire in his blood every time he saw her.

  He needed to forget about the captain who studied the horizon with a practiced eye and knew when a line should be snubbed or cast loose and threatened disembowelment without batting an eye. He needed to forget about the woman who turned her face to the sun while the breeze molded shimmering Ottoman textiles to her body and toyed with the ends of her hair.

  He didn’t want to see any of them. Not the frightened girl, not the shrewd captain and definitely—very definitely—not the woman. He didn’t want to care whether she married. Whom she married. He didn’t want to care if she bedded every damned lord in the House. He was damned tired of caring about her.

  He stared at the underneath side of the canopy above him. If she were here now... God. He felt himself grow hard and tried to shove the thought away, but it was too late.

  He rolled over and groaned into the mattress. A month ago, he’d thought only of escaping the sea. Now the thing he needed to escape was her.

  How in God’s name would he find her a husband when he couldn’t stand the thought of another man touching her because he wanted to touch her so damned badly himself? Something had to change. Immediately.

  He breathed into the bedding, and an idea resurfaced.

  Maybe— No.

  But—

  God. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t thought of it before. Planned on it, even.

  He lay there, perfectly still, while the idea came to life in his mind: a bride. It wasn’t as if he wouldn’t need one eventually. Beginning the search now could be just the thing.

  The right kind of bride could divert his attention. Cool his misplaced lust for a woman he as good as condemned to slavery and ruination. Let him do his duty, and give him a new sense of purpose. Give him something to think of instead of Captain Kinloch.

  The idea propelled him out of bed, and he paced to the window. The right kind of bride—

  Yes.

  Yes, it was time. Past time. He would find a girl who’d been on the shelf so long she’d given up hope. Someone with the right skills to look after the household at Croston, who would happily give him an heir.

  A girl who was thoughtful and quiet.

  Who wouldn’t even know how to hold a cutlass.

  A young lady who was biddable, and who would never, ever argue with him.

  Yes. He would find Katherine a husband, and himself a wife. Then, finally, he would go to Croston and forget he’d ever set foot on a ship named Possession.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  JAMES PUSHED THROUGH the crowd at Vauxhall that night, for once separated from Katherine, while the orchestra played a hellishly cheerful piece that only darkened his mood.

  All of London had come to the garden tonight, and Honoria was determined to introduce her to every last one of them. He’d spent the past hour doing what he could on her behalf, but now he had other plans.

  He worked his way through the crowd, pretending he didn’t hear the calls of well-wishers eager to foolishly proclaim his heroics. Let them regale each other with tales. He flexed his hands at his sides to ease the tension curling inside him. With so many people in attendance, this was the perfect opportunity to set his new plan into motion.

  The crowd surged and eddied like a strong current through a strait, illuminated by countless globe lamps hanging above. He spotted two old friends, Vincroft and Berston, and headed straight for them. Neither one had married yet. Without a doubt they would have their fingers on the pulse of the marriage mart. Besides that, he needed liquor.

  “You look like you’re about to do someone a harm, Croston,” Vincroft said when James finally reached them.

  James grunted. “I’m going after a drink.”

  “Do allow me!” Berston said jovially, already moving away. “Back in a moment!”

  Through a break in the crowd a woman with near-black hair caught his eye. His pulse surged, but it wasn’t Katherine. Thank God. He flexed his fingers and forced himself to study the crowd in search of matrimonial possibilities.

  “Looking for someone?” Vincroft asked.

  “Mmm,” he replied. “Female, marriageable, on the shelf.”

  “Good God! Don’t let that be known, or you’ll be crushed to death before anyone can finish celebrating the fact that you’re alive.”

  “Forgot to mention mild-mannered, biddable and quiet.” Or shrewd, fiery and combative, a voice taunted. The essence of Katherine sizzled through him. The idiot between his legs got a brilliant idea about finding her and taking a walk down one of the gardens’ darker paths and—

  “Here you go.” Berston returned with a glass of arrack. “Ought to do the trick.”

  James downed half the glass in one swallow.

  “They all fit that bill when they’re marriageable,” Vincroft snorted. “Don’t find out the truth till afterward.”

  “Ye gads,” Berston said. “Who’s getting married?”

  “Croston here. Gone mad, if you ask me.”

  Bloody hell. He should have kept his mouth shut.

  “So sorry!” Berston offered an expression that was both resignation and pity. “Got to be done eventually, I suppose. Think about it myself if it wasn’t bad for my health. Hives and all that, every time I hear the word matrimony.”

  James managed a laugh. At least Berston hadn’t changed. “You’ll suffer through the hives unless you want that pasty nephew of yours to inherit,” he said.

  Berston took a drink and shook his head. “Just so, just so.”

  “Who’s that?” James asked, nodding toward a youngish thing in an elegant yet subdued froth of beige. “Blond curls, pearls in her hair.”

  Vincroft frowned. “No idea. Never seen her before.”

  “Yes, you have,” Berston said. “Lady Maude. Been at every do the past five seasons. Linton’s daughter. You don’t want the likes of her, Croston. You’re probably the first one to notice the poor thing. Do better with Miss Greene—there she is, talking to Lady Trent and Lord Ponsby. In front of the supper boxes, to the left. Blue dress, full breasts.” Berston grinned.

  Miss Greene’s false beauty mark stood out even from this distance, and her bold gaze fixed playfully on the men gathered around her. “Whoever is unfortunate enough to wed Miss Greene will be cuckolded within a week,” James said, and returned his attention to the unremarkable Lady Maude. Pale hair, passable face, polite smile... His mind transported her to a chair by t
he fireside at Croston—in one of the upstairs drawing rooms. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine her dozing off with a book in her lap and one of his hunting dogs at her feet.

  “Ho, look there!” Berston suddenly pointed out. James followed his gaze through a break in the crowd, and his heart slammed into his gut.

  Katherine shimmered in the lamplight like a forbidden idol. Tonight she wore a gown of deep midnight-blue, veed at the waist to reveal a petticoat and stomacher decorated with silver embroidery, ribbons and beads. Her breasts threatened to spill from the top of her stays, and a few lengths of her dark hair played at her neck in artful curls.

  “Ye gads,” came Berston’s barely audible exclamation.

  Vincroft made a noise. “Heard she might be on the marriage market. No doubt you’ve got an advantage in that corner.”

  James clenched his jaw and raised his glass to his lips, only to remember it was empty. “Think I’ll go see if I can manage an introduction to Lady Maude.”

  Berston shook his head. “I’m going for another drink.”

  “Cracked,” was all Vincroft said.

  Within minutes the introductions had been made, and he had Lady Maude at his side strolling down the South Walk. She had large brown eyes, a graceful demeanor and a polite smile. A small hand, which had likely never touched a cutlass, was tucked into his elbow.

  Even better, he hadn’t the least inclination to drag her down one of the notorious lovers’ walks and ravish that serene little mouth.

  He asked whether she was enjoying the company this evening. She told him she was, but that she was much looking forward to a visit to her cousin in the country, where life was quieter.

  She asked whether he was happy to be home at last. He told her he was, but that he was looking forward to the excitement of his return dying down so he could spend his time with a peaceful read and perhaps a putter in his father’s old conservatory. She replied that both sounded like an improvement over the hustle-bustle of the Season, and that she had recently read a fascinating essay on the botany of Greece.

  Botany. Perfect. He double-checked the color of her eyes. Yes, brown—a solid, sensible brown, without any wild flecks that made them take on odd colors in sultry lights.