Captain Corcoran's Hoyden Bride

by Annie Burrows

How many times today had he noticed that she was having to steel herself to marry him?

  She had kept her chin up, most of the time. But several little instances had alerted him to the fact that all was not well with her. The first thing to smite his conscience had been the way her face had lit up when his crew presented her with that bouquet. He saw that he had been remiss in not thinking of giving her flowers himself. It was one of those little courtesies a man should extend to his bride. These things mattered to women.

  Then again, until that smile, he had not been aware how sombre her expression usually was. And as she had stood there next to him, her features rapidly settling back into that sombre, and, yes, slightly wary expression that was the norm for her, he had become uncomfortably aware that this was not the kind of wedding most girls dreamed about. It was all very well telling himself that she must have given up any dreams of romance long ago, given that she had decided to work as a governess. That the way she cleared every plateful of food set before her proved he was rescuing her from circumstances that must have been extremely harsh. That he was, in fact, doing her a great favour by plucking her from obscurity and raising her to such an elevated position in society.

  But the way he had gone about securing her compliance fell very far short of any kind of ideal.

  The thing was, until he had set eyes on Miss Peters, his notional bride had only been a means to an end. When he had come into the title, and he had been made aware of his new responsibilities, it had felt very like getting a fresh set of orders from the Admiralty. Before embarking on any mission, it was a captain’s duty to muster a full complement of crew. Getting hold of a wife, he had reasoned, need not be so very different to that. Hell, some of his peers accepted matches arranged by their families to women they did not care for one bit!

  But just one sight of Miss Peters had knocked all his plans into a cocked hat. Mine, he had thought, before she had so much as uttered one word. And she had roused his protective instincts even before he had become legally responsible for her this afternoon. Yesterday, he had tended to her comfort while she slept, vowing no man should harm a hair on her head.

  It tore him up inside to know that it was because of him she was weeping so bitterly now. She had screwed up every ounce of her courage to get this far. The prospect of getting three good meals a day had temporarily overcome any qualms she might have had about casting in her lot with a stranger. But now it had come to the moment when she would have to face the ordeal of having him in her bed—and she had broken down.

  He strode back along the corridor, cursing quietly under his breath. He would rather face a broadside from a French frigate than go toe to toe with a weeping woman!

  He had always hated Miranda’s tears. By the time she had finished crying, she had always, somehow, managed to extract from him the very last thing he had wanted to give.

  A proposal of marriage, for one thing. He had been going back to sea, and she had wept and clung to him, and said she could not bear to be parted from him. That her life would not be worth living …

  The door bounced off the wall as he slammed into his room, strode across to the buffet and yanked the stopper from a decanter of brandy.

  First of all, he reminded himself, sloshing a generous measure into two glasses, Miss Peters was not Miranda! Miranda, he had very soon learned, turned on the tears to get her own way. Miss Peters was weeping alone, behind closed doors.

  And no wonder, he thought savagely, catching sight of his reflection as he stalked past the cheval glass on his way back to the bedroom door.

  It would be far easier for her tonight if he was not such a gruesome-looking specimen. Though it would most likely be hard enough for her, no matter what he looked like. She had run off in a panic because she had mistakenly feared he meant to force her to become his mistress, as though she had some deep, abiding fear of intimacy.

  He scowled as he stalked back along the landing, only to find his entire crew standing outside her door, listening to his wife of less than a day sobbing her heart out.

  ‘Take yourselves off,’ he growled. ‘This is not your business.’

  For a moment, he wondered if his crew were going to mutiny. They had trusted him completely in the engineering of this enterprise. Flung themselves into every aspect of the subterfuge necessary to get her here with an enthusiasm that had amazed him. Only now were they beginning to question his treatment of the woman.

  Why should that surprise him? He was questioning it himself!

  It was because of the way she was. If she had been hard faced, or petulant, she would have evoked no sympathy from any of them. But she was neither of those things. She was that rare creature, a woman who was as gracious as she was beautiful.

  ‘I will take care of her,’ he said more gently.

  He vowed, there and then, not to bed her until she was more accustomed to him. It was too much, even he could see that, to expect a girl with as much natural modesty as her to suddenly open her legs just because he had put a ring on her finger.

  Only once his men had dispersed did he take a deep breath, knock firmly on the door and shoulder it open.

  She had been pacing the floor, but at the sight of him she checked mid-stride and turned to face him. Her whole body was quivering with distress. Her eyes were puffy, her nose red and her cheeks blotchy. In one hand she still clenched a sodden handkerchief. With the other she wiped away at tears that still coursed down her face. The sight should have revolted him, but he felt none of the disgust that Miranda’s tears had always evoked. Instead, he just wanted to pull her into his arms and comfort her. But pulling her into his arms was not going to soothe her. It would only make a bad situation worse.

  He would have reassured her, verbally, if only he were a man with the facility for soft words. But he was not.

  ‘Here,’ he said gruffly, thrusting one of the glasses towards her. ‘Drink this.’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t partake of spirits—’

  ‘It’s medicinal,’ he countered, pressing the glass into her hand. ‘It will help, I promise you.’ He tossed his own drink straight down. It went some way towards beating back the bile that was rising in his gorge.

  What kind of man reduced a woman to this!

  She did not think it would help at all, but he must have heard her crying, and had gone to the trouble of fetching the only remedy he could think of. So she followed his example, and gulped down the entire contents of the glass in one go.

  And choked and gasped as it burned its way down her throat. How could men sell their souls for this revolting stuff?

  But then she felt a warmth in her belly, which radiated outwards, bringing in its wake a kind of peaceful feeling.

  ‘Oh, I see!’ she said, regarding the empty glass with new appreciation. ‘I am certainly calmer now, thank you,’ she said, handing the glass back to Septimus.

  Goodness, she had thought of him by his given name! She had first heard it in church today, but as yet, he had not given her permission to use it. She was amazed she had dared to even think of him in such a familiar way!

  It was his kindness that encouraged her to be so bold. Not many men would have taken the trouble to bring her exactly what she needed, then obliged her to take it, in spite of what would have been her foolish objections. Tears welled in her eyes again, although now they were tears of gratitude as she looked at the man who today had given her both security, and a name she need no longer be ashamed of bearing.

  As she looked at her stern-featured, yet innately decent husband, she felt an almost overwhelming urge to fall at his feet, take those rough, yet gentle hands in between her own and shower them with kisses.

  It must be the brandy, she thought, appalled at the prospect of behaving so shamelessly with any man, no matter what he had done. Bewildered, she raised her hand to her brow. So she did not see Septimus flinch.

  The brandy had stopped her crying, but she was still making agitated little movements with her hands, as though res
isting the urge to push him away. And nobody could have missed that horrified look that had flitted across her face—no doubt brought about by the fact that it was their wedding night, and they were alone in her bedchamber, dressed only in their night attire.

  ‘If I leave you alone now, will you promise you won’t cry any more?’ he said.

  ‘N-no, I won’t cry any more, but …’

  ‘Then I will see you early in the morning,’ he said, making for the door. ‘I want you packed and ready to leave at first light.’

  He had left and pulled the door closed behind him before Aimée could so much as blink. And then she just stood there, staring at the door, her mind in a whirl.

  Never mind leaving her alone on her wedding night—what was all this about packing and leaving at first light? To go where? She had thought they were going to live here, in Yorkshire.

  She clenched her fists, as the feelings of relief and gratitude ebbed away like grain from a ripped sack.

  Thank heavens she had not fallen to her knees and kissed his hands! He had made her think she was going to be safe and now it turned out he was going to take her heaven knew where!

  Oh, Lord, what had she done? Begun to trust a man, that was what, she reflected bitterly. She began to pace again, but this time it was anger that drove her to restless action. Why had she not made him tell her what his plans were before she took her vows? He had said something about leaving the area, and meeting his grand new relations, now she came to think of it. What if he intended to travel to London? The whole point of marrying him had been tied up with living safely in obscurity in the north of England.

  Oh, bother her vows. If he was going to London, then she was jolly well not going with him!

  She pulled herself up short, shocked at herself for so much as contemplating such a desperate course of action. She had made vows, even if she had done so in a haze of misguided hope. And she could not just break vows made before God!

  Not, at any rate, without first having determined whether he really was going to put her in harm’s way. Had he not told her he fully expected her to question him, if she thought he was being too autocratic?

  Firming her lips, she opened her door and marched out. And stopped dead. Bother! She had no idea which of the many doors on the landing led into Septimus’s room.

  But then she saw a flicker of light emanating from the hall; when she leaned over the banister rail, she saw Septimus enter his study and close the door behind him.

  She followed him down the stairs, bitterly regretting not pausing to put on some slippers first.

  She knocked on the door and slipped inside quickly, before her courage failed her. It almost did fail her when she saw her husband of less than a day, the man she already had half a mind to flee from, sitting at his chair, a decanter and a glass and his eyepatch on the desk before him. His hair was furrowed too, as though he had been repeatedly combing it with his fingers.

  She was not sure how she managed to demand, ‘What are you doing down here?’ She eyed his half empty brandy glass askance. ‘And what do you mean by telling me we are leaving The Lady’s Bower tomorrow? I thought we were going to live here!’

  She wrapped her arms round her waist as Septimus glared at her in silence for a few seconds before reaching for his eyepatch and drawing it on over his head. She wished she had wrapped a shawl round her shoulders before coming down here in hot pursuit of some answers. It was a distinct disadvantage, standing there barefoot and shivering in her nightgown. Oh, how she envied her husband his magnificent brocaded dressing gown. There was no fire in the grate. And the night was cold, even though the day had been so fine.

  ‘Impulsive little thing, are you not?’ he said. ‘Always dashing off without adequate clothing.’ But he was not going to suggest she leave and get a wrap and some kind of footwear. She was far less wary of him now they were not in a bedroom. In fact, by the looks of her, he would say she was spoiling for a fight. He got up, went to the hearth and reached for the tinderbox, knelt and struck a spark to the kindling. ‘You must be absolutely frozen. Come over here,’ he said, glancing at her over his shoulder. ‘It won’t take long for the fire to get going.’

  ‘Do you intend to give me some answers?’ she said crossly.

  Answering whatever questions she had seemed as good a place to start with her as any. He had been racking his brains to think of some way he could set her at ease. But now she had come to him. Oh, not for any reason he could have wished, but it was better than nothing.

  When he nodded, she stalked across the room and knelt down on the hearthrug next to him, her back rigid, her chin lifted at a mutinous angle.

  ‘How is your ankle, by the way? You did not seem to be limping today.’

  ‘My ankle is much better, thank you,’ she said politely. Though she could not believe they were having such a mundane conversation, while she was barely decent! And mentioning her ankle made her think of the sure way his hands had glided over her skin. Her feet felt so very naked that she was obliged to tuck them under the hem of her nightgown, to hide them from his view.

  ‘I am glad to hear it,’ he said, reaching for the tongs and placing more coals on top of the kindling. ‘So, what was it you wanted to ask me?’

  ‘Why are we leaving here?’

  ‘I only rent this place,’ he said, hanging the tongs back on their hook, marvelling at the plaintive note in her voice. ‘It served my purpose while I was single, but now that I am married, I need to return to Bowdon Manor and take up my duties.’

  ‘B-Bowdon Manor?’ He was the Earl of Bowdon. ‘Is that your principal seat?’

  So, she was worried about facing yet another dramatic change in her life. He supposed he could understand that. Perhaps it would help if he explained that the change would be for the better.

  ‘Yes, it is. Though it is only one of many properties I now own. Should you like to see a picture of it?’

  Not really. She just wanted to know how far it was from London. But he had already got up, gone to his desk and opened a drawer.

  ‘Here it is,’ he said, extracting a sheet of paper, and returning to the fireplace. He knelt down beside her, laying the picture on the hearthrug before her. ‘My grandfather’s brother commissioned a painting of his grand folly. This is one of the preliminary sketches. What do you think of it?’

  She looked down at the pen-and-ink drawing of a massive mansion. It was rectangular, and built of stone, and looked vaguely Italian with its rotunda and manypillared frontage.

  ‘F-folly?’ she parroted. It was a wonder he could carry on any kind of conversation when they were kneeling so close together that she could feel the heat from his body reaching hers through the flimsy material of their respective nightwear.

  Contempt flickered across his face. ‘The building of this elaborate mansion—’ he flicked the edge of the page with one fingernail ‘—almost bankrupted my grandfather’s older brother. And then his only surviving son, my father’s cousin, made matters even worse by living a lifestyle compounding profligacy with ineptitude.’

  She frowned. He had told her he was wealthy … but they were straying from the point.

  ‘Wh-whereabouts is it, exactly?’ she asked, after perusing the picture for long enough to make it seem likely she was truly interested in it for its own sake. ‘Do you have a map on which you could show me?’

  With a grunt, he got to his feet, went back to the desk and returned with a rolled-up chart.

  ‘You will have to hold down the edges,’ he said, taking one of her hands and placing it on a corner while he unrolled it. He held the other top corner flat with one hand, placing his knee on the bottom, leaving his right arm free.

  ‘We are here, now,’ he said, indicating a spot some miles to the east of York. ‘And your new home will be here.’

  His finger traced a route that did indeed go some way south of their present location. But to her immense relief, mostly it went to the west. She would not have to forget her vows and s
trike out on her own again!

  Not immediately, she reflected, chewing on her lower lip. And perhaps, by the time he decided they ought to go to London, for the next session of Parliament, she would be able to persuade him that she loved country life so much that she simply could not bear the thought of going to town. He had spoken of making her mistress over all his properties, she recalled from their first dinner together. And the upper classes had property all over the place. Her mother had told her how, as a child, she travelled from one house to another, according to the social calendar. She could become so involved with overseeing all his holdings, there might always be an excuse for avoiding the capital.

  ‘The nearest town is Burslem,’ he said, tapping his forefinger on a small dark patch, which represented an urban area, ‘which was a smallish place, until the ingenuity and industry of Josiah Wedgwood, and the coming of the canal, brought prosperity to the region.’

  ‘Is it,’ she asked with some trepidation, ‘a fashionable sort of place?’ Her father had told her once that if he had no luck in London, there were other fashionable watering holes in various parts of the country to which they could remove. He had mentioned Bath and Brighton, but she could not recall ever having heard him mention Burslem.

  She had stopped shivering now. The coals had caught, and were giving off a steady stream of warmth, but she thought most of the reason for her physical state was due to the proximity of her husband’s body. It made her feel quite shy, to be kneeling on the hearthrug, poring over a map by firelight. She glanced up at him, wondering if he was at all affected by the intimacy of the situation.

  ‘Not in the least,’ he retorted quite sharply.

  She flinched, before realising that he was not answering her unspoken question at all. Though by the sternness of his features and the sharpness of his tone, he might as well have been.

  ‘Much to the resentment of my newly acquired family. They decry the way enterprising men who have come from nothing figure so largely in the society of the area. They think themselves far above such fellows and hold themselves aloof. Breeding, to them, is of more worth than intelligence and industry,’ he finished acidly.