Still Mr. And Mrs.

by Patricia Olney

  “Don’t leave a chap in suspense, Nicholas. What will you tell him?”

  “I haven’t made my decision yet.”

  When the summons arrived to report to the marquess’s residence, Nicholas’s curiosity had been piqued. Bored, he accepted the somewhat terse invitation even though he knew he couldn’t not accept it. What Kenmar had proposed was the last thing Nicholas had expected and the one thing he wanted most—to command his own ship, to be out on the ocean where he belonged.

  But, as with anything in life that seemed too good to be true, it came with provisions. The shipping company had recently been under attack. Some suspected pirates. But not Kenmar. Kenmar suspected the owner of the company, a man named Daniel Blackwell, was purposely sabotaging the ships to gain the insurance money.

  Nicholas had inwardly winced when he read the insurance papers. The names scrawled at the bottom were some of the most highly placed noblemen in the country. A few even had the advantage of the king’s ear. If Blackwell was fleecing them of their money, the man was an imbecile.

  Nicholas leaned against the wall, desperate to escape the cloying perfume of the ladies, the boisterous boasts of the gentlemen, and the swirling couples on the dance floor. He’d never been a decent dancer, not even an adequate dancer, and with his barely healed leg, adequacy wasn’t a possibility. Not that he wanted to dance. No, what he wanted was to climb those stairs and exit the stifling house. But first he had to speak to Kenmar. First he had to make a decision.

  Sebastian slapped Nicholas on the back. “I’m certain you’ll make the right decision, brother.” He made to move away, hailing a friend across the room.

  “Sebastian.”

  His brother turned and raised a brow in inquiry. Nicholas was taken aback by the fatigue on Sebastian’s face. Small lines etched the corners of his eyes and deep grooves creased the sides of his mouth. A mouth that smiled little lately.

  “Thank you,” Nicholas said quietly.

  Sebastian smiled, erasing the serious expression that seemed to be a constant lately. “That’s what families are for, Nick.” His gaze flickered behind Nicholas. “Kenmar’s approaching.” Then he disappeared into the crowd, giving Nicholas only a few moments to prepare himself.

  “Addison.” Kenmar stopped beside him. An older gentleman who clung to the tradition of wearing a white wig in public, the man was well respected and a close acquaintance of the king.

  Nicholas nodded. “Kenmar.”

  “Have you given my proposal any thought?”

  “I have.”

  Kenmar took a sip from his glass. “Before you give me your answer, I’ll have you know I received more information after you left this afternoon. Inside sources tell me Blackwell is launching a shipment of gold that’s to leave the colonies in a month or so. If you choose to accept this mission, I’ll need you to discover more about the gold. Where it’s headed and what it’s being used for.”

  “You don’t believe Lady Anne is behind the attacks?” According to Blackwell, the notorious female pirate, Lady Anne, was behind them.

  “I don’t believe Lady Anne exists.” Kenmar swirled the wine in his glass.

  The London papers were full of the lady pirate’s exploits. Young girls wanted to be like her. Men claimed to have bedded her. The elite whispered about her in their ballrooms and she was the major source of entertainment in what would otherwise have been an ordinary season of soirees and balls.

  Nicholas didn’t know anyone who’d actually seen Lady Anne, let alone met her. Whether she existed or not had been little concern to him. Until now.

  The prospect of the gold fascinated him. Hell, who was he kidding? The entire proposal intrigued him. He’d been away from the sea for two long years. It was time he regained his sea legs and this was the perfect opportunity.

  “I will do it,” he said. And the weight that had settled on his shoulders after his injury shifted.

  Kenmar nodded, his expression unchanging, as if he’d expected no other answer. “Be ready to sail in five days.” He put his glass on the tray of a passing waiter. “Now I’m off to the club. Have a good evening, Addison.” And he disappeared into the crowd, leaving Nicholas alone with his newfound trepidation and anxiety. But also with anticipation.

  “Do you find these things as boring as I?”

  His gaze collided with eyes the color of the sea on a clear day, a combination of blue and green. They smiled at him, those eyes. Crinkling at the corners and dancing with merriment.

  Slowly his startled gaze swept over her, taking in shiny black hair piled high. One curled, ebony lock rested seductively on the top of a firm, golden breast encased in an off-white gown.

  With all that dark hair and glowing skin, she reminded him of a Gypsy.

  But what fascinated him the most, what caught his attention more than the curve of her breasts and the bewitching color of her eyes, were the dimples peeking out at him when she smiled.

  The stunning vision held out her hand. “Emmaline Sutherland. And you are?”

  He hesitated. He might disdain society, preferring the open ocean to a stuffy ballroom, but he knew the rules, and one of the biggest was that a lady did not introduce herself to a gentleman. Intrigued, he smiled, bowed over her hand and kissed it.

  “Captain Nicholas Addison.”

  “Well, Captain Addison, why don’t you ask me to dance? Maybe a sarabande will alleviate our boredom.”

  If women didn’t introduce themselves to men, they certainly didn’t ask men to dance. Who was this woman? The fear of making a fool of himself kept his feet rooted to the gleaming wood floor. Would his leg withstand the complicated dance moves? If it didn’t, did he deserve the captain’s position just offered to him?

  He held out his arm for her to take. “Would you prefer a stroll instead?”

  She tilted her head, studying him while his elbow remained crooked for her hand.

  Finally she took his arm. “I’d be delighted.”

  As he guided her through the crush of people, he recalled his brother mentioning something about this ball being held for an Emmaline Sutherland. “So, Miss Sutherland, to what do we owe the honor of this route?”

  She grimaced, her gaze glancing over the dancers. “No honor. Aunt Dorothy will take any excuse to give a ball. I happened to be in town at the moment.”

  “You are not from London?”

  Her hand felt nearly weightless on his arm, yet he was well aware of its warmth beneath her glove.

  “Originally, yes. But I live abroad now and return infrequently. And you, sir? Are you from London?”

  “Yes, but like you, I am rarely here. I’m a sea captain and will set sail in a few days for Boston.” Not completely the truth. He was rarely in town because he preferred the family’s country home, where he didn’t have to encounter pitiful stares and whispers behind his back. If not for Kenmar’s summons, and Sebastian’s plea to attend this ball, Nicholas wouldn’t be here now.

  Miss Sutherland raised an ebony eyebrow. “Boston. How exciting.” Her tone lacked the aforementioned excitement, as if her mind was far away. “And who do you sail for?”

  “Blackwell Shipping.” Pride welled in his chest. Pride that he was once again doing something. Sailing instead of rusticating, as his brother called it. Sailing instead of recuperating. Sailing instead of feeling sorry for himself. “Where do you live, if not in London?” he asked.

  “Barbados.”

  “Barbados?” He turned to look at her.

  Amusement lurked in those curiously colored eyes. “Does that shock you?”

  More like fascinated. While Nicholas was well traveled, he didn’t know many women who were. In fact, he didn’t know any women who were. “No,” he lied.

  “My husband and I own a sugar plantation on the island.”

  Disappointment washed through him at the mention of a husband even though he had no right to his disappointment. It wasn’t as if he was able to pursue a courtship with Miss, or rather, Mrs. Sutherland.
He was leaving in five days, after all.

  “And is your husband present tonight?” He glanced around the room, searching for an angry gentleman staring holes in his back.

  “He’s in Barbados overseeing the plantation. He never travels to London.”

  “I see.” But he didn’t see. If he had a wife as beautiful and charming as Emmaline Sutherland, he wouldn’t let her out of his sight. Definitely not to travel from Barbados to London alone. “Are you frightened traveling alone?”

  A smile touched her lips. “What would I be frightened of?”

  He shrugged, his discussion with Kenmar still fresh in his mind. “Pirates.”

  “Pirates are the things of fairy tales, are they not?”

  “Pirates are a very real threat, I’m afraid.”

  “Are you speaking of a certain lady pirate who attacks ships and eats men?”

  Nicholas chuckled. “Lady Anne they call her.”

  “Ah, yes. Lady Anne,” Emmaline said with a slight smile.

  “I’m afraid tales of her are most likely exaggerated. Especially the man-eating tales.”

  “You don’t believe in Lady Anne?”

  Nicholas hesitated, recognizing the same question he’d asked Kenmar. “I’m afraid not. Sailing is difficult enough for men. It’s not a lifestyle a woman would become accustomed to.”

  “But I sail frequently.”

  He detected a note in her voice warning that he was treading on unstable ground. Yet, a little devil stood on his shoulder and he felt an unholy need to goad this woman. Not a very gentlemanly thing to do, but that what-the-hell attitude took root again.

  “As a passenger. Not as a crewman. The work is strenuous and taxing. Not to mention dangerous.”

  “And you don’t think a woman is able to engage in such dangerous work?” Her voice was tight, her shoulders even tighter.

  He bit back the urge to smile. What a virago this woman was and what fun it would be to debate with her. He’d met very few men, let alone women, he’d had the pleasure to clash verbal swords with.

  “I believe a woman has her place in a man’s world, but not on the sea.”

  Silence stretched between them as they completed a circuit of the room and stopped where they’d started. Mrs. Sutherland looked up at him, seeming to assess him. He was relieved to see she wasn’t angry, merely interested, as if she were studying a bug pinned to a board. Or, better yet, an unknown creature pulled from the sea. Her gaze drew him in, made him think thoughts that were entirely inappropriate.

  He cleared his throat and stepped back. She’s married, Addison. You don’t dally with married women.

  She curtsied, although he had the impression the move was less etiquette and more mockery, which delighted him and had him forcing back a smile he was sure she wouldn’t appreciate. “Thank you for alleviating my boredom, kind sir. Your conversation was … enlightening.”

  He bowed, finding it more and more difficult not to smile. She certainly was peeved with him, and he found to his chagrin that he wasn’t at all pleased she was taking leave of his company. He would have liked to debate with her for the rest of the night. But that would be inappropriate. Besides, he was sailing in a few days and had to prepare for it. “My pleasure, Mrs. Sutherland.”

  A mere hour later, Emmaline observed Nicholas Addison leave with his brother, the Earl of Claybrook. Both men climbed the stairs, twin specimens of masculinity that had every female eye riveted to their wide shoulders and full heads of black-as-sin hair. Neither wore the wigs that were so in fashion. Emmaline had a feeling that others would soon follow in their footsteps, because the two were decidedly delicious looking without them. Each moved with an animal-like grace, although Nicholas had a hitch to his step that had her wondering what happened to him. The limp was his only physical flaw, although she didn’t consider it a flaw, just another fascinating aspect of a man who captivated her attention.

  Inside she was still smiling at their conversation. So, Captain Addison believed sailing too strenuous for women. She couldn’t help herself as she laughed out loud, causing a few heads to turn her way.

  Even though she disagreed with his assessment of females, she thoroughly enjoyed their verbal sparring, but something about him bothered her. Normally she was good at sizing up a man’s character. He’d been interested, but the interest in those deep navy eyes definitely cooled when she mentioned a husband. So he had morals.

  He’d been a gentleman, sincerely concerned for her safety when he spoke of pirates in that smooth-as-velvet voice. Which meant he was caring.

  He firmly believed a woman had no place on the sea, yet he wasn’t harsh about his belief. Merely naive, as most men were. Unlike most of the gentlemen at the ball, who’d gone soft with drink and too much fine food, she felt his strength in the muscles of his arm, and in his wide shoulders unpadded beneath his coat. He was lean, the bones in his face finely chiseled, the pale skin stretched taut. There was no excess about him, as if he’d gone to hell and back, and the journey had taken everything from him, leaving him with nothing but what he needed to survive.

  There were shadows in his blue eyes, a weariness and deep grief. Yet when he spoke of sailing she glimpsed a man who commanded authority and demanded respect. No doubt he was a very good captain.

  No doubt she had her work cut out for her.

  Kenmar had picked his spy well.

  Read on for an excerpt from Ruthie Knox’s

  Along Came Trouble

  Chapter One

  “Get out of my yard!” Ellen shouted.

  The weasel-faced photographer ignored her, too busy snapping photos of the house next door to pay her any mind.

  No surprise there. This was the fifth time in as many days that a man with a camera had violated her property lines. By now, she knew the drill.

  They trespassed. She yelled. They pretended she didn’t exist. She called the police.

  Ellen was thoroughly sick of it. She couldn’t carry on this way, watching from the safety of the side porch and clutching her glass of iced tea like an outraged southern belle.

  It was all very well for Jamie to tell her to stay put and let the professionals deal with it. Her pop-star brother was safe at home in California, nursing his wounds. And anyway, this kind of attention was the lot he’d chosen in life. He’d decided to be a celebrity, and then he’d made the choice to get involved with Ellen’s neighbor, Carly. The consequences ought to be his to deal with.

  Ellen hadn’t invited the paparazzi to descend. She’d made different choices, and they’d led her to college, law school, marriage, divorce, motherhood. They’d led her to this quiet cul-de-sac in Camelot, Ohio, surrounded by woods.

  Her choices had also made her the kind of woman who couldn’t easily stand by as some skeevy guy crushed her plants and invaded Carly’s privacy for the umpteenth time since last Friday.

  Enough, she thought. Enough.

  But until Weasel Face crushed the life out of her favorite hosta—her mascot hosta—with his giant brown boot, she didn’t actually intend to act on the thought.

  Raised in Chicago, Ellen had grown up ignorant of perennials. When she first moved to Camelot, a new wife in a strange land, she did her best to adapt to the local ways of lawn-mowing and shade-garden cultivation, but during the three years her marriage lasted, she’d killed every plant she put in the ground.

  It was only after her divorce that things started to grow. In the winter after she kicked Richard out for being a philandering dickhead, their son had sprouted from a pea-sized nothing to a solid presence inside her womb, breathing and alive. That spring, the first furled shoots of the hosta poked through the mulch, proving that Ellen was not incompetent, as Richard had so often implied. She and the baby were, in fact, perfectly capable of surviving, even thriving, without anyone’s help.

  Two more springs had come and gone, and the hosta kept returning, bigger every year. It became her horticultural buddy. Triumph in plant form.

  So Ellen to
ok it personally when Weasel Face stepped on it. Possibly a bit too personally. Swept up in a delicious tide of righteousness, she crossed the lawn and upended her glass of iced tea over the back of his head.

  It felt good. It felt great, actually—the coiled-spring snap of temper, the clean confidence that came with striking a blow for justice. For the few seconds it lasted, she basked in it. It was such an improvement over standing around.

  One more confirmation that powerlessness was for suckers.

  But then it was over, and she wondered why she’d wasted the tea, because Weasel Face didn’t so much as flinch. Seemingly unbothered by the dunking, the ice cubes, or the sludgy sugar on the back of his neck, he aimed his camera at Carly’s house and held down the shutter release, capturing photo after photo as an SUV rolled to a stop in the neighboring driveway.

  “Get out of my yard,” Ellen insisted, shoving the man’s shoulder for emphasis. His only response was to reach up, adjust his lens, and carry on.

  Now what? Assault-by-beverage was unfamiliar territory for her. Usually, she stuck with verbal attack. Always, the people she engaged in battle acknowledged her presence on the field. How infuriating to be ignored by the enemy.

  “The police are on their way.”

  This was a lie, but so what? The man had already been kicked off her property once this week. He didn’t deserve scrupulous honesty. He didn’t even deserve the tea.

  “I’ll leave when they make me,” he said.

  “I’m going to press charges this time.”

  The photographer squinted into his viewfinder. “Go ahead. I’ll have these pictures sold before the cops get here.”

  “I’m not kidding,” she threatened. “I’ll use every single sneaky lawyer trick I can think of to drag out the process. You’ll rot in that jail cell for days before I’m done with you.”