by Lorri Dudley
It was her unguarded openness that drew him. The few women on St. Kitts and at sea were hardened for good reason. To dance with a lady so unaffected was refreshing.
She smiled at him, and he bit back his laughter. Miss Etheridge was an innocent, of that he had little doubt, and she had no idea of her allure. He didn’t dare allow his gaze to wander down the white expanse above her gown’s neckline. Instead, he refocused on the most expressive pair of blue eyes he’d ever seen.
Those bewitching eyes had caused him to relent, despite the fact he should be focused on business with Middleton to obtain British naval escorts for his ships. The merchant company he’d built through his own grit, hard-earned labor, and sugar profits had come under attack of privateers. Now the safety of his crews was his primary concern.
Yet, with one flash of those blue eyes, he’d lost his focus. She had held his gaze, pleading for him to accept her challenge. In that long moment when she hadn’t dared to move, and he hadn’t dared to answer, he’d sensed her desperation, and it drew out his protective instincts.
He pivoted them into a turn, and she craned her neck once again toward the crowd.
His jaw tensed. “I’ll not be used as a pawn to inspire jealousy in a suitor.”
“It’s not like that.”
He maneuvered her around an overzealous couple lacking rhythm. “Really? For I’m completely certain we didn’t meet at the Leicester dinner party.” He’d attended, but arrived late and sat at the end of the table next to the Leicester’s governess. When the meal was over, he joined the men for cigars and solidified a merchant deal with Lord Leicester himself. That had been a fruitful, yet unadventurous, evening. He would have remembered being introduced to Miss Etheridge, if not for her eyes, then for her red hair.
“It’s a complicated story.” Her gaze continued to rove about the room until it settled on one place.
“Try me. Or, this dance is over.”
Her eyes widened. “But the song hasn’t ended.”
“It has for me.” He stilled.
“Wait.” Her fingers dug into his sleeve. “I can explain.” Her gaze returned to its previous position.
He followed the direction of her eyes to a dower woman scrutinizing them with flared nostrils and a hostile glare. He felt Miss Etheridge stiffen.
“Mama and I are at odds.”
Those revealing blue eyes gauged his reaction. “I see.” He forced a deadpan expression. “So, you danced with a lowly islander to upset her.”
Her lashes lowered. “I’m sorry.”
To her credit, she was an honest chit.
The last note of the music sounded, and everyone clapped, but Miss Etheridge wouldn’t release his arm. She shifted direction, like a frightened rabbit, uncertain where to hide.
“Shall we take a turn about the room”—he tucked her hand into his arm—“so we may finish our discussion?”
The tension in her fingers relaxed. “A lovely suggestion.”
He turned away from her mother and circled the perimeter of the room. “So your plan is to retaliate?”
“How can I get you to understand?” She sighed. “I walked around with an oversized volume of the History of Scotland on my head for three months to keep myself from growing too tall for Mama’s tastes. She reprimanded my embroidery stitches saying they were too large for her liking. I pricked my fingers trying to please her until the handkerchief stained red with my blood. I have powdered my hair, for she despises its color.”
He paused in his stride, and she turned to look at him.
“It’s time I show her that I am my own person.” A servant passed, and she plucked a glass of champagne off his tray. “I can make my own decisions.”
“And you believe you’ll show her by being irresponsible?” He’d once had similar conversations with his younger sister. The familiar pang of sorrow constricted his chest.
“Precisely. No… Well, maybe.”
A low chuckle resonated from his throat. “Spirits heighten your emotions and addle your wits.” He removed the glass of champagne from her gloved fingers. “Unless you want tomorrow filled with regrets, I suggest refraining.” He passed it off to a servant.
Her eyes followed the glass weaving its way through the crowd back to the kitchens. She rounded on him and narrowed her eyes. “I don’t need another person to lecture me.”
She gasped and drew a hand to her lips as if stunned by her own words. A becoming rose color spread across her nose and cheeks. He half-guided, half-pushed her behind a potted hibiscus to keep curious eyes from wandering in their direction.
“You haven’t lived with her.” Miss Etheridge stepped toward him so close her chin tilted up to continue to meet his gaze. “I’m a grown woman, of a marriageable age. Lord willing, I will be running a household soon enough, yet she treats me like a china doll.”
Her fingers dug into the sleeve of his jacket. Tomorrow he’d probably find bruises.“I’m made of stronger stuff.” Her chest heaved against the lace of her gown,
Was Miss Etheridge desperate for an ally? He placed his hand over hers to relax her grip. “I can tell.”
A breathy laugh burst from her lips.
He leaned in close enough for any passersby not to overhear. “Be who you are.” The heady scent of her hair filled his nostrils. Lilac. “You need not be a puppet, nor go to the opposite extreme to prove otherwise. You are beautiful the way you are.”
She drew back. Confusion shrouded her eyes, changing them to the color of an impending storm. Her lips parted in a silent gasp. The temptation to bewilder her further by pressing a kiss on those rosy lips straightened his spine. He was here on business. No time for complications.
He stepped back but continued to hold her gaze. “Pain is unavoidable, but misery is optional.”
An array of emotions chased each other across her face—hope, fear, denial, anger. He wished his meaning would absorb into her heart. They hadn’t known each other long, but he felt a connection with her, a shared desire to be respected. He admired her passion and vulnerability. Their paths may never cross again, but he wished her well.
He searched the room for Anthony Middleton, but to no avail. The man was probably still relieving his pockets of some coin with Gerald Etheridge in the card room. “Would you like me to return you to your…” Lady Etheridge plowed through the crowd from the far side of the room, her gaze intent on reaching her daughter. “…mother?”
“Heavens, no!” The shrill sound of her voice resonated her panic.
He nodded to a set of doors on their right. “Why don’t you convalesce in the retiring room for a spell?”
“Brilliant.” She shouted a bit too loud. “I mean… it would be good to freshen up a bit. It was—er—pleasant meeting you, Mr. Winthrop.” She bobbed a rapid curtsy and escaped to her place of refuge.
He sighed. It seemed his big-brother instincts hadn’t faded over time. Then again, neither had his sorrow.
No more distractions. He’d allowed himself one dance with Miss Charlotte Etheridge. Now back to business. There were too many people counting on him.
He spun on his heel to seek out Capitan Middleton for a meeting, but came face to face with Lady Etheridge instead.
“Who do you think you are?” Her scathing tone afforded no false impressions about how she felt about him. “How dare you dance with my daughter? You haven’t been introduced. You haven’t gone through the proper channels. Do you have no qualms for etiquette?” She didn’t wait for his reply. “Of course not. You’re a foreigner who believes money can buy you ranking and the esteem of your peers.”
Though he stood a head taller than Lady Etheridge, she still endeavored to peer down her nose at him with the amount of disdain only the true British could muster.
And she wasn’t finished. “It is good breeding that gains you respect and admittance to mingle with the aristocracy who are, quite frankly, above your station. It would serve you well to remember that.”
“Yet, here w
e speak, Lady Etheridge, a lowly Kittitian and a highborn, privileged aristocrat.”
“What flippant speech from someone here to do business within my sphere of influence.”
Nathan’s stomach dropped anchor.
Her lips pressed into a white slash, and her eyes narrowed into slits. “Keep away from my daughter. Am I clear?”
His jaw clenched, and he bit out through tight lips, “Quite.”
Chapter 2
I’m tempted to add him to my list of potential suitors, but his calloused hands left little doubt of his status.
~ From Miss Melinda Reinhart to her mother, Lady Reinhart
Lottie fanned her face and paced in front of the large looking glass in the ladies’ waiting room. How dare Mr. Winthrop speak to her so, and in such a know-it-all tone? He didn’t understand the extent of her troubles.
The intensity of his gaze had sent a shiver of anticipation through her body, and she could still feel its aftereffects. She closed her eyes against the echo of his words—you are beautiful the way you are. She wanted him to be right, but then she’d have to give credit to the other thing he’d said. You need not be a puppet nor go to the opposite extreme to prove otherwise. What did he care if she went to the opposite extreme? Wasn’t it right for the pendulum to swing back the other way?
For once in her life, she wanted to act courageously.
Pain is unavoidable, but misery is optional. She wanted to press her hands over her ears to block out his words, but they nagged at her like a constant dripping. Her mother made her miserable. Feeling that way wasn’t Lottie’s choice. Or was it? What if, for one night, she rebelled? What if she ignored her mother’s demands and enjoyed herself? What if she numbed herself with a sip or two of the brandy Pricilla had found in Anthony’s study?
Yet, she knew God’s commands. “Honor thy mother and father,” and, “Be not drunk with wine.” How could she honor her mother and still be her own person—the one God created her to become? She rubbed her hands over her face. She needed to get away, far away from her mother. Maybe she could beg for a visit to her aunt in Lincolnshire. Some time alone in the country might be a grand idea.
With one last check to ensure her coiffure remained in place, she strode back into the ballroom. Her mother accosted her before she’d even taken two steps.
“Charlotte Amelia Winthrop!”
Lottie winced. It was the second time that evening her mother had used her full name—not a good sign.
“How dare you disobey me and dance with that—that—foreigner?” Two angry red circles marred her mother’s cheeks.
Another bad sign. Lottie braced herself for an affront. Inhale… exhale…
“You disgrace yourself and your family when you associate with the likes of Mr. Winthrop. A person is known by their associations. You are playing a dangerous game. Mark me, if you cavort with the working class you will wind up smelling of shop. My job is to protect your virtue. How can I do so when you directly defy my orders? I’m having our coach brought around. Say your good-byes, because I’m sending you home. Tomorrow you’ll pack your things. I want you back in the country, where I can tame this unruly streak of yours.”
“Actually…” Lottie’s voice wavered. “I wanted to speak to you about visiting Aunt Genevieve in Lincolnshire.”
“Absolutely not. I will not have you traipsing over the countryside cultivating this impertinence. You will stay under my watchful eye at all times until I’m reassured you’ve resumed your biddable disposition.”
A tremble ran up her arms, and Lottie realized her hands were shaking. She clutched the folds of her gown until the tiny nubs of her chewed fingernails dug into the material. “It was one harmless dance.” The dead calmness of her voice seemed strange to her ears.
Her mother snapped her fan open with a resounding crack. “That is still to be determined.”
“If you loved me, you’d allow me a semblance of independence.” The cutting words poured from Lottie’s mouth. “Instead, you treat me like an insolent child.”
“It is my love for you that forces me to keep guard over you. I spent hours of sleepless nights by your side when you were a sickly child. I’ll not stand by now and let you to ruin your life.”
Memories of peeking through curtains to watch the rest of the world from her sickroom flashed through her mind. She’d spent most of her childhood ill, bedridden, and sequestered away in the dark as her mother doted on her until her fevers passed. Back then, she’d appreciated her mother’s company, but she’d also felt like a prisoner. Thankfully, she grew out of her sickly state. However, the freedom to which she’d aspired still seemed unattainable.
“Say your good-byes. It may be a while before you see your friends again.” And with that, Mama stalked off leaving Lottie in her wake.
The brandy suddenly became more appealing. Lottie drifted to Priscilla Middleton’s side to bid her friend farewell and wish her a lovely season—without her.
“Oh, there you are, Lottie.” Priscilla’s face lit up, then quickly fell. Her eyes darted over Lottie’s shoulder. “Where’s your mother?”
“She’s having our carriage brought around.”
Priscilla’s eyes filled with sympathy. “Does that mean you’re leaving?”
“I’m afraid so.”
She clutched Lottie’s arm and pulled her away from their peers. “Is it because you danced with Mr. Winthrop? How was it?” She flushed, and even though she lowered her pale blond lashes, they couldn’t hide the unmistakable curiosity in her eyes. “I mean, he’s handsome in a rugged sort of way. Don’t you think? His shoulders make those of his English counterparts seem lacking.” Her head nearly touched Lottie’s as she whispered. “I’m afraid if your mother has her way, which she will, you’ll be under lock and key until he returns to the Leeward Islands.”
“I daresay, it is her intention.”
Priscilla frowned. “She wouldn’t. Would she?”
Lottie nodded. “We pack tomorrow to retire to the country. We’ll be cutting the season short.”
Priscilla’s face melted into a somber expression. “Oh, Lottie, and just when Anthony had begun to show you favor.”
Lottie’s simmering anger blazed anew over the reminder of how her mother had chased away her only prospect. The mantle clock, illuminated by the groupings of candles on either side, read five minutes until midnight. The men would soon begin to disseminate to the billiards room to smoke cigars.
Her eyes grazed over the exit to the hallway. Anthony’s study door lay a few paces down the hall. Tonight, she was older than the girl who turned her nose down at the taste of his liquor. And maybe—at least for this night—she was braver. She pictured the look of horror that would appear on her mother’s face when she smelled spirits on her daughter’s breath. If Lottie was going to be punished, she might as well have a valid reason. She’d toast to her fleeting night of freedom and show her mother and Winthrop who was really in control. Indulging in spirits would be her decision to make.
She turned to Priscilla. “Does your brother still have the decanter of brandy in his study?” Priscilla’s parents were the opposite of Lottie’s mother. They barely paid her any heed, which was one of the reasons Lottie appreciated her friendship. Priscilla lived the life she wanted.
Priscilla’s pale eyes illuminated. “Indeed.”
Mother still had to say her good-byes. How long would that take? Lottie rolled her lips to hide her smile. Long enough. “I thought it might be a last hurrah before my relegation to Mama’s austere surveillance.”
Priscilla grabbed Lottie’s upper arms. “Lottie, you’re brilliant.” Her eyes scanned the ballroom. “I shall have Anthony join us.”
Priscilla walked to the hallway, but hesitated at the entrance. “Oh fig, there’s Lord Dalton. He’s coming to claim the dance I promised him.” She gestured to the door of Anthony’s study. “You remember where he keeps it?”
She nodded.
“Go ahead and pour the glasse
s. I’ll join you shortly.” She squeezed her arm and smiled.
“But—”
“Miss Priscilla.” Lord Dalton cut Lottie off. “I believe this dance is mine.” He bowed and pulled Priscilla away, but she held back, peering at Lottie. “I won’t be long.” She turned and melted into the jovial throng of guests.
Lottie slipped into the hallway. The heavy oak door to Anthony’s study beckoned her. Her palms perspired. She quickly pulled her gloves off, wiped her hands on the sides of her gown, and pushed the door open. No candles were lit within. She slid into the room and closed the door behind her. The latch clicked into place, and she stood in the peaceful solitude of the darkness. The only sound was the murmur of the guests on the other side of the wall. The aroma of aging books and the smoked-cherry scent of Anthony Middleton’s favorite cigars lingered in the air.
With her hands stretched wide in front of her, Lottie shuffled her way across the oak floorboards until the tips of her slipper met with the leg of Priscilla’s favorite reading chair. She hesitated, and her fingernail found its way to her mouth. She nibbled on the small snag that had been catching on the inside of her glove. Her nails were already ruined anyway. Besides, that was the last thing she had to worry about. Mama would be too livid to notice she’d resumed her nail-biting habit. She pictured her mother’s face. Her lips would pinch, her nostrils would flare, and then her voice would shriek.
Lottie sighed and felt around for the candlestick and matches that usually rested on the nearby side table. A wall clock chimed, and she jolted, releasing a startled gasp. It was midnight, and although her hands shook, the match lit with one strike. She held it to the wick until it caught, then waved out the matchstick and placed it in the metal tray. The cheery glow assuaged her frazzled nerves.
She spied the decanter of brandy and up-righted two glasses. The decanter stopper fought her, but finally relented with a pop. She lifted the crystal bottle and took a whiff. The potent vanilla-sweet smell of fermented wine burned her nostrils. She coughed and poured two glasses. The amber liquid sparkled in the candlelight.
