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The Captain Claims His Lady - Энни Берроуз - Читать любовный роман онлайн в женской библиотеке LadyLib.Net
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Берроуз Энни
The Captain Claims His Lady
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He strode from the Pump Room, his fists clenched. No wonder Lady Rawcliffe had said Miss Hutton would jump at the chance to escape her grandfather, if that was an example of the way he treated her. The old man should have taken an interest in the stranger who’d escorted her back to his side, not driven him away. After insulting her, in front of all the other Bath quizzes, by insinuating that no man could possibly have asked her to dance for any reason except from pity.
He’d had to walk away before retaliating in kind. Which wouldn’t do his prospects any good. You couldn’t get into a stand-up row with a man, then ask for permission to court his granddaughter. Or a sit-down row, anyway, since the old man hadn’t stirred from his chair.
He whipped off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. Since today was Tuesday, he wasn’t going to be able to see Miss Hutton tonight and attempt to offer her any comfort. Because it would be cards in the Assembly Rooms. Still, since he’d already told her his aversion for games of chance, she wouldn’t expect to see him. She wouldn’t think her grandfather had scared him off.
Would she?
* * *
It felt as if a month went past, rather than just a day and a half, before he was entering the Assembly Rooms again. For on his return from his daily swim, he’d found a muscular young man waiting for him outside the door of his hotel room, bearing a message from Rawcliffe and Becconsall. They’d decided he needed a bodyguard, apparently, and had sent Dawkins to perform that duty, under cover of being his valet. It had taken some time for them to discuss strategy. By the time they’d reached an understanding it had been too late to attend the Pump Room. So he was chafing at the bit by the time he entered the room where he hoped he might find her attending the Wednesday night concert.
And it wasn’t all to do with furthering his quest to find Archie’s killer, either. Even if he never got any further with Miss Hutton, he simply had to convince her that he hadn’t danced with her out of pity. Although he did feel a bit sorry for her, in some respects. She really needed someone to give her a bit of confidence, so that she could blossom into the kind of woman any man would be proud to call his wife.
Any man but him, that was. He might have agreed to pose as an eligible bachelor, but he didn’t really have anything to offer any woman. He’d returned from France a hollow shell of the man he’d once been. And even that man hadn’t been in any position to take a wife. He had to live on his pay. Which meant that not only would his wife have to struggle just to get by, but she’d be doing it alone, because he’d be away at sea.
He scanned the room for a glimpse of her. She should be easy enough to spot. She stood head and shoulders above every other female, and most men, in any room. And her silvery hair was very distinctive, too. He’d certainly had no trouble picking her out from the crowds in the Pump Room, that first time.
A smile tugged at his lips as he recalled the moment she’d backed into him, with such force she’d knocked the cup of water from his hand. And the sudden, surprising flare of attraction that contact with her body had provoked. Surprising, because he hadn’t felt any such stirrings since the day he’d fallen into the hands of the French.
But not unwelcome. For one thing it was proof that he was recovering, physically at least. For another, it meant that in one respect he would not be deceiving Miss Hutton at all. He was genuinely attracted to her.
Ah, there she was. His heart lifted. And not just at what she might represent in terms of vengeance for Archie. She looked stunning with the candlelight gleaming on her silvery hair. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Indeed, it wasn’t until he was within a few feet of her that he noticed the older woman standing with her. The same one who’d been with her the night he’d asked her to dance.
He bowed to them both, wondering how he was going to be able to detach her from her chaperon. ‘Miss Hutton, it is a pleasure to find you here tonight.’ And it was.
Though she didn’t appear to feel the same. On the contrary, she was looking at him as though he was an unexploded shell that had landed at her feet. Until the lady at her side nudged at her with her bony elbow.
‘Oh. Yes,’ said Miss Hutton with one of her frequent blushes. ‘Lady Mainwaring, this is... Well, he says his name is Captain Bretherton.’
‘My name is Captain Bretherton.’ Or at least, that was part of it. He never used the part of his title that referred to his earldom, since the title had never been of any use to him whatever. What use was insisting on being addressed correctly when the title denoted nothing but shame? When it was hollow? Since his father, the previous earl, had left things in such a shambles that his trustees had not even had the money to keep him in school.
‘Lady Mainwaring, charmed to make your acquaintance,’ he said, a touch untruthfully, since he heartily wished she’d take herself off so he could have Miss Hutton to himself.
‘Well, it’s equally charming to meet you, too,’ simpered Lady Mainwaring. ‘But you will have to excuse me. I see somebody just over there to whom I simply must speak.’ And just like that, his view of her capsized. Instead of being pleased he’d dispensed with her so easily, he was indignant that she’d abandon her charge with such alacrity. Leaving her at the mercy of a man she didn’t know. He could be a cold-hearted seducer for all Lady Mainwaring knew.
In fact, his conscience muttered, he wasn’t that much better.
‘Miss Hutton,’ he said. And then foundered. He gritted his teeth. Captain Hambleton wouldn’t have been at a loss right now. Even if he had been three sheets to the wind. And as for Lieutenant Nateby...
‘I think I had better inform you,’ said Miss Hutton, flinging up her chin, ‘that I have not a penny to my name.’
That was her grandfather’s doing, he supposed. ‘Your financial status,’ he said with a touch of indignation, ‘has no bearing on my interest in you.’ Perversely, the moment the wariness started to fade from her eyes, guilt started twisting at his vitals. He might not have any intention of robbing her, but he did have an ulterior motive for pursuing her. And her grandfather must have detected that something was not completely genuine about his interest.
For some time there had been a discordant noise forming a background to the general hubbub, but now the strains of a recognisable tune began to dominate.
‘Would you care to sit and listen to the music?’ he asked her, grasping at the opportunity to turn their conversation away from the murky subject of his motives. ‘Or would you prefer to take a turn about the room?’
Miss Hutton shifted from one foot to the other, her eyes troubled. He could almost see her slipping from his grasp.
‘Please, Miss Hutton,’ he said, taking a step nearer, obliging her to raise her head a fraction to look him in the eye. ‘Please believe that I am no fortune hunter.’ He could swear his complete innocence of that crime, even if he was guilty of others in relation to her. ‘I told you that you and I match, did I not? Like...’ He searched desperately for inspiration. And came up with, ‘Atlas and Phoebe.
Do you know anything of Greek legend?’‘A little,’ she said, warily.
‘They were Titans,’ he explained. ‘Titans all governed heavenly bodies. In the case of Atlas and Phoebe, it was the moon. And with your silvery hair, I just thought...’
She tilted her head to one side. ‘What does Atlas have to do with anything?’
‘Oh,’ he said, taking her elbow and scanning the seating area for a couple of vacant chairs, since, as he’d got her engaged in conversation, he might as well take steps to ensure she couldn’t escape with any ease. ‘Atlas is a nickname some school friends gave me. On account of me being so much bigger than the rest of them.’
Her eyes ranged over his frame. But then a little pucker appeared between her brows. ‘Why not Hercules?’
‘Well,’ he said, steering her in the direction of the back row of chairs, ‘we were only schoolboys, after all. And they seemed to think I was trying to take the weight of the world on my shoulders. On account of me being averse to seeing bigger boys bullying the smaller, weaker ones.’
‘Oh,’ she said again, only this time her expression definitely softened. He’d finally hooked her interest. Now all he had to do was reel her in.
‘And then it stuck, you see, after I went into the navy, since Atlas had a whole ocean named after him.’
‘The Atlantic!’
‘That’s it. Excuse me,’ he said to a lady occupying the end chair of the row in which he wished to sit. ‘Are those seats taken?’ He indicated the ones in the rest of the row. She frowned. Jerked her eyes to the two rows in front of her which were completely empty.
He smiled at her. ‘It would be most remiss of me to sit in front of you, since my partner and I would no doubt block your view of the orchestra.’
She eyed their combined height, and bulk, speculatively, then, with a waspish expression, got to her feet and stalked away. Leaving the entire back row free for him and Phoebe.
That was, Miss Hutton.
‘She may not have been all that interested in seeing the orchestra,’ Miss Hutton pointed out, as he ushered her into a chair. ‘Not many people do pay all that much attention to them, after all. She was probably just resting her feet for a moment.’
‘Well, now she can rest them elsewhere,’ he said, settling himself beside her. ‘Do you have a programme upon you?’ He glanced down at her lap, on which she’d placed her large and rather lumpy-looking reticule. She shook her head as she clutched at it. And then she averted her head and gazed in the general direction of the orchestra, a tide of pink creeping up her cheeks.
And damn it if he had any idea what to say to her, now he had her all to himself. With nobody to overhear.
Rawcliffe had been right. He wasn’t cut out for this type of work. He was a man of action, not words. Were he standing on the deck of a ship, preparing to go into battle, he’d know what to do. His mind would be assessing the enemy’s capabilities, with one eye to the wind and the tide. Weighing up the strengths and weaknesses of his men, his supplies.
But here, on a spindly chair, in a stuffy room, with an orchestra plunking out a backdrop to the conversations of the other, mostly elderly concert-goers, he was at a bit of a loss.
And what did that say about him? That he was better at orchestrating acts of violence, in order to smash his enemies to a pulp, as part of man’s endless quest for conquest, that was what.
And once this interlude with Miss Hutton was over, once he’d brought Archie’s killers to justice, that was the world he’d have to go back to. A world in which he’d had to treat men like so much cannon fodder, rather than as human beings with any intrinsic worth. He was a warrior, not a lover. A man of action, not of sentiment.
So, rather than trying to find words, he reached for Miss Hutton’s hand, where it lay tangled with the strings of her reticule. And let that action speak for him.
She blushed, but did not pull it away. On the contrary, as the music swelled and throbbed, she tucked it under the folds of her skirts. Taking his hand with it.
And his own heart swelled and throbbed along with the violins as they sat, secretly holding hands.
The tide was turning in his favour.
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