Chapter 7
Beatrix picked up her green, leather-bound book for the tenth time and tried to lose herself in the crisp, ivory pages. The morning light spilling in through the tall window was ideal for reading. The temperature was pleasant. The sounds of the street were a gentle hum which should have blocked out the riot of her thoughts. The cool blue damask walls should have soothed her. The room often did. It was a place of serenity. A raft, in the wild sea of her pain.
Instead, she found herself thinking of the infuriating Captain Adam Duke. His beautiful, hard face, a face that seemed as if it had been carved from stone then given life by the gods, kept invading her thoughts.
She briskly turned a page. The black ink blurred. Blast!
The new novel by An Anonymous Lady, should have kept her completely absorbed. For who could not be swept up by the plight of sisters in such circumstances?
How dare he do what he’d done?
Worse still, he’d looked so pleased as though she should be overcome by his crumbs of kindness.
Ha!
She snapped another page, not giving a whit that she had not read the last one.
She had no need of his generosity.
But then again. . . When he had touched her. . . For a brief moment, she’d recalled how, once, she’d loved to dance and to banter away with young men.
Her fingers curled on the page, an ache settling in her heart. That touch, it had awoken something in her. A longing had begun, like a burning cinder in her soul, longing to be fanned to life.
That was all done now. There would be no grand passion. No great marriage. No friends to while the hours away with as they passed from amusement to amusement. She was alone, despite her cousins. She felt alone.
Oh, once she had had several female friends. Most of them had slowly abandoned her, unable to navigate the awkward map of Beatrix’s misfortunes. She did still, in her most secret moments, miss female companionship. But in truth, she had always loved the male sex.
There was something so lively about the company of men. She’d adored men who loved life, like her father, her brother, and all their friends. Their house had always been full of intellectuals, adventurers, and men who longed for change not stagnation.
Captain Duke certainly seemed to be one of that wonderful lot.
Once, oh once, a word she’d come to despise with every part of her being, she would have flirted and danced and then dared him to a horse race come the morrow. Then perhaps, she might have found a way to steal a kiss. For what young lady wouldn’t wish a kiss from such a man?
She swallowed, as if tasting bitter gall. She let her book fall into her lap, giving up all hope of it. And of stolen kisses with a man like Captain Duke.
Now, that was impossible.
She gazed out the window, trying to allow the late morning light to lift her dark sprits. Two years ago, she would have been barraged by the callers come to visit her family at such a time. It had seemed as if their house had been an ever-revolving carousel of fascinating people.
Now, she sat in her nook, hoping to be left alone.
The knock at the front door jarred her.
By now, she should have been used to the many callers that came to the house. The Hunts were social and always welcoming new people, artists, politicians and old friends.
No doubt, the visitor was such a person.
She supposed she still found the sound of a knock distressing because she knew it would never be for her. It was pitiable. It was essential that she not allow herself to drift into self-sorrow. At least, not as she had felt it just a few months ago.
So, she propped her book up again and, with renewed determination, turned the page only to recall she clearly had not read the last paragraph on the previous page. In fact, she had been oblivious to the last several pages.
Letting out a muttered curse, she slammed the book shut in her lap. It was a satisfying action in a world where a young woman had few outlets for her feelings.
Was it possible the four walls of a room were no longer acceptable? She looked again to the window, hearing the sound of carriages and horse’s hooves. But going out was almost unbearable.
A soft knock rapped on the morning room door and she swung towards it in terror.
Who was disturbing her peace?
The door swung open and the dignified, elder butler entered. “Captain Duke, my lady.”
What in the blazes? She nearly yelled, no! Had someone suddenly thought she wished callers? She’d turned them all away for months. Was this some new scheme from the family?
She barely had a moment to gather herself.
Captain Duke strode through in all his wild male glory, making the good-sized room seem suddenly dwarfish. From his sandy hair, which looked constantly windblown, to the coat and breeches which clung to his body as if they were a second skin, the man was perfection. It was both extremely irritating and compelling. After all, how often was one exposed to such a remarkable specimen?
“Good day,” he declared loudly with a brief but surprisingly dramatic bow.
“It is not,” she blurted, inching backward on her delicate chair.
The butler’s eyes flared only slightly as he backed out, leaving the door ajar. Though in this house, propriety was not adhered to with any noted strictness.
Captain Duke had the strangest smile on his handsome face.
“Are you unwell?” he inquired as he gestured to her person. “You look marvelous.”
She drew up, wondering if she could shoo him from the room. “I am not unwell but I do not require visitors.”
“Of course you don’t,” he said, unabashedly. “But I’ve come to apologize.”
“Well, you can just—” She stopped mid-sentence and frowned. “To apologize?”
“Yes,” he carried on as if all this were a perfectly normal occurrence. “Horribly rude of me last night. I wasn’t thinking when I threw down the gauntlet, so to speak.”
That strange accent rolled over her, made beautiful by the rich timbre of his voice.
“You were rude,” she confirmed, even as she felt herself yielding just the smallest degree. “And arrogant.”
He grinned. “That, I can’t help.”
“Oh?” she asked, pursing her lips. “Did you not have a tutor?”
“Two. But they never took effect,” he said brightly with a shrug, his sense of self-assurance almost impossible to describe. “Even university education could not cure me. It seems ingrained, and neither wind nor rain can wash it from my soul.”
It was so tempting to send him off, but as she gripped the book in her lap, she forced herself to wonder what, exactly, she would do if he left. Attempt to read again? Stare out the window? Pace the room, staring aimlessly?
It barely bore considering. Even so, she was not about to start accepting visits out of pity.
“Have you come to invite me for a ride?” she challenged, as if she might be able to make him leave through sheer outrageousness.
His brows rose and he took a step further into the room. “It never crossed my mind. Do you own a horse?”
She bit her lower lip before admitting, “No.”
“Ah.” He pointed at her, knowing. Somehow knowing. As if he could read through her pain and into her past. “But you used to.”
She sighed and put her book aside. “Well, I suppose I still do, but she’s in the country.”
“Do you miss her?” he inexplicably asked.
Stiffening, she remarked, “That is an incredibly impertinent question.”
“So it is,” he agreed amicably. He appeared to, somehow, be completely at home standing in her sanctuary. “Only, I could never be far from my ship.”
“A ship is not a horse.”
“They are not completely dissimilar,” he countered. “They both get a person from place to place.”
She blinked. How did he go about life so. . . So. . . Happy? “You have the most bizarre of minds.”
“Thank you,” he replied with a twirl of his hand and a nod of his head.
“It wasn’t a compliment,” she said dryly.
“I’m ever the optimist.”
She looked him up and down, trying with every ounce of her being to make him see he was being absurd. Yet, it was very difficult. . . For he possessed an extremely admirable physique. “So I see by your visit.”
The door suddenly opened. “Tea, my lady.”
“I did not request tea,” she flustered as a wave of panic crashed upon her. Tea? Would she be forced to make pleasantries with Captain Duke?
The butler entered without hesitation, a silver service upon his arm. “The dowager duchess thought it might do the American gentleman good. She mentioned that a man of his size must constantly require fuel to maintain himself.”
Maintain himself, indeed.
She nearly let out a bellow of frustration but restrained herself. No doubt, Hyacinth had very different reasons for the tea. One, it would be much harder for Beatrix to kick him out, teacup and scone in hand.
She was not yet so far gone.
“Set it beside me,” she said with as much graciousness as she could muster. What else could she do?
“Yes, my lady,” the butler said politely, but there was a devilish air of triumph to the curve of his lips. He exited with far less fanfare than he’d entered.
“Do you drink tea?” she asked, as if he might be a heathen.
“Not since it was all chucked in Boston Harbor,” he quipped.
As she lifted the ornate, silver, teapot to pour, she studied him. “Are you mad?”
“Aren’t we all?” he asked, waggling his brows. “And I was only jesting. Tea is acceptable.”
“Acceptable,” she tsked. “Do you disparage our national beverage?”
Carefully, as trained since a small girl, she held the strainer over a cup and poured. Steam billowed delicately from the spout and the soothing, dark liquid filled the beautiful, porcelain cup.
“How could I do such a thing? I think the English are incapable of being disparaged, if you ask. But I confess, it is great fun to play the American.”
“Play the American?” she asked, the teacup held aloft.
“Oh yes.” He looked to the chairs about the room. “May I sit?”
“Oh.” She frowned. It had been rude of her not to offer, and it occurred to her it was because he had seemed so at ease standing. “Please do.”
He did so in a remarkable series of movements. His height did not seem as if it would fit in the small French chair beside hers. It did.
She had hoped he would choose the settee at a greater distance. However, he managed it, even if he did appear like great eagle perched on a tiny promontory. Somehow, she had no idea how, he did not look ridiculous.
“Sugar?” she asked.
“No. I loathe the stuff.”
“Why?”
“I have my reasons,” he said quickly. And one might have thought it was merely because, like some, he cared for his figure. But she could not help but feel there was something darker there. For the briefest of moments, the mirth had turned into something harder in his gaze.
Deciding not to pursue it, she asked, “What do you mean exactly? About playing the American?”
Still, with a beautiful straight back, he relaxed into his chair. A careless, appealing movement. “The English nobles have some very strange ideas about how Americans behave. I enjoy increasing those thoughts.”
“Not terribly diplomatic of you,” she said as she thrust the teacup at him.
“I’m a captain, not a diplomat.” He reached for the cup.
“Is your vessel large?” she asked suddenly.
His brows rose ever so slightly, his hand stilling.
She blushed. Immediately, the comment seemed amiss, but she could no longer take it back.
“Yes,” he went on smoothly, taking the steaming cup of tea painted with gold.
Briefly, their fingertips touched. Both of them ungloved. For one flash, their eyes met and it was like being seared by the most powerful heat that somehow did not burn.
She nearly snatched her hand back, so unaccustomed was she to such an intimate experience.
“It is a large vessel,” he teased, clearly pretending that nothing had transpired. “Three masts. Cannons. A host of souls.”
“Cannons?” she exclaimed, pouring her own cup and, to her surprise, she did not put sugar into her cup.
“Indeed.”
“Why do you need cannons?” she asked, carefully turning the cup and holding the saucer on her palm.
He winked as he balanced his own saucer, which appeared minuscule on his massive palm. “Haven’t you heard? I’m a pirate.”
“Real pirates don’t exist anymore.”
“It all depends on what you mean by ‘real’,” he said seriously, the teasing dying from his voice. “But I do liberate property.”
At this last sentence the amusement vanished from him and there it was. That hardness.
“How have you not been arrested?” she asked bluntly. The English took theft of property very seriously. Hanging or transportation was the usual result.
“It’s been close a few times,” he confessed, sipping his tea. “But your government is now particularly favorable to my work. That is why our offices are opening in London.”
She shook her head, feeling terribly confused. She could not imagine a circumstance in which the government would support theft. “Your work? Liberating property?”
“Slaves,” he replied bluntly, his eyes granite now.
She swallowed. “I beg your pardon?”
“My brothers and I,” he continued with remarkable calm and stillness. “We have, over the years, stopped slavers, boarded them, and freed those aboard. Soon, I think your own Navy vessels will be performing such acts.”
“My God,” she whispered, staring at him in an entirely new light.
He frowned and his casual easiness started to slip away. “Given your family, I did not think I would meet disapproval. Am I mistaken?”
“Not at all,” she protested. “I am angry with myself.”
“Why?” he exclaimed.
“I knew you were wild,” she rushed, her mind a mix of confused feelings and thoughts at this revelation of his. “But I never thought you noble.”
He groaned. “Please do not use that word. We fought a revolution to escape that particular word.”
“Honorable then?” she posited.
“Honor really has little to do with it. It is necessary. It is the right thing to do.”
Her chest rose and fell in quick breaths, suddenly realizing that the man across from her was no idle adventurer. His entire life had been useful and good in a way hers never had been. And she had had such unkind thoughts about him. “Not everyone thinks so.”
“Not everyone has a functioning brain,” he drawled as he took a long drink of tea.
She laughed. A full laugh. It tumbled past her lips and through the room. So rich was it that she immediately clacked her teeth shut.
“Not used to it, are you?” he asked softly, kindly. “Finding the humor in a situation.”
Before, she might have avoided such a personal question. But here? Now? She immediately realized he was a man intimately acquainted with pain and it would be the height of self-centeredness to think her own might supersede his. “Not anymore.”
“It’s not a betrayal you know.”
She shook her head. “Of what?”
He placed his teacup down and leaned forward. “Your family.”
To her horror, her throat tightened. “I beg your pardon?” she managed to gasp.
“To laugh. It’s not a betrayal of them.”
“I- I- I beg your pardon, but I should prefer it if you ended our interview. Surely, you have fortified yourself and you have done what you came to do.”
“What I said. It hurt you. For that, I am sorry. And if you’d truly like me to go, I will. But I know something of this.”
“Do you, indeed?” she gritted, blind pain taking over. Her earlier goodwill and understanding of his own suffering were replaced by something deep and unpleasant inside herself. “Your entire family is dead?”
He stilled and braced his hands on his knees. “My little sister, Blythe, died when she was eight years of age. I was eighteen. I fancied myself a man grown, but she was my heart. I lived to make her happy. My brother—Won’t even speak her name.” A wave of self-reproach washed over her. She’d done it again. She’d clung to her own suffering despite the possibility that he had suffered, too. It was a moment of awakening that only brought tears to her eyes. “I am sorry.”
He smiled gently. “Thank you. And if you must know, I’ve seen things which would rob the joy from the merriest of hearts. There was a time in which I could not smile. In which I could not lift myself from the hell I saw.”
She could not move. Why was he saying these things? They were so intimate, so honest, so raw. To her horror, she realized he was saying these things because they were both victims of this cruel world.
“I should like to be your friend,” he replied honestly.
She shook her head, desperate to avoid the feeling suddenly rushing to her fore. “I am not in need of friends.”
“You are,” he countered. “We all are. And I think we’d have a great deal of fun.”
“Fun?” she echoed. “I do not know what that is now.”
A gentle smile turned his lips. “Then let me help you become reacquainted with it.”
She stared at him. Stared for several moments as if a gulf of understanding was opening between them and he was asking her to leap into it. “And if I am not ready?”
“You will never be ready,” he informed her, seriously. “If you are content and think your family would approve of your current state, I will walk out of this room and leave you to it. But I do not think that you are content or that your family would approve. Still, I will not press.”
“You pity me,” she breathed. Hating that.
“I find you to be a most interesting young lady and would like to know you better,” he corrected. But then he gave that careless shrug of his. “And, while I might agree to what I imagine you shall protest next, there are many fine ladies in London to befriend.”
Slowly, he stood, his powerful gaze holding her. “There is only one Lady Beatrix. And for whatever reason, my spirit has become sympathetic to yours. Something altogether different from pity.”
With that, he inclined his head. “I shan’t keep you longer. I will be waiting.”
As he placed the teacup down on the table beside her, his scent surrounded her. Remarkably, despite being in town, he somehow embodied the sea. Fresh, sharp, unpredictable.
He bowed again slightly then headed for the door. Instead of waiting for her to reply, he simply strode out. Her hands seemed restless, as if she had no idea what to do with them as she gaped at the door.
Had he truly just argued such a case and then made a quick exit? It seemed he had. Now, what in the blazes was she to do? To her surprise, she pushed herself up from the chair and shuffled to the window.
His tall form headed out into the summer sunshine. His dark blue coat stood out amidst the others on the pavement, for his shoulders were positively Herculean. His matching tricorn sat upon his blond head at a jaunty angle. And he headed out into the mass of people as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Suddenly, her heart fluttered as she studied him and felt enveloped with awe and envy. She wanted that carefree air. She wanted that again. Could she dare to take it? There was only one way to find out.