The Captain Claims His Lady. ANNIE BURROWS
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.
Whatever could have put that grim expression on his face? Sitting this close, she could see him much better than when they were standing up and they had to preserve a decorous distance from one another. She could see the muscles clenching in his jaw, the grim line flattening his mouth and even the bleakness in his eyes. And just as at the first time they’d met, she wished she could do something about it.
When he reached for her hand, therefore, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to grasp it and offer him what small comfort she could. Even though it was not at all the thing.
Though what did it matter, as long as nobody found out?
Her heart tripped over itself as she not only formed such a rebellious thought, but also took action to ensure that it bore fruit. Concealing their linked hands took but a second, as she rearranged the folds of her unfashionably voluminous skirts.
His own breath hitched. Though he made no sign that anyone else could detect, she was sure he gave her hand a little squeeze.
Golly, but she’d never felt so wicked in her life! Was this really stumbling, stammering Lizzie Hutton? Sitting holding hands with a man? Practically in full sight of a room full of people?
If she’d been the kind of girl who giggled, she’d be giggling right now. Never had she felt so...giddy. Or so in tune with a piece of music. Whenever the violins soared, so did her heart, as she revelled in the feel of his hand clasping hers, his response when she’d told him she wasn’t an heiress.
When the instruments groaned and wept, she found herself biting her lower lip and wondering when it was all going to end. And if people would carry the tale back to Grandfather about the way they were sitting so close together. If such talk would send him into retreat. After all, he surely wouldn’t want his name linked too closely with a girl he’d only known a matter of days.
The musicians did not finish their piece until Lizzie was so wrung out she could understand why some people actually wept during certain performances. And though it was not because of their skill, but because of the man next to whom she was sitting, she knew she ought to join in the applause that was breaking out, politely, all round the room. Only, that would mean she’d have to let go of his hand.
While she was