The Captain Claims His Lady. ANNIE BURROWS
who, presumably from the direction of the waving, was standing just behind him.
‘Captain Bretherton?’ Of the navy? She peered beyond Mr King’s shoulder and saw an immense figure loom up out of the golden candlelit fog. And her heart skipped a beat. It was the man from the Pump Room that morning. It had to be. For there surely couldn’t be two such tall, broad men in Bath at present.
‘Miss Hutton,’ said a voice she recognised at once. A voice that sent strange feelings rippling through her whole body. Making her feel a bit like a pointer quivering in the presence of game. ‘I am charmed to make your acquaintance.’
‘Eep!’ That was the noise which escaped Lady Mainwaring’s mouth as Captain Bretherton stepped closer and bowed over her hand. Which also, coincidentally, expressed exactly what Lizzie was thinking.
‘Captain Bretherton,’ said Lizzie, dropping into a curtsy. Causing Lady Mainwaring to stagger a little as Lizzie’s elbow caught her in the midriff.
She really ought to practise curtsying more often. She had never mastered the art of controlling her elbows. It was hard enough to get her knees to dip to the approved level, while keeping her balance. Spreading her elbows wide helped her not to stagger in the rising portion of the curtsy, she’d discovered. And Lady Buntingford, who’d been the one attempting to teach her all that a lady needed to know, had said that she supposed that at least it meant she could perform the whole manoeuvre relatively smoothly, even if nobody and nothing within range of them was likely to emerge unscathed.
‘Allow me to escort you to the ballroom,’ said Captain Bretherton, as a large, gloved hand swam into view.
She took it, grateful that she couldn’t see the expression on his face. The poor man must be regretting having asked her to dance, now that he’d seen how clumsy she was.
‘You are very brave,’ came tumbling out of her mouth. And then she blushed. That was just the sort of thing she ought not to tell a man, just before he danced with her.
But then, what did it matter, really? Once he’d spent half an hour stepping over the bodies she’d no doubt strew across the dance floor, he would never come anywhere near her again.
Oh, dear. It had been so pleasant daydreaming about her encounter with him this morning. She’d actually been witty for a few moments. But now she had a horrid feeling that she was only ever going to be able to cringe when she looked back on what was likely to happen during the course of the next half-hour.
She felt his arm, upon which she’d rested her hand in the requisite manner, stiffen.
‘Brave? What do you mean?’
‘To ask me to dance,’ she confessed miserably.
‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘But it was the only way I could think of to get an introduction. Wondering what your name could really be has been tormenting me all day.’
‘Oh, well, if that is all, we don’t need to go through with it. We could just go to the tea room...’
‘Tea won’t be served for another hour at least,’ he said swiftly. ‘And...er...’
‘You have no taste for cards? Neither do I. In fact, Grandfather won’t even buy me a subscription for the card room. Says it is a waste of money.’
‘Playing cards at all is a waste of money,’ he said grimly.
She shot him a startled look. And, since the crowded room obliged them to walk very close together, she could see the clenched plane of his jaw quite distinctly.
‘Besides, I would much rather dance with you.’
‘Really? But I thought...’
‘Thought what?’
‘Well, I was just going to say that, this morning, I thought you looked quite sensible.’
A bark of laughter escaped his lips. But then he turned his head and looked down at her.
‘Sensible and brave. My, my. Two compliments in such rapid succession. Miss Hutton, you will turn my head.’
‘No, I didn’t mean, that is...’ She felt her cheeks heating as her thoughts, and her tongue, became hopelessly tangled. How she wished she had more experience of talking to men. Well, single men, who’d asked her to dance with them, that was. Then she might not be making quite such a fool of herself with this one.
‘I will make a confession,’ he said, leaning close to her ear so that his voice rippled all the way down her spine in a caressing manner.
‘Will you?’ She lost her ability to breathe properly. It felt as if her lungs were as tangled as her thoughts.
‘When I looked in upon the ballroom, earlier, and saw how few people were actually dancing, and how many were watching, my nerve almost failed.’
‘Well, it is just that there are not that many people here who are fit enough to dance. But they do enjoy watching others. And then...’
‘Giving them marks out of ten, I dare say,’ he finished for her.
‘Yes, that’s about it. And I’m terribly sorry, but—’
‘Oh, no,’ he said sternly. ‘You cannot retreat now. We are almost at the dance floor. Can you imagine what people will say if you turn and run from me?’
‘That you’ve had a narrow escape?’
‘That I’ve had...’ He turned, and took both her hands in his. ‘Miss Hutton, are you trying to warn me that you are not a good dancer?’
She nodded. Then hung her head.
She felt a gloved hand slide under her chin and lift her face. And saw him smiling down at her. Beaming, in fact. As though she’d just told him something wonderful.
‘Then, you are not going to berate me when I tread upon your toes?’
‘I... Is that what your dance partners normally do?’ When he nodded, ruefully, she welled up with indignation. ‘How rude.’
‘I shall remind you that you said that, after you have suffered the same fate.’
‘I suspect that you will be too busy regretting having asked me to dance at all to remember anything I said beforehand.’
‘Oh? Why is that?’
‘Because I have no...’ She tried to wave her hands to demonstrate her lack of coordination, only to find them still firmly clasped between his own. ‘And people do try to get out of my way, but...’
‘I can see that this is going to be an interesting experience for both of us,’ he put in.
‘And for the spectators.’ The walls would probably soon be resounding to the screams of pain from the other dancers and the laughter of those watching her mow her way through the others in her set like a scythe through ripened wheat. At least, that was how her very last dance partner had spoken of her performance after he’d returned her to her seat, mopping his brow. It was funny how people assumed, because she couldn’t see very well, that she couldn’t hear, either. They seemed to think they could talk about her freely, and often very rudely, and get away with it.
And because it was easier to pretend she hadn’t heard, than to confront them and make a scene, Lizzie had learned to keep her face frozen into what another local youth had described as being very like that adopted by a cow when chewing the cud.
And what a cud he was.
‘Yes,’ he said, turning and leading her on to the dance floor where she could see the dim outlines of other people forming a set. ‘Let us give them something worth watching.’
Harry’s cravat felt too tight. And sweat was