The Captain's Courtship. Regina Scott
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to see pity or, worse, pleasure at her pain. Though, who could blame him for thinking she deserved what she’d gotten from her marriage? She was the one who had broken her promise.
Shoving the memories aside, she pushed through the kitchen door with Richard right behind her. Mrs. Corday looked up from the potatoes she’d been peeling, hand frozen on the knife.
“This is Captain Everard,” Claire said, as if she normally entertained guests in her kitchen. “He wishes to have words with me.”
Her cook blinked bleary blue eyes wreathed in wrinkles. “And would you like me to stay, your ladyship?”
Claire glanced at Richard, who looked surprised she’d think twice about trusting herself alone with him. Claire focused on her cook. “Please go about your duties. Don’t let us disturb you.”
The cook’s snowy brows went up, but she ducked her head and set about whipping the peelings off the crusty vegetables as if her life depended on finishing.
Claire hadn’t spent a lot of time in her kitchen until the furnishings had been taken, but she’d been surprised to find it a dark and dismal place, with a gray stone fireplace that took up one entire wall and oak cabinets painted a lacquered black that had dimmed with time. The only bright spots were the copper tools hanging from the walls around the hearth and what was left of her china, creamy white with rosebuds along the edges, piled haphazardly on the sideboard for packing.
Still, she could remember how to be the proper hostess, even if she had to take the role of servant. “May I take your coat, Captain Everard?”
“Thank you.” He shrugged out of the multicaped greatcoat and folded it over one arm to hand it to her. Under it he wore tan breeches and a tailored brown wool jacket. An emerald-striped satin waistcoat peeked out through the lapels. She could find no fault in his clothing or the elegantly tied cravat at his throat. In fact, he looked every bit the gentleman.
“Please, have a seat,” she said, motioning him to a ladder-back chair farther down the oak worktable. She went to hang his coat on a curved-arm hall tree by the kitchen door. “Would you care for some tea?”
She turned in time to see that he had pursed his lips as if he doubted she could produce the brew. “Certainly, if it’s not too much trouble.”
Meeting Claire’s gaze, Mrs. Corday jerked her head toward the fire. “Kettle’s already on the boil, your ladyship. There’s enough for a few more cups in the caddy.”
“Thank you,” Claire murmured. Fully aware that Richard’s gaze followed her every step, she went to the fireplace and took the kettle off the hook. Carrying it to the sideboard, she set about pouring the steaming water into one of her china cups.
She nearly sighed aloud when she peered into the satinwood tea caddy. This was the last of her bohea. Funny how little things had come to mean so much now. Would she be able to get the mellow tea in the little town where she hoped to retire? For, regardless of what she’d told Richard and a few close friends, her funds would never extend to Bath or Italy. She was considering a two-room cottage in the tiny village of Nether Crawley, a day’s ride from London. Of course, with no carriage or horse, the distance was immaterial. Very likely, she would never see London again.
Help me remember why I made that choice, Lord. It does no good to wish it otherwise now.
She returned with Richard’s tea and set it in front of him. Lifting the cup to his mouth, he took a cautious sip. Now, why did that smile please her so much? She’d have thought she’d played a complicated Mozart sonata in front of the king.
“Are you certain you want to leave London?” he asked as he lowered the cup.
“Quite,” she replied. She turned her back on his frown and went to pour for herself.
“What if I could give you another Season, all expenses paid?”
She could not even reach for the teapot. Stay in London? Enjoy the balls, the parties; reacquaint herself with her friends, with no thought of tomorrow?
Ah, but she’d learned there always came the time to pay the piper. Tomorrow, however much she wished otherwise, would come. He only offered a reprieve. She would have to leave London regardless, before the Season, after the Season, for the same small house at the back of beyond. In the meantime, she would have to continue to pretend that her life was perfect, that she was perfect. No, not that. Lord, You know I am so tired of that.
She poured the last of the brew, the steam curling up to her face. “I fear my mind is made up, sir.”
“Then it’s my duty to change it.”
She turned to find him regarding her, his cup sitting in front of him, his hands braced on either side of it as if he meant to keep it captive.
“Sit down, Claire,” he ordered.
Mrs. Corday’s hands were moving so fast Claire thought the potato might fly across the table and embed itself in Richard Everard’s waistcoat. She left her cup on the sideboard and went to lay a hand on her cook’s shoulder.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Corday. Our guest is a sea captain. He’s no doubt forgotten that it isn’t polite to give orders to people who are not his subordinates.”
Mrs. Corday cast Richard a quick glance. “As you say, your ladyship.”
He had the good grace to incline his head, and the light from the lamps overhead made a halo on the crown of his auburn hair. “Forgive me, Mrs. Corday. You are the captain of your kitchen. I should have asked permission to come aboard.”
The older woman’s rosy lips quirked as if she were fighting a smile. “It’s no trouble, sir. Would you care for a biscuit to go with your tea?”
“If you made it,” he said with a smile, “I’m sure I’d enjoy it.”
She set down the potato and hurried to the pantry.
So, he could be perfectly charming to the staff, but not to Claire. Well, she wasn’t going to allow him to order her about, either. She swept back to the sideboard and busied herself adding sugar to the tea. Normally she preferred three teaspoons, but she had to economize. She took a sip of the flavorful brew, even as she heard Mrs. Corday murmuring to their guest and the clink of porcelain on oak as she set the plate of the last biscuits on the table.
“Please sit down, Lady Winthrop,” Richard Everard said quietly. “I have a great deal to explain.”
Claire steeled herself, picked up her cup and turned. His smile was contrite, his face composed. She couldn’t trust what lay beneath that fair surface, but she went to join him at the table. Her cook began cutting the potatoes into a copper pot.
“I should probably start with expressing my condolences on your loss,” he continued in that gentle tone.
“And mine on yours,” she acknowledged. “Though, as I recall, you and your uncle were no longer close.”
He rubbed a long finger along the wood grain of the table. She’d always thought he should play the piano with those hands. Certainly he could have managed the octave-and-a-half reach that still eluded her. And he’d definitely had the fire to play with enthusiasm, once.
“Uncle had changed recently,” he said. “Tried to make amends, to me, my brother and cousin, as well as his daughter.”
“So he really has a daughter?” Claire could not see the pleasure-loving Lord Everard as a doting father. His exploits—from duels at daybreak to wagers at one in the morning—were legendary. “Where has she been all these years?”
“Cumberland, in an old manor house. She was raised to be a lady, Claire. You need have no worries on that score.”
She should protest the way her first name kept coming so easily to his lips, but the sound of it was sweet. With her father and husband dead, no one called her Claire anymore. “You intend to bring her out this year?”
“Right