Daring Lords and Ladies

by Emily Murdoch

  Josephine blinked rapidly, mentally going through her inventory of gowns. She had only recently begun attending local social events with her brother. As a result, she only had two nice gowns and one of them would need to be embellished to make it appropriate for an event as formal as a ball.

  “Yes, I’m sure I can pull something together.”

  “That’s a good duck,” he said as he pushed his chair back and stood.

  “Theo,” she said, stopping him at the door to the dining room. “Did the invitation only just arrive?”

  “What’s that? Oh. No, I believe it came last week. Why?”

  Josephine only just stopped herself from rolling her eyes. Theo was forever telling her things at the last minute and expecting her to perform a small miracle. Only last week he’d come home midmorning and informed her and Molly that several important business colleagues were joining him for luncheon.

  She and Molly had been in the middle of pulling up all the rugs to beat outside and had only planned a light luncheon of finger sandwiches.

  “Theo, you can’t possibly expect us to prepare a decent meal in half an hour’s time! Look at us!” She was dressed in one of Molly’s faded old gowns.

  “You look fine. Just—here,” he said, pulling out his handkerchief and rubbing a bit of dirt off her cheek.

  She and Molly had raced to the kitchen and pulled together a meal that, while not elaborate, at least was plentiful and tasty.

  “There, you see? I knew you could do it, Theo had said as he returned to his offices. In comparison, having to prepare one of her gowns for a ball was a simple feat.

  “I should wear that pink gingham,” she told Molly as the two women cleared the breakfast dishes. The pink gingham was the dress Molly had loaned her to beat rugs.

  “You won’t do that, Miss.”

  “It would serve him right,” Josephine said.

  “Aye, but you won’t do that.”

  Josephine exhaled a laugh. “No, I won’t. But it would serve him right, forgetting to tell me things until the last minute.”

  “Aye, Miss. It would.”

  Chapter Three

  Hungerford Spooner carefully knotted his cravat, shaking his head at the resultant effect. He rarely wore a necktie and had never managed to master the intricate tucks and folds of a fashionable cravat. A necktie in the stuffy confines of his warehouse or on board a ship, or in the humid fields of sugarcane was uncomfortable and, in his opinion, unnecessarily masochistic.

  But there were times, such as when he met with the bigger landowners (who didn’t actually do the manual labor of running a plantation and so could afford to stay comfortably shaded, bound up in linen) that “proper” attire was necessary. Or tonight, he thought with a sigh, leaning forward to check the closeness of his shave in the mirror.

  He actually quite enjoyed formal balls with the glittering chandeliers, dessert tables, and dancing. All of the attendees—mostly transplanted English, but a few Spaniards, French, and Portuguese—enjoyed such events as a reminder of what they considered “normal;” a familiar ritual in the otherwise untamed world of the Caribbean. For Ford, however, the occasional formal events he attended were a step into the exotic, a foray into a foreign culture.

  Satisfied with his appearance, Ford straightened and made his way downstairs.

  Once at the governor’s residence, he took his place in the receiving line. Relative newcomers to the island were easy to spot as they stared at him, expressions ranging from surprise to interest to disdain. Tonight, only one woman started at the sight of him, pulling her skirts back as if fearing he might pounce on her. It was a common enough occurrence that Ford allowed himself to feel nothing more than a twitch of annoyance before dismissing her from his mind.

  He returned the nod of several men with whom he did business before approaching the Lieutenant Governor and his wife.

  “Mr. Spooner,” Lord Robinson said cordially. “Good of you to join us.” The Lieutenant Governor was a man of slight build, already balding though he was only in his early thirties. Ford had met him shortly after the man assumed his station the previous year. Unlike his predecessor, Lord Robinson had wanted to be informed about the lives of all Kittians and had spent several hours questioning Ford about the livelihood of the island’s several thousand former slaves.

  The Lieutenant Governor’s wife was less effusive in her greeting, though Ford charitably attributed this to the heat and humidity for which Lady Robinson was ill-accustomed.

  Once inside the ballroom, Ford helped himself to a drink from the refreshment table and slowly made his rounds through the throngs of people, stopping to chat when hailed by acquaintances.

  He stopped at one such group when greeted by Monsieur Pallet, a Frenchman who’d come to the island as a bedraggled stowaway when he was fifteen. Although he was a few years Ford’s senior, he was small and wiry and appeared much younger. Ford had befriended Pallet, convincing his father to apprentice him. When Ford inherited his father’s holdings, he and Pallet had become business partners, moving their focus from the plantation to shipping. Now Pallet owned his own ship, but the two men were still close.

  The adult Riort Pallet was still small and wiry, though now he appeared much older than his years, no doubt due to his thinning hair and the deep squint lines about his eyes. His was not a handsome face, despite it’s roguish goatee, and yet Pallet never seemed to lack feminine companionship and he was invited to every social event on the small island. Ford attributed his friend’s popularity to his innate Frenchness. He possessed an outsized personality, more confidence than was wise, and a certain urbane worldliness that belied his less than handsome appearance.

  “Spooner! Mon ami! I feared you would deprive us of your company this evening.”

  “And leave all the mango custard to you? Not likely.”

  Pallet laughed, turning to the small group beside him. “I believe you know everyone, oui? On such a small island, it is impossible not to, n’est ce pas?” The Frenchman laughed at his own joke as Ford nodded his greeting to the half dozen men and two women. One of the women was new to him, though the pale golden sheen to her complexion hinteded she’d been on the island for a while.

  Though the men around her seemed oblivious to her beauty, Ford found her breathtaking. Her hair was nearly black, pulled off her face in a simple style that, while not the current fashion, suited her far more than the ringlets and curls popular among English ladies.

  Her eyes were light blue, framed by lashes as dark as her hair. Her brows were two dark slashes, their severity countered by the lush fullness of her mouth and softened by the elfin point of her chin. She seemed familiar and yet he was sure he’d never met her. He would not easily forget her.

  “Ah, but perhaps you have not met Miss Barclay! Theo keeps her hidden away in that sprawling mess he calls a house.”

  Miss Barclay extended a gloved hand and Ford bowed over it properly, suddenly realizing she was the lady he’d escorted home the day before. Her face had been obscured by the over-large brim of her hat then and he’d not realized what a beauty she was.

  Straightening, he cast a quick glance at her brother. He and Theo Barclay had met many times, though their business paths crossed infrequently. Barclay had always been friendly to him, but now he wore that suspicious older brother look that Ford knew was only part protective sibling. Men who treated him as friends, even as equals, very often grew far less friendly when Ford was introduced to their female relatives, as if Ford was going to fall on them like a ravaging animal.

  Though accustomed to it, Ford still found it grating. As if their pink ladies with their ridiculous frills and constrained manners were the least bit appealing.

  Miss Barclay was clearly an exception to the standard English lady, but Ford affected complete disinterest to settle her brother’s ruffled feathers. Ford had too many important ventures in the works to stir up a ridiculous enmity with one of the white merchants.

  Still, he could not help
but steal glances at her when her brother’s attention was elsewhere. She held herself with a stillness that was almost unnatural, as if she’d trained herself not to move, not to draw attention to herself.

  Miss Barclay’s brother was engaged in animated conversation with an attractive widow. Pallet drew him and Miss Barclay away from Theo, whispering loudly, “I should not wish to interfere with Barclay’s courtship. He’s been slavering after Madame De Vere for months. He’s earned a few moments in which to state his case, tu n’es pas d’accord?”

  Ford watched Miss Barclay’s eyebrows rise in surprise and she cast a surreptitious glance at her brother, but allowed Pallet to draw her away.

  They walked along the perimeter of the dance floor, the Frenchman providing a constant stream of opinions on the food (marginal but abundant), the company (also marginal, but thankfully not as abundant), and the possibility of a decent card game starting tonight (not likely with the Governor’s wife in attendance).

  “Quel mal chance!” Pallet exclaimed as the orchestra began to play. “This is my favorite waltz and here I am with a sprained knee. Mes amis, you must dance this in my honor. Please, please.”

  Ford frowned at the Frenchman; a glance at Miss Barclay showed pinkened cheeks and a nervous smile, but she did not demure. He extended a gloved hand and bowed. “Would you do me the honor, Miss Barclay?”

  The color on her cheekbones intensified and when she lifted her gaze to his, he felt his heart stutter in his chest. Her light blue eyes reminded him of opals, sparkling and ever changing. Their expression was wary and nervous and yet he sensed a core of steel in their depths.

  “I would be delighted, Mr. Spooner,” she said, placing her hand in his.

  He led her to the dance floor and took her in his arms, pleased that she wasn’t one of those tiny women who only reached him mid-chest. Though he still towered over her by a good six inches, he didn’t have to stoop uncomfortably to dance with her. His hand rested easily in the middle of her back. The top of her head would have fit comfortably just under his chin if they embraced.

  That thought startled him enough that he missed a step in the dance and had to rush to catch up.

  Miss Barclay glanced up at his misstep.

  “Forgive me,” he said with a sheepish smile. “I haven’t waltzed in a while.”

  She smiled up at him, a wide, delighted curve to her lush lips that made Ford’s mouth go dry with desire.

  “May I tell you a secret, Mr. Spooner?”

  He nodded, his throat unable to form words.

  She glanced furtively about, though of course no one could hear a word they said.

  “I’ve never danced the waltz before. You could spin me in circles and spring a handstand and I wouldn’t realize it wasn’t part of the dance.”

  “A handstand?” Ford asked, a grin tugging at his mouth.

  “Well, perhaps not a handstand,” she acceded with a laugh.

  “How is it you dance so well then?”

  “Am I dancing well?” she asked, a delighted expression lighting her beautiful face. “I can assure you, you say that only because you can’t see my feet madly scrambling to keep up beneath my hem!”

  Ford chuckled, resisting the urge to draw her closer. She was so unaffected and genuine, it was refreshing.

  Though he attended events such as these to facilitate his relationship with other business owners and governors, he did not often interact with the female relatives of those men. Besides the suspicious glances the men often cast at him, the ladies seemed to fall into one of three categories. The largest group was those ladies who could scarce contain their fear and suspicion of him. A smaller group of women seemed to have the opposite reaction, viewing him as an exotic treat to be sampled for their own pleasure. Ford had allowed himself to be sampled a few times when he was younger but now found the encounters rather sordid and he had become a bit of an expert at gently turning down such propositions, though it stuck in his craw that he sometimes had to imply that fear of their male relations was behind his refusal. Still, with the growth of his business a priority, it was more important to remain on good terms with the white merchants and shipping agents.

  He hoped Miss Barclay might be classified into the smallest category of white women: those who simply saw him as a man, neither to fear nor exploit. He had two such similar acquaintances on St. Kitts and they, with their husbands, invited him to dinner on a regular basis. Their dinner tables were populated with merchants and ship captains from China, East India, Italy, and Morocco. Conversations were often held in several languages simultaneously and Ford always felt comfortable in the mix.

  He wondered how Miss Barclay would fare at such a dinner. He imagined escorting her to one such event himself—

  “Forgive me. What did you say?” he asked, embarrassed to be caught daydreaming.

  She smiled, that shy curve of her lips. “I was thanking you for your assistance the other day.”

  Ford frowned. “What I—oh.”

  Her cheeks flushed red and he realized she thought he didn’t remember her.

  “No, no, I remember,” he assured her. “It was my distinct pleasure, although earlier tonight it took me a moment to recognize you. You were incognito yesterday, you see.”

  “I beg your pardon?

  “Your hat was so large, I could only see your chin,” he said, glancing at the gentle point in question. His gaze traveled up the inch to the pale pink fullness of her lower lip, now curved in a smile. He wondered what it would taste like.

  With a mental shake of his head, he forced his gaze back to her eyes. She was staring back at him in a way he’d never before experienced. As if--he cut off such thoughts and forced his attention back to their conversation.

  “Have you seen the man who bothered you again?”

  “No, no. I—” she caught her lower lip between her teeth and he willed himself not to stare at it.

  “I suspect my imagination simply got the best of me. It was very hot that day and I—”

  “It’s alright,” he murmured.

  They danced in silence, though it was not the least awkward. There was a feeling of easy companionship that somehow was not at odds with the frisson of attraction he felt. The last strains of the waltz drew out and they slowly stopped moving. A long moment passed before they were jostled by other couples leaving the dance floor.

  Ford took Miss Barclay’s arm and gently guided her in the opposite direction of her brother.

  “Would you like some refreshments?” he asked, trying to prolong his time with her.

  “Yes!” she said, and then as if embarrassed by her enthusiasm, added more sedately, “That would be nice. It is very warm in here.”

  Their conversation ground to a halt as they made their way to the table bearing small sandwiches and biscuits.

  “Thank you, Hector,” Ford said to the servant filling crystal cups with tepid lemonade.

  The man bobbed his head and hastened to fill cups for the guests pressing in on all sides.

  He and Miss Barclay sipped their drinks slowly and watched the dancers gather for the next set.

  “If you—” he began at the same moment she said, “What do—”

  They smiled at one another and he gestured to her and said, “Please.”

  “I’m not sure if I’m allowed to ask this question,” she said hesitantly.

  He tried to suppress his grimace as he prepared her to ask about his unusually colored eyes, or worse, which of his parents had been white. And he’d thought better of Miss Barclay. Ah, well…

  “What is your line of business? Are you a merchant?”

  He laughed. “Why would you think you couldn’t ask such a question?”

  She stared intently at the small crystal cup in her hand. “In London, it is considered decidedly uncouth to mention anything regarding finances at a social event, and to imply a man is in the trades is practically an insult. It’s silly, but…” she trailed off.

  Ford’s fathe
r had told him a bit about the rule-bound English society of his own childhood. He smiled to think of someone taking offense at the notion that they might actually labor. Only a very wealthy person, separated from the majority of his fellow men by a gulf of privilege could assume such an absurd belief.

  “I assure you, even Lieutenant Governor Robinson works on this island. No one I have met is ashamed to admit it, regardless of their status.

  “To answer your question, I am in the shipping business. It is a small operation with but a few ships, and I am often captaining one of them, but we transport the crudely processed sugar cane to England and America and return with spices, textiles, and bricks.”

  “Bricks? That seems an odd thing to ship all the way from England.”

  “Ballast,” he said, and smiled at the blank look on her face. “The ships need ballast to sail properly. We line the bottom of the hull with bricks for the journey west and send them east weighted with sugar.”

  “And that’s why so many buildings here are brick,” Miss Barclay said.

  “It is.”

  “I always wondered. It seemed like an excessively sturdy building material to use for a land that is perpetually warm.”

  He shrugged. “Sturdy is good for withstanding hurricanes.”

  Her eyes widened. “Have there been many here?”

  “Perhaps four or five my whole life.”

  “Are they terrifying?”

  He offered her a reassuring smile. “They are very loud and tear the leaves from the trees, but in a house such as your brother’s, you would be perfectly safe.”

  “You’ve lived here your entire life, then?”

  “I have.”

  Miss Barclay smiled and nodded, her gaze studying his face in a way that should have seemed intrusive but was instead…rather intimate. He watched as her eyes widened and she suddenly burst out laughing.

  He raised a quizzical brow and when she caught her breath she said, “Forgive me. I just realized how very English I am.”

  He glanced at her corseted gown, upswept hair, fair skin, and blue eyes and suppressed a smile. “Why is that?”