The Captain of Her Fate: A Regency Romance (The Other Bennet Sisters Book 1)

by Nina Mason

  Her words drove the dagger deeper. She obviously found the idea of bedding him just as repulsive as Edwina had. Well, he was not taken in by her act. If he ever did decide to marry—a very big if, mind you—he would choose someone who truly loved him as he was, warts and all. Someone he desired and knew for a certainty was genuinely attracted to him. Someone who did not play games to entrap him by pretending to have feelings she did not. And, first and foremost, someone who did not think she was granting him a tremendous favor by becoming his wife.

  Someone like….

  Are you not able-bodied in the ways that count?

  God in Heaven! He still could not believe Miss Bennet had posed such a provocative question. It did, however, suggest she might be thinking of him in a sexual way. Truth be told, he'd been thinking of her in a similar vein. In fact, just such meditations on Miss Bennet’s virtues had kept him awake the better part of the night.

  Miss Cuthbertson, on the other hand, had no hope of arousing such thoughts or feelings in him. Though she was pretty enough, he felt no spark. And she evidently felt nothing for him beyond the obligation to do her duty by her mother.

  Eager to escape her company, he fabricated an excuse to leave the room. Miss Cuthbertson gained her feet and attempted to help him to his, even though he had his cane and required no assistance. Flushed with fury and embarrassment, he let her help him to avoid giving offense. At the door, he turned back, seeking his sister’s gaze. The sympathetic look she gave him suggested she fully supported his sudden departure.

  In the entry hall, he collected his top hat and leather riding gloves and put them on as he limped toward the stables. Finding his horse ready and waiting, he mounted the platform. When his good leg was secure in the stirrup, he threw the false one over the saddle.

  Once he found his seat, he pulled the mare’s head around and used his heels and knees to urge her into a gallop. As he rode toward the escarpment, he tried very hard not to think about how close Miss Bennet came to being just the sort of woman who could tempt him to risk his heart again.

  Five

  “Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.”

  Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity:

  “Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

  “Miss Elizabeth Bennet!" repeated Miss Bingley. “I am all astonishment. How long has she been such a favourite?—and pray, when am I to wish you joy?”

  “That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony, in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy.”

  With a sigh, Louisa set Pride and Prejudice on the chairside table. She, too, had been meditating upon the very great pleasure a pair of fine eyes could bestow. In her case, however, the eyes that inspired these reflections belonged to a man—a dashing Captain, who would never be hers if she kept to her room all day reading about other people’s romances.

  The sunlight pouring through the window behind her chair told her the weather was perfect for riding. And what better way to “accidentally” run into her charming new neighbor than by being out and about on horseback?

  Her mind now made up, she went to the wardrobe and withdrew the more flattering of her two riding habits: the forest-green one whose fitted jacket and double-skirted under-dress showed off her trim figure and the color of her hair and eyes. She wanted to look as becoming as possible if she should be fortunate enough to encounter Capt. Raynalds while galloping about the countryside.

  After checking her appearance in the looking glass, she took up the veiled top hat and leather gloves that completed her riding ensemble and headed for the library. Yes, the library. Before she took Midnight out for a run, she wanted to see what the Navy Lists might reveal about her future husband.

  While Papa was away in London, she could look to her heart’s content. When he was at home, the library was off-limits to his wife and daughters—unless, of course, he summoned them there for a birching. He kept his rods within, as well as something that had long provoked Louisa’s curiosity: a secretaire bookcase whose curtained doors were always locked.

  Given the debauched things Papa did to Mama behind closed doors, Louisa could guess what sort of books he kept under lock and key. Books that would shock, but also inform. Books she was dying to read.

  Once inside the library, she scanned the spines on the Navy Lists, which were arranged chronologically in the floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Having no idea when Capt. Raynalds retired from service, she decided to start in 1805—the year the Battle of Trafalgar took place.

  Having been but ten years old at the time of the now-famous battle, she knew little of the particulars beyond these three facts: 1) The battle was a naval engagement between the British Royal Navy and the combined fleets of France and Spain during the Napoleonic Wars; 2) Trafalgar was located off the southwestern coast of Spain; and 3) Despite the loss of Admiral Horatio Nelson to a French sharpshooter, the British eventually won the day.

  She could not imagine the courage it must take to fight in a war—or the horrors witnessed by the men who did. Her father judged the elevated social status bestowed upon such daring men undeserved, but what had he done to merit his social status? Nothing, apart from being born to the right parents. And in her view, that made Papa far less worthy of distinction than a man like Capt. Raynalds.

  In the directory for 1806, she found his name again. In March of that year, he was assigned command of the seventy-four-gun HMS Perseus. He must have retired thereafter because there was no further mention of him.

  After carefully restoring the Navy Lists to their proper order, Louisa made her way to the stables. The pungent bouquet of horseflesh, dung, and saddle soap invigorated her senses as she entered the breezeway. After instructing the groom to saddle Midnight, she made her way to the tack room to retrieve her riding crop. As she strolled down the rows of stalls, she greeted each of the horses who nickered to her as she passed.

  When Midnight was ready to ride, she took a moment to pat the animal’s neck, rub his ears, and finger-comb his forelock before checking the tightness of the girth. Satisfied that the saddle was secure, she led the hunter to the mounting block and hoisted herself onto his back.

  It took several moments to situate herself. Sidesaddles were awkward things made even more so by the voluminous skirts and long train of her riding habit. How she longed at times like these for the freedom she had as a girl, when she could wear breeches and ride astride her Welsh pony. But alas, those days were behind her forever.

  Greystone Hall was five miles north of Craven Castle. She took a meandering route, feeling more and more confident she would run into the Captain along the trail. It was as if she sensed him instinctively, the way a female fox might scent her mate on the wind.

  As she ascended the steep hill of an apple orchard, she could smell the sweet blossoms and hear turtle doves trilling softly from their hiding places within the tall grass. At the top of the rise, she stopped to give Midnight a rest and looked out across the valley below. Bird cherries and wildflowers peppered the landscape, which was carpeted by lush, green grass. Upon the distant horizon, the mountains burned blue in the sunlight.

  Just as she began to descend the hill, she spied a rider in the distance—a gentleman upon a fine-looking dapple-gray horse. An Arabian, she suspected, but could not be sure from so far away. The rider donned a cutaway brown coat, tan breeches, and black boots, the cuffs turned up to protect his knees. He also wore a beaver hat whose tall crown sheened like silk in the sunshine.

  Butterflies fluttered in Louisa’s stomach as she urged her horse onward. When she was sure the rider was indeed he whom she sought, she took several deep breaths to settle her nerv
es. He had not yet spotted her. If or when he did, would he come to her or ride away? Deciding not to give him the choice, she clicked her tongue at her mount.

  As Midnight charged forward at a thunderous pace, she squeezed her thighs around the saddle’s pummel to keep her seat. When she had closed the distance between them by half, the Captain finally looked her way. To her searing disappointment, he appeared more like a stag in gunsights than a man happy to see a love-interest riding toward him.

  When she was only a few yards away, he yelled something at her, his words unheard over the thunder in her ears. Then, a rock wall sprang up a few yards ahead. In her excitement, she had forgotten it was there.

  In the seconds she had to ready herself and her horse for the jump, she did the worst thing possible: She jerked back on the reins with all her might. Yes, she had cleared numerous walls before, but never when she was so ill-prepared or so precariously seated. And certainly never in the presence of a man at whom she’d set her cap.

  Midnight stopped short a few feet from the wall, but Louisa kept going. She cleared the wall and landed hard on the ground just beyond. Pain shot through the shoulder and ankle that took the brunt of the fall. Those discomforts, however, were trifling compared to the mortification throbbing behind her breastbone.

  Not only had she fallen from her horse, she also looked a fright. Her hat was gone; her habit was grass-stained and torn; and her hair hung around her shoulders in a tangled mess.

  Glancing back at her hunter, she found him grazing on the weeds and long grass on the other side of the wall—just as if nothing had happened. The nerve of that rascal! Hesitantly, she shifted her gaze to the Captain. Wearing an expression of alarm, he was trotting toward her across the field.

  She attempted to get to her feet, but her ankle complained each time she put weight on it. As she dropped to her hands and knees, she cursed under her breath. She was a good horsewoman, confound it, and had just made a novice’s error in judgement. She had undoubtedly left an indelible impression upon Capt. Raynalds—just not quite the one she’d set out to make.

  “Are you hurt?” he called when he came within range of her hearing.

  She could not bear to meet his gaze. “Only my ankle.” With an embarrassed chuckle, she added, “And my pride, of course.”

  “Have no concern about that,” he said with great kindness. “The unpredictability of horses can cause even the best riders to falter.”

  With some difficulty, he dismounted and came to kneel beside her. The fact that he could bend his false leg told her his prosthesis was jointed, which meant he probably could dance if he set his mind to it.

  “Will you grant me license to ascertain the extent of your injury?”

  She dropped on her rump in the grass and extended her injured leg. “Be my guest.”

  Slowly, almost seductively, he raised her skirt to her knees and carefully pulled the boot from her injured leg. “Your ankle is very swollen,” he observed as he probed the injury.

  He had lovely, long-fingered hands and a gentle touch. Though it gave her some pain when he rotated the joint, she bit her lip to suppress her whimpers. When the Captain met her gaze, she forgot all about the pain. The expression in his eyes gave her the distinct impression he was not as indifferent toward her charms as she feared. His eyes, in addition to being very fine indeed, were also windows into his soul. In them, she saw courage and goodness hidden among the shadows of sorrow and distrust.

  “You have beautiful eyes,” she blurted unplanned.

  “As do you,” he returned with a timorous smile. “And a sprained ankle to go with them. Happily, there is no need to send for the bonesetter, though you will need to stay off it for at least a week.”

  “Will I be able to ride?” she asked, worried about getting home.

  “Absolutely not.” His gaze met hers, setting off tiny explosions in the pit of her stomach. “How far are we from your house?”

  “Four miles at least.”

  “In that case, let me take you to mine,” he said. “That way, I can bind and ice the injury to keep the swelling from worsening. Then, when you feel ready, I can send one of my footmen on horseback to inform your parents of your accident…and to ask them to send a carriage to retrieve you. I would send you home in my own, had not Lt. Churchill taken it to Portsmouth early this morning.”

  An episode from Pride and Prejudice flashed through Louisa’s mind. When Jane caught cold on her way to Netherfield, her mother refused to send the carriage. This Mrs. Bennet did in the hope of deepening the attachment between her eldest daughter and Mr. Bingley.

  Is it too much to hope that Mama will do the same in my case?

  “I am going to try and lift you, if that is all right with you,” the Captain said, “though I cannot promise I shall succeed, as I have had little call for heroics since leaving the Navy.”

  He scooped her up and swayed unsteadily until he managed to get his feet under him. Then, he carried her to his horse and, with great care, set her on her feet with instructions to rest her weight against his mare. As she did so, he collected her hat and boot and brought them back to her.

  “I fear we will have to leave your horse behind for the time being,” he told her. “Between holding you and the reins, I will have no free hand with which to lead him. Do not despair, however, for once we get to Greystone Hall, I shall send a servant back to fetch him.”

  The Captain threw himself across the gray’s back and swung his false leg over the saddle. In no time, he was seated and reaching for her. Evidently, there was nothing wrong with his arms, for he pulled her up with ease before placing her between his body and the horse’s neck. Lord, how she longed to nestle against him. To do so, however, would be unpardonably forward of her.

  He set off and they rode in silence for a time until curiosity got the better of her. “Do you mind talking about your injury?”

  “Not especially,” he said with a shrug of one powerful shoulder. “What is it you wish to know?”

  “How it happened, to begin with.”

  He paused a few moments before saying, “Enemy fire dismounted the canon I was attempting to aim, tearing away part of my knee. To avoid the onset of gangrene, the ship’s surgeon removed the better part of the limb, after which he threw it overboard.”

  “How ghastly,” she said, wincing.

  “Indeed,” he said, “but such is the practice with severed limbs. Even Admiral Nelson’s arm was fed to the fishes, despite his impassioned pleas to keep it.”

  She swallowed her revulsion. “For what possible purpose would he wish to keep it?”

  “As a trophy, one can only presume.”

  Reluctantly, she ventured to ask, “Did you also desire to keep your leg?”

  “I had every desire to keep it while it was still attached,” he replied with a hint of sarcasm in his tone. “But once it was off, I saw no reason to preserve it for posterity.”

  Unsure what to say to that, she said nothing, and they rode the rest of the way in silence. When they reached the Greystone stable, a strapping young groom hurried out to offer them aid. Capt. Raynalds dismounted and carried her up the walk, across the front threshold, and into a parlor.

  After he laid her down on a gold-velvet chaise, she looked around her in awe. In all the times she had imagined living in this old relic of a house, never had she dreamed it would be so comfortably furnished. The walls were paneled, the ceiling coffered, the mantelpiece beautifully carved out of oak, and the furnishings masculine, though not overtly so.

  Louisa could imagine the Captain there on an evening, clad in his dressing gown and slippers, reading a book, thinking great thoughts, or discussing the events of the day with her as his wife. It was a domestic scene she found exceedingly appealing—and nothing like those she’d witnessed with her parents…or envisioned herself subjected to with Charles.

  “Can I get anything for you before I fetch some ice and the first-aid box?” he graciously asked.

  “S
ome tea would be greatly appreciated,” she replied. “If it is not too much trouble.”

  “It is no trouble at all,” he assured her before yanking the tapestry bell-pull by the fireplace.

  Within moments, two people came into the room—a middle-aged man dressed in butler’s livery and the same young woman she’d seen with him at last night’s assembly.

  To the manservant, the Captain said, “Kindly bring some tea and cake for the young lady. She has injured her ankle and will be with us until her family can send their carriage. I also need you to ask one of the footmen or grooms to retrieve her horse. After I have tended her injury, I will tell you where the animal can be found.”

  As he turned to the young woman, familiarity and affection thawed the formal countenance with which he addressed his butler. Gesturing toward the chaise where his invalid guest lay, he said, “This is Miss Louisa Bennet, who took a bad spill while out riding. Can I depend upon you, dear sister, to make her feel welcome?”

  “Of course you can,” the young lady returned with an agreeable smile. “I will do my utmost to see that she has everything she needs.”

  He turned back to Louisa. “I would very much like to introduce you to my sister, Miss Winnifred Raynalds, into whose care I will commend you once I have done what I can to patch you up.”

  Disappointment jabbed Louisa’s heart. Clearly, he was letting her know he meant to abandon her after administering first aid, leaving her no opportunity to win him over.

  Six

  After binding, icing, and elevating Miss Bennet’s ankle on a pile of pillows, Theo went into the library, sat at his desk, and took out a sheet of paper. Just as he began to write, a knock sounded softly upon the half-open door. Turning, he saw one of his footmen—a gangling, dark-haired lad named Watson standing in the doorway.

  “Mr. Murphy sent me, sir.”

  “Do you know the way to Craven Castle?”

  “Yes, sir. I do.”