“No,” he said. “I do not.”
He took another sip of his punch.
“I don’t think so, either.”
“It’s about to get worse, Captain Lord. She’s attempting to figure out the mainsheet and sail.”
Del put down his glass and sat up, arms draped loosely over his knees. He felt himself tensing.
The craft’s one sail was affixed to its single mast, so there was nothing to raise. The boat had obeyed the weather helm and swung itself into irons, the sail fluttering helplessly from the mast. Del would have liked it to stay that way for the sake of the young woman’s safety but as he watched, she took up the single sheet, dropped the paddle, and began to shorten sail. To her credit, she reached up to seize the boom and hold it to starboard as she attempted to get the boat out of irons. It immediately responded, nose coming around and beginning to gather way. The girl frantically let out the mainsheet as the craft heeled sharply and a moment later, it was moving swiftly across the lake, her fingers clenched around the tiller.
For a moment all looked well. Del, watching keenly, saw the young woman tip her head back to check the trim of the sail. Sunlight on rosy cheeks, a determined set to a pretty mouth, exhilaration mixed with fear and a certain triumph in her eyes as she glanced over her shoulder to where Captain Ponsonby and a stunning blonde sat together on the grass, watching her.
And then Del tensed.
He heard the distant sigh from far off over the meadows and trees and knew what was coming before it actually did.
The chestnut trees that bordered the lawn suddenly bent and clawed at the blue, blue sky as the next gust of wind came and the young woman, not paying attention, not realizing that she’d let the wind move across the stern, was unprepared for the accidental jibe when it came.
And come, it did.
Hard.
Del was already on his feet as the boom slammed over with killing force, already running toward the lake when it connected with the girl’s ear, already throwing himself headlong into the water as she was clouted overboard in a tumble of pale skirts and flailing legs.
Ned’s prophetic words rang in his ears.
It’s about to get worse.
About to get a lot worse.
4
“Hurry, Captain Lord!”
The boy’s shouts were lost behind him as Del kicked rapidly toward where the boat, already back in irons, the boom swinging back and forth, lay helplessly on the surface. Behind him he heard people yelling encouragement, a woman screaming, felt the water streaming past him with each pull of his arms and powerful kick of his feet.
The young woman had already slipped beneath the surface.
Panic assailed him, and he dived.
Instantly the clamor from the lawn was drowned out, to be replaced by the suffocating muffle of the water around him. No clear, pure crystalline saltiness like he’d left behind in Barbados, but warm murk, fouled with goose shit and weeds, the sun striking bars down through shifting silt, his hands suddenly tangling in plants, muck—
Hair.
Through the murkiness he could just see her, sinking into the bottom sludge. He grabbed her arm and kicked hard to the surface, pulling her. His head broke the surface and he yanked her up with him, turning her so that her face was toward the fresh wind that had brought her to such grief. She was lifeless in his grasp, her eyes closed, her bonnet lost. He swam hard toward shore, kicking on his side, one hand pulling, the other wrapped around the girl to keep her afloat, and a moment later his booted feet found the squishing, sucking mud of the bottom where a horde of people had come running to meet him.
He lifted the girl, dripping and lifeless in his arms, and sloshed onto the little beach. She weighed nothing, her head lolling against his chest and her wet hair swinging over his elbow. People converged on him and crowded close, hands shading eyes, a woman crying, another swooning. Sir Graham burst through the crowd with Lady Falconer, young Ned leading the way.
“Dear God,” the admiral said, reaching for the girl. Del handed her over, watching as Sir Graham bent and placed her on the grass, turning her on her side until she coughed and around them, people began to cheer.
Sir Graham’s gaze cut to the helpless skiff drifting out in the middle of the pond. No words were needed.
Bring the damned thing in, would you, Captain?
Aye, sir.
Pulling off his ruined top boots and dumping the water from them, Del waded back into the lake, swam out to the hapless vessel, hauled himself aboard and quite expertly, sailed it back to the shore.
He hauled it onto the beach and moved to the perimeter of the small crowd surrounding the young lady. The new bride was there, sobbing and wringing her hands, and her portly new husband was trying his best to comfort her. Del remained carefully impassive. He stood there dripping, able to see only a small part of the young lady through moving, shifting people and now, Lady Falconer ministering to her. Nobody acknowledged him, nor made room for him. He was just another bystander.
Already forgotten.
Invisible.
Ned was small enough to squeeze his way through the press and return with a report.
“Is she all right?” Del asked, lamenting the loss of his hat which floated out in the middle of the pond. He plucked at his shirt sleeve, drenched and clinging to his skin beneath. He stank of mud. Oh, did he stink.
“She’s alive.” And then, soberly, “But she wouldn’t be if not for you, Captain Lord. You’re a hero.”
Del shrugged. Saving one girl from her own foolhardiness was child’s play, really.
“And to think she’s my cousin. How embarrassing. She obviously didn’t inherit the seafaring skills that come naturally to our side of the family, that’s for sure...”
Del moved slightly, his commanding height allowing him to see over the tops of bonnets, feathers, turbans and top-hats. He had a clear view of her now, of dainty cream slippers and small feet resting on the bright green grass. They were attached to equally dainty ankles, and her skirts lay drenched and molded to shapely legs, the sight of which caused a sudden bump in Del’s normally reined-in composure. He looked away, not wanting to compromise her modesty, feeling a surge of angry disgust toward those men who did not do the same. Thankfully, someone brought a blanket and placed it over her legs and torso, and Del allowed his gaze to return to her face. A lovely, beautifully-drawn, heavily-lashed face with clear skin and a pert little nose. He stood there, feeling stricken from all sides, as the girl’s eyes fluttered open.
“Thank God!” someone exclaimed.
“She’d be dead if not for that man who saved her!”
“Who was he?”
“Some sailor, I’m told.”
“Are you alright, Lady Grace?”
The girl’s hand went to her ear, where blood and water trickled from her scalp. Confusion darkened her eyes. As she came back to herself, Del saw her eyes register dawning realization of what had happened and then, as they caught sight of Captain Ponsonby standing and looking down at her with everyone else, Captain Ponsonby dressed in his naval uniform which she immediately connected with “sailor” and “rescue,” she reddened with mortification.
“I... I am quite fine, thank you,” she murmured. She stared up at Ponsonby. “Thank you, Captain, for saving me. I owe you my life.”
Del never heard his naval peer refute the statement of gratitude. He never heard young Ned proudly proclaiming that it hadn’t been Captain Ponsonby who’d dived into the mucky lake to fish her out, never heard the girl asking who had, indeed, rescued her from certain drowning.
He had already turned on his heel and headed back to the house.
A bath. Soap. Towels. Clean clothes.
Really, that was all he wanted.
5
No person reached the age of twenty-one years without at least one deeply embarrassing incident to mark their life, and Grace had had more than her share of them. There was the time she’d sent her father’s favori
te hunter toward a fence and when the horse balked, the fence had been taken all alone by an unseated Grace, who landed on the other side with a sprained wrist and her skirts nearly around her ears and in front of the whole house party, too.
There was the time she’d been asked to dance with the fashionably handsome William Roundstone during her first Season and after a breathtaking turn around the dance floor with him while everyone watched and twittered behind their fans, she’d been silently drawn aside by Lady Sarah Marlowe only to be told that she’d started her menses and the back of her gown was—
No, that was too mortifying to even think about.
But this incident, though...
Nothing. Nothing, could be this... this awful.
Her head spinning, she realized she was propped against Lady Falconer’s ribs and bosom. Her aunt had one arm wrapped protectively around her while expressing her vexation with the other.
“Get back, all of you,” the ex-pirate queen snapped, flicking her hand at the crowd in an impatient shooing motion. “Give the poor girl some air!”
“Oh, my daughter! My daughter! My head, oh! My heart! Grace! My baby!”
Mama, pressing down against her, cradling her face in both hands, smothering her with perfumed kisses, making her head spin, crushing her.
“Mama, please,” Grace managed, pushing helplessly at her. “I can’t breathe.”
“Oh, my dear Grace! My darling girl!”
“Stop that infernal wailing, Ariannah!” Uncle Gray’s voice rumbled somewhere above, annoyed. “Take my sister back to the house, Angus, and get her calmed down, would you?”
Mama was pulled up and off her, and as awareness flooded fully in, Grace looked up at the faces all staring down at her and wanted to die. Concerned faces, relieved faces, disapproving faces.
And his face.
Captain Ponsonby’s.
She heard the low murmurs about her rescue... the man who saved her... some sailor...
A sailor.
Oh, no...
Oh, yes.
Someone’s voice, drifting down from above. “Are you all right, Lady Grace?”
“I... I am quite fine, thank you,” she said, gingerly touching the side of her aching head and feeling a goose-egg already rising there. She looked shyly up at the man who had risked all to save her. “Thank you, Captain, for jumping in after me. I owe you my life.”
“Why thank you, but the credit doesn’t go to me, though had I been closer I should think I’d have done the same. No, it was another, my lady.”
Young Ned was yelling something.
“Another?” she asked, confused.
“Delmore Lord,” said Captain Ponsonby, raising his head and scanning the gathered crowd. “But I daresay he’s taken himself off. Pity, that, or you could thank him yourself.”
What?
Captain Ponsonby hadn’t rescued her?
Grace looked into that handsome face, hoping against hope for a sliver of concern for her injured person or relief at her recovery. Nothing there to read though, and already he was offering his elbow to the blonde and leaning down to murmur some words to her.
“Shall we?”
The woman nodded, and the couple moved away.
As Grace sat up, the small crowd began to disperse, murmuring words of gratitude that she had not drowned, some appearing dismayed that the excitement was over. Sheldon Ponsonby didn’t glance back. No more words from the good captain, then. No words, no long looks of simmering heat or grave concern. He had eyes only for the beauty on his arm though to be fair, her china blue eyes were soft with compassion as she looked back over her shoulder at Grace and raised a brow.
Are you all right? those kind blue eyes asked silently, as though their owner perceived Grace’s embarrassment and sought to spare her any more.
Grace nodded and shut her eyes. She seemed like a nice person, did Cecily de Montforte. It was hard to dislike a nice person. Harder, still, when they were concerned about you.
Even so, it would’ve been nice if Captain Ponsonby had been the one showing the concern.
She got shakily to her feet with the help of Lady Falconer. The movement stirred the air, filling it with the scent of muck and pond water, both of which clung to her wet clothes and dripped from her unbound hair. She must look like a bedraggled creature indeed. A drowned rat.
She certainly smelled like one.
Not to mention what her mishap had cost Lady Falconer’s exquisite gold gown.
“I’m so sorry... I ruined your beautiful clothes,” Grace said, looking with dismay at the mud and water stains where she had rested. “I was so foolish... I thought I knew what I was doing... I’m so sorry, Aunt Maeve.”
“Nonsense, I’ve been dying to change into something less fancy all morning. You did me a favor.” She looked up at her husband. “Gray, where did Del go?”
Her uncle shaded his eyes and surveyed the lawn. “He was here a moment ago.”
“And where are the twins? Ned! Weren’t you watching them?”
“I—”
With a below-her-breath curse, Lady Falconer went racing toward the lake, where her two toddlers were climbing into the same boat that had brought Grace to such trouble.
“Come, I’ll help you into the house,” Uncle Gray was saying. “You should rest.”
Hannah was suddenly there, covering her shoulders with a blanket to preserve her modesty, her lips tight with disapproval.
Grace clung to the admiral’s arm and flanked by her sister, allowed them to lead her toward the house, shimmering in the heat haze atop a carpet of green.
“Mortifying,” she muttered, grateful for her uncle’s support and wishing with all her heart that his was Captain Ponsonby’s arm instead as they moved slowly up the stairs into the house. “Absolutely mortifying.”
“You were lucky, young lady.”
She murmured her assent, wondering who had rescued her. And where he had gone.
They went into the foyer and stopped in the great hall. It took a moment for Grace’s eyes to adjust to the shadows after the bright sunlight outside and she stood there, blinking. The cavernous room was not empty. In the gloom, a tall figure stood silently looking out the window toward the distant pond, hands clasped behind his back. The shadows obscured his face, but he was lean, with broad shoulders under a transparently wet shirt that clung to his arms and the muscles in his back and showed transparent patches where his tanned skin showed beneath. He stood in his stockings, a discarded coat and waistcoat in a crumpled heap near one foot and leaching out a puddle of water. In that moment he turned and looked at them, and as her vision adjusted to the gloom, Grace got an impression of black hair curling in tight, dripping ringlets around a proud face; of a bold nose and high cheekbones, of steady gray eyes that were carefully guarded, alert, their emotions veiled and sharply contained. Immediately, her uncle left Grace in the care of her sister and crossed the room to the man.
Hannah, taking advantage of the moment, seized her arm and thrust her face into Grace’s, yanking her attention away from him.
“What were you thinking, you ninny?!” she hissed.
Grace closed her eyes. “Yes, I’m fine, thank you.”
“I can’t believe you took a boat out into that lake all by yourself when you hardly knew what you were doing. You could have been killed!”
“I knew what I was doing. The wind came up.”
“The wind was already up!”
“It moved, then. Who would have thought?”
“You weren’t paying attention. And you weren’t paying attention because you were too busy trying to impress Captain Ponsonby!”
Grace colored again, especially as the tall stranger by the window was quietly watching her as Sir Graham spoke with him, and it was at that moment that her addled brain put two and two together and she realized who the man actually was.
Drenched clothes. Dripping hair. The wet garments and the puddle at his feet, spreading out in a circle on the mar
bled floor.
No, it hadn’t been the dry, unruffled, utterly gorgeous Captain Ponsonby who had dived into a murky pond to rescue her.
It had been this man.
Just who was he?
6
Del had returned to the house, thinking to quietly slip away to put himself to rights, and after hailing a footman and telling him to find Jimmy Thorne, wherever he’d gone, waited in the foyer. A blushing maid with a case of the giggles had run past and a moment later there was his coxswain, tucking his shirt into his breeches and trying to look as though he hadn’t just been tumbling the lass in some hidden alcove. Thorne’s reputation held on land as it did at sea, Del thought hopelessly, and sent the man off to prepare him a bath.
He waited, wondering what to do with himself as the bath was readied. He unbuttoned his coat, peeled it off, dropped it to the floor. The waistcoat followed, as did his cravat, wet and itchy and all but choking him. Best to shed what he could here, since otherwise he’d be tracking muck and stagnant water all up the fine carpeted stairs— as well as any rugs he’d have to tread once up there. At least the marble floor could be easily cleaned, which was more than could be said for any expensive rugs, and he wasn’t one to cause extra work to another, just because he could.
He went to the window and looked out, waiting. He recognized Lady Falconer in the distance, helping the girls into the boat as Ned took up the paddle. Alannah, talking with the new bride, who seemed quite recovered. Ladies in pastels, men in fitted coats and tails and beaver hats such as the one whose acquaintance he’d known so briefly. Sir Graham was nowhere to be seen.
Neither was the girl.
He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked back on his heels, wishing Thorne would make haste. Although the room was empty, he was already in a shocking state of undress and if someone came in—
Someone came in.
“Del!”
It was his missing admiral. Two young women were with him, including the one he’d rescued. And she was staring. She, who had brought about the loss of his hat, the ruination of his clothes, and the need for the bath that, now that he was in the presence of genteel company, he knew he needed more than ever.
My Saving Grace Page 3