Excerpt from The Captain’s Lady
“Are you drowning, Lady Isabella?” His Scottish accent was a bath in hot springs. His thumb brushed the tip of her nose. Lingered. Her nostrils flared and the scent of him invaded her senses. His hands snaked around her waist, guiding her closer.
“You,” Isabella whispered.
“Aye, me.” He kissed her cheek. “Is your nose still covered in freckles, lass?”
“No!”
“Liar.” He brushed the tip of her nose with his. “Did he kiss you?” His lids lowered to watch her mouth. “I’ll be damned if I kiss you after him.”
“No.” She shivered, the sensation curling her toes in anticipation. “Emsley didn’t kiss me.” The man holding her in strong arms was something old, from her past, something forgotten. Isabella relaxed, molding against the captain. Oh, but she needed this, to feel like a woman again, alive and desired. His tongue brushed against her lips, not once but twice, tracing the outline of her mouth—a delightful distraction from her recent episode.
“Let me in, lass.”
His warm breath fanned her face. She had dreamed of this, years ago, when she was young and thought the world not full of danger but adventure. His gaze moved from her mouth, wet from the tantalizing brushes of his tongue, to her eyes. In the darkness of the night, his eyes were black fire. Hot. Wicked.
“What a bonnie reward for my second rescue.”
“You’ve botched your count, sir.”
“A new tally is in order, then.”
“Brilliant.”
He smiled. His lips descended in slow torture, groaning his approval when his tongue brushed hers. All rational thoughts scattered. He explored her mouth. Heat pooled. Fanned out. The shudder that shook her was not from anger, but fear and desire.
The sea, that’s what he was. Raging waves that didn’t settle in the wee hours of dawn.
Also by Robecca Austin
Ladies in Scandal Series
THE CAPTAIN’S LADY
LOVED BY A LADY
Briefs—short stories with sizzle
CHAMPION OF THE ISLES—Historical
FOR HER PLEASURE—Historical
Romance Anthologies
PATH OF THE HEART
The Captain’s Lady
A Ladies in Scandal Novel
Robecca Austin
COLORFUL PEN PRESS
Copyright 2020 by Robecca Austin
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
THE CAPTAIN’S LADY
ISBN: 978-1-9990032-4-1
First Edition: August 2020
Cover Media and Design: Canva Design
Edited by: Enterprise Book Services, LLC
Formatted by: Enterprise Book Services, LLC
Colorful Pen Press
www.colorfulpen.com
Thank you for buying a copy of this book and for supporting independent creative works.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My husband, who shows faith and patience while I create stories.
My children, for their company, though often filled with distractions.
The Wordsilly crew for your support.
Meghan Mazzaferro, for your thoughts and insight.
Mom, your encouragement has been second to none.
Uncle Frank, for reading my first drafts. Hugs.
For everyone who has and continues to believe in Robecca Austin.
To you, my loudest cheerleaders. Thanks for reading my stories.
One
London, England
The start of the Social Season
Captain Nicholas Ferguson walked through the dining room as the china was being laid out for the evening meal. Two hours into the festivities and he was convinced his solicitor, Tom, had misled him. Tonight presented no opportunity to align himself with the upper echelon of London. He scowled at a small group of young ladies whispering behind their fans as he passed. Their giggling and gossiping was another reminder that he did not belong among the elite. He was as far apart from them as a goat was to a stallion—no doubt they thought him the goat—yet he needed their wealth and connections. It was the one reason he’d worn this damnable attire instead of tarting his kilt. They already considered him a barbarian—his lips twitched—and Tom insisted he not add to the flames. Near the end of the large room, he loosened his necktie, intent on slipping away unnoticed.
“Good evening, Lady Isabella.” The footman’s voice rose above the noise coming from the ballroom.
“I prefer not to be announced.”
He’d never forget the sound of a voice he’d heard years ago calling out for help. Nicholas’s steps faltered. He stopped behind a large potted plant. He moved closer to the absurd palm a few feet from the foyer. From his position, he assessed Lady Isabella from her beaded slippers to the top of her pinned hair. Her dress, though not the latest French fashion, cupped curves matured by womanhood. Arched stiffly, her shoulders were held in a tutored position and her eyes looked guarded. Full lips stretched into a wisp of a smile that did not reach her eyes.
The fire-cat he remembered now looked subdued. The previous time he’d seen her, five years earlier, she had been standing in an old rowboat that was twice the size of a hipbath and flaked with red paint. On a lake that separated two properties, she had drifted toward the whitewashed eight-foot marker. He had handed the last case of liquor he’d been holding to the kitchen lad to stow, then leaned against a post to watch. A gust of wind swept her umbrella into the air, and she began to hop from foot to foot.
“You think she’s in trouble?” the lad asked.
“I trust she’s getting her stockings wet,” Nicholas said.
The boat rocked from one side to the other, and she tried to gather handfuls of lace and frills. The higher she lifted the silly frock, the more her calf and knee were exposed.
“Might be she aims to have a wee swim.” The lad chuckled. “There be a damsel, Captain, if I ever saw one.”
“Impertinent…”
Her arms flapped. The boat tipped, and she was thrown overboard.
Her loud splash drew gasps from the onlookers. Her flurry of fabric disappeared beneath the darkened waters. He hesitated at first, partly because he wanted to see what would happen next and partly because he knew his efforts would be unrewarded. Seconds later, when she didn’t resurface, Nicholas ran to the end of the boat dock. He unbuttoned his tailcoat and dropped it onto the green grass. The heel of his boot in hand, he dragged one then the other off, tossing them against the wooden platform. At the end of the dock, he arched his shoulders, arms shooting outward. He took a breath, then plunged into the dark water.
His hands circled her slender waist, and he swam towards the capsized boat. The small vessel provided some cover and a place to allow her some composure before she confronted her friends. Face flushed, she took labored breaths. Each indrawn breath brought the fabric of her gown straining against her chest, but it was her flushed cheeks and tilted chin that drew his attention, sending a whisper of awareness seeping through his wet clothing. She looked at him for a measured moment, then squeezed her eyes shut as if the sight of him stung her eyes. In that instant he knew the woman in his arms was not helpless. That she had expected to be rescued long before the hem of her expensive silk gown swept the bed of the river. She just did not expect her rescuer to be him.
“How da
re you? Unhand me!”
He did as she ordered, but she began to sink. He pulled her upward; she choked and slapped the water in an effort to float. “Your dress is too heavy,” he said, and held her against his chest.
Her cheeks pinkened. Her fingers shook and she pushed wet strands of hair from her face. She looked ridiculously adorable not hidden behind social conventions. Her racing heart echoed his through their wet clothes. She looked to him again, her freckles dancing beneath the droplets of water. Bedraggled and beautiful.
“Who are you?”
“Relax. I’m trying to save you.”
“Where is Emsley?”
“Who?”
“Oh, take me back. You’ve ruined everything.”
He watched her chin quiver, eyes glossed with unshed tears. She was embarrassed and disappointed.
“Why are you not picnicking with your friends, enjoying the sun?” he asked.
She blushed and turned away to avoid meeting his eyes.
“Aye.” He shook his head. “This Emsley fellow? He didn’t rescue his lady. He’s no gentleman.”
Her lips thinned. “Neither are you, sir.”
“Ah, but I’m the one that’s wet,” he said. “Let’s get you back to him, then.” His right hand circled then tightened around her waist, ready to take her back to shore.
“Wait!” she hissed.
Nicholas paused, the panic he heard in her strained voice making him curious and too interested in her plight for his own good. He didn’t know why he was tempted to soothe her nervousness, but he found himself wanting to reassure her. He clenched his teeth against squeezing her slender waist in comfort and kept his hands as they were.
“Can we have another moment?”
The color dusting her cheek and her lowered lashes told him that she was embarrassed.
“To rattle your fellow?”
She was bold and daring, he mused, yet her eyes revealed a hint of vulnerability that contradicted everything he thought he knew of high society. Her cocktail of courage and innocence tugged at his soul. She had attempted to gain her gentleman’s attention by drifting off into the lake. Her plan might have worked, too, if she’d checked the boat for holes and her gentleman didn’t lack the courage this lady possessed. Now that her plan had failed, Nicholas mused, she was trying her hand at jealousy.
“A man can always tell when his lass has been kissed.”
“But we… I did no such thing.”
At least her frustration did not stem from the disgust so many English ladies showed at being in the presence of a Scot. There was hope yet. Or perhaps it was their hidden position that made her bold.
His knuckles brushed the side of her face, then tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes closed when the pad of his thumb touched her nose, and he felt her swift intake of air on his finger before her breath held. He spread the fat droplets of moisture along her nose, over her parted lips, and wished he had time and the lineage of a peer to explore each freckle. “You’re thinking of it,” he said, and to his satisfaction, she reddened. “Don’t let go,” he warned before encircling her waist.
She had clung to him that day.
Now, Lady Isabella left the foyer and descended the stairs. No, he hadn’t forgotten the fire-cat, and neither had his body. Since the scandal, the changes in her were subtle, but he noticed. She was not floating around the room, enchanting each gentleman with her bewitching smile. He was no gentleman, no English peer, but a Scottish Captain intent on marrying Lady Isabella, even if that meant exploiting the scandal surrounding her broken engagement. However, he did hope to restore her confidence.
He walked along the edge of the ballroom, careful to avoid people as he moved through the crowded space. The host of the party took Isabella’s arm, and she threw back her head and laughed at some scandalous nugget the host whispered in her ear. He doubted she noticed the curious glances she received and, as he watched her, his hope flared that she’d not completely buried her true nature or turned cold.
The hall stood still. He stopped when she turned in his direction. Her eyes lifted, met his gaze. He watched color creep up her neck, transfixed. The flush dusting her cheeks grew bright, and, for a brief moment, he saw a glimpse of recognition in her eyes before she turned away.
Two
Determined not to cower, Lady Isabella Pennington stepped through the high arched entryway that led to the ballroom. If she turned around now, no one would notice. No one would recall she had been here. The tips of her fingers tingled. No matter what she told herself, she couldn’t dispel the trickle of cold fear lining her veins. It was the same fear that told her the upper class did not forget scandal.
Her breath caught on the scent of buttered pastries. The fragrance perfumed the air. Jeweled and leather-tailored slippers filled the floor. The center of the room was lit by a fueled chandelier that hung from the high ceiling. Mounted lamps with glass chimneys were fastened along the walls. Ladies of fashion wore the latest styles: rich silks and lowered bodices that would have created a scandal if worn two Seasons ago. Now beaded tailoring was the rage of London. Her fingers touched her own dress: a deep yellow she had commissioned from the dressmaker last year. Though simple in comparison to the fashion of her peers, her foresight in removing the laced trim from her undergarments and adding the material to the bodice and skirt worked in her favor.
“Isabella, is that you?”
Isabella turned and stared at Lady April Godric. They had attended finishing school together and made their debut the same year. April, however, had found a husband her first Season and, from her growing abdomen, it appeared she was also with child. They smiled at one another and she’d never been more grateful to see a friend.
“I hoped to find you here,” April said and hugged her. It was an awkward embrace, but they were too happy to care.
They had tried to remain friends after her scandalous broken engagement. April had been kind enough to send word offering private support, but that had also proved impossible with April’s husband, Lord Richard, battling scandal of his own—being accused of killing his first wife. Her other friendships had crumbled like old plaster beneath the weight of impropriety; they sought husbands of their own and couldn’t afford a tarnished reputation. She understood. She did not blame them for their lack of loyalty. After months on her own, she knew their fears.
“You must know I didn’t believe any of it, not for a moment,” April said. She leaned close. “All of London knows you were in love and wouldn’t have risked it over an affair. Least not until you were well married.”
Isabella wrinkled her nose. Lord James Emsley, her former fiancé, had planted seeds of doubt among his friends regarding her supposedly less-than-chaste character—though she had no proof of his involvement, those whispers were enough to avert potential suitors. It was not until after she confronted her father that she learned she no longer had a dowry and guessed at the real reason Emsley called off their engagement.
“And your father, surely he must see reason.”
“It’s not so dreadful, renting an apartment. I have the freedom of a spinster. Another year on the shelf and no one will raise a brow,” she said, patting April’s hand. Over April’s shoulder Isabella saw three of Emsley’s friends heading towards them. She shifted deeper into the shadows where the light did not quite meet the corner. Old hurt and humiliation rose to choke her. She should not have attended the ball regardless of her intentions.
April rose to the tips of her toes and looked over Isabella’s shoulder. Isabella’s fingers tightened on her friend’s hand, willing her to still her movements and not draw attention, but April’s brief glance was enough to note who had captured Isabella’s attention.
“How’s your husband, Lord Richard?” Isabella quickly blurted in an attempt to regain her friend’s attention. She could have pinched April. The last thing she needed was for Emsley’s friends to note April’s strained gaze focused on them.
“Richard�
�s embarrassingly attentive,” April said. She unfolded a handkerchief before blotting the perspiration pooling around her neck. “We both know you’re not the least bit interested in my husband.”
Isabella looked at her friend, her lips parting in objection, then closing when April giggled.
“I haven’t seen Emsley, if that’s what you’re wondering. I did, however, hear he was in London,” April whispered. “Not much of a honeymoon if you ask me, and I can’t imagine he’ll show here.”
The first ball of the Season, of course he’ll show, Isabella thought. Lord Emsley never missed an opportunity to be noticed. A small part of her, however, wished April was right. “Why wouldn’t he attend? He lost nothing.”
April frowned. “He lost you.”
Isabella swallowed, waved away April’s words. “Nothing of consequence, I mean. What of his wife; do you know who she is?”
“I haven’t met her myself,” April said and gave Isabella one last assessment before facing the room again. “She was born and raised here with her mother. That’s where her title comes from. The girl’s father, however, is an American who made his fortune in the coal mines.”
“Oh.” There was something intriguing about earning one’s wealth and being able to replicate it, not to be dependent on or begging aid.
“And from her swiftness in luring Emsley, I’d say she does not give a fig for rules of propriety.”
She agreed with April: Lady Emsley’s actions mirrored a woman who knew the power of money on not one continent but two—not a spoiled girl.
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