The Caress of a Commander

by Linda Rae Sande

  His father chuckled. “Wouldn’t be the first time two brothers who looked alike tried to pull the wool over the eyes of the ton,” he replied with a quirked lip.

  His eyes showing a glimmer of humor, Will shook his head. “But you and Uncle Donald look nothing alike,” he countered.

  William blinked. “Oh, I wasn’t referring to me when I made the comment,” he said. “The Fitzwilliam twins come to mind, however,” he added, referring to the late Earl of Norwick and the current earl, Daniel. He paused a moment. “Just be careful. Stephen thinks he is supposed to be finding you a wife, but it sounds as if you have already decided on a woman to fill that role.”

  Suppressing a grin, Will nodded. “I figure whoever he finds will make a fine wife for him, don’t you suppose?”

  William Slater gave a slight shake of his head. “Only if he’s inclined to take a wife. I do not believe he has yet decided on such a fate for himself.”

  Will considered his father’s words. “I suppose not. But I have to admit, I rather like him doing my duty when it comes to attending Society events.”

  The marquess rolled his eyes. “Just be careful,” he warned. “I shouldn’t want you to end up betrothed to two women at the same time.”

  The oldest son blinked. And blinked again before a smile split his face. “Or him,” he said with a chuckle.

  The marquess sobered. “Or him,” he agreed.

  Chapter 11

  Trading Places

  Later that night

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Stephen said as he regarded his brother from the other side of the billiards table. He had just taken a shot that should have resulted in at least two balls falling into their pockets, but Will’s comment had him nearly tearing the felt with his cue.

  “Of course. And I apologize. I didn’t mean for you to miss your shot,” Will said when he realized his words had discombobulated Stephen more than he thought they might.

  Ignoring the apology, Stephen frowned and moved to join Will, the game of billiards forgotten. “Just like that? You’re leaving London, and you expect me to be you?” He had to admit, it had been rather fun to play his brother when those at the Duke of Huntington’s soirée all thought he was the earl. He had been the happy subject of a series of congratulatory comments about his service to King and Country, about how handsome he had become, how he must be in the market for a wife now that he was back in London.

  Well, that last comment had been a bit disconcerting, since he wasn’t really in the market for a wife just yet, but he supposed it gave some of the mothers a bit of hope.

  But to have to pretend to be Will Slater for...“How long?” he asked, his brows furrowing. At some point, he had thought to ride to Kent to visit his mother. He had sent her a letter the day he arrived in London, but he hadn’t seen her in an age.

  “Just until I can find Barbara and get back here to London,” Will replied with a shrug. “A week. Maybe two if I spend some time with our sister.”

  Stephen sighed, thinking of the events they had agreed to attend over the next week or so. “That means I go as you to the Weatherstone ball and the Torrington’s musicale and the Morganfield soirée,” he clarified.

  “And a few others. I expect there will be more invitations for the week after next,” Will said matter-of-factly.

  Stephen shook his head. “What if... what if someone you know approaches me expecting me to know them?” he countered, not wanting to look like a fool should he be expected to know that someone.

  “I’ve been gone for... well, I was back briefly for my mother’s funeral, but I didn’t stay long, and that was four years ago,” Will replied as he gave his brother’s query some consideration. “It stands to reason I wouldn’t recognize some of my old friends. Just act... act like you finally recognize them when they introduce themselves, and you’ll be fine.”

  Not entirely convinced, Stephen finally gave his brother a nod. “What about Father?”

  Will angled his head. “He’s a bit dubious about the plan, but he didn’t forbid me from doing it,” he replied. “I think he’s more concerned about the number of broken hearts you’ll leave in your wake,” he teased.

  Stephen rolled his eyes. “Me? You’ll be the one doing that,” he warned, deciding anything done in his brother’s name would be Will’s responsibility. When he realized his protests weren’t having their desired effect, though, he finally sighed. “All right. But you owe me,” he said in warning.

  Grinning, Will leaned over the billiards table and set up his shot. “When you have every eligible debutante in London lining up for an introduction at Weatherstone’s ball, you’ll be thanking me,” he said. He pulled back on the cue and took his shot, allowing a shout of satisfaction as two balls landed in pockets.

  The two balls Stephen had intended to sink.

  “Bastard,” Stephen murmured. His eyes widened. “And since we’re trading places, then you really are the bastard,” he proclaimed with a huge grin.

  Will straightened from the table and regarded his brother for a moment. “I suppose I am,” he agreed.

  Chapter 12

  An Earl Heads to Oxfordshire

  The following day

  The ride to Hurley, the halfway point for his trip to Oxfordshire, didn’t take as long as Will figured when he set out early in the morning. He had spent the night before at Brook’s, arguing with himself as to the practicality of making a trip that might end poorly even while he made small talk with a few of the other gentlemen who weren’t playing cards or who weren’t already engaged in conversation with others. Very few recognized him, which boded well for Stephen, but Will felt a bit lost when he recognized only a few, and those three had attended school with him at Eton.

  A glass of brandy and a cheroot later, he took his leave and headed back to Devonville House to join Stephen for a game of billiards.

  As for the trip, he had decided it would probably end poorly. If he kept his expectations low, at least he wouldn’t be too disappointed if he couldn’t find Barbara or if he found her already married to someone else. At least there was the promise of seeing his younger sister and meeting her husband for the first time.

  And my nephew, he remembered, a grin forming as he packed some clothing into a saddlebag. He decided to plan to stay at least a week, making sure he had dress clothes appropriate for dinners at Gisborn Hall as well as those for his ride.

  The word he had from Greenley’s former solicitor suggested he would find what—or rather whom—he was looking for just outside of the hamlet of Broadwell. When Will asked Mr. Barton what might have happened to the letters he had sent to Barbara, the balding clerk sent his eyes skyward and then allowed a shrug. “I am sure I cannot say for certain,” he replied. “But either her father burned them along with everything else with her name on it, or she has perished.”

  The words had Will wincing, but he knew they were said instead of others that would prove harder to hear.

  Perhaps she accepted someone else’s offer of marriage.

  That would be harder to hear, he realized, his heart clenching at the thought of Barbara with another man.

  Perhaps she had simply moved away and not left word as to her new location. What else could explain her lack of response to letters sent every month for nearly eight years?

  Well, there had been a few at the start, Will remembered. Beautifully scripted missives written in her perfect penmanship, not a drop of errant ink to be found on the elegant parchment. The last one, still folded and stuffed into his waistcoat pocket, had been on courser paper, though, the ink showing signs of having bled into the grain and ruining her otherwise flawless lettering. It was still readable, though, and included words he lived for years hoping to experience first-hand.

  I love you, Will Slater. Come back to England. Come back to me.

  Well, if she was still living in the cottage Mr. Barton claimed was her residence, then Will would find her. With any luck, he would find her before nightfall th
e next day.

  Although he hoped to make it farther on his first day, he spent the night at the Olde Bell in Hurley, the inn a halfway point between London and Oxford. Once he had seen to Thunderbolt’s care, he enjoyed a filling supper. If Thunderbolt was as happy to run the following day as much as he had that day, then Will figured they would make it to Broadwell the following afternoon.

  Saddle sore and anxious, he finally fell asleep when exhaustion proved too much, his last thoughts of Barbara.

  Chapter 13

  Lady Jane Meets An Earl ... Or Does She?

  Meanwhile, at Lord Weatherstone’s ball

  “Oh, do stand up straight,” Lady Pettigrew admonished her youngest niece.

  At five-foot and nothing, Jane Browning regarded her aunt with a quelling glance. “Any straighter and I shall fall over backwards,” she claimed sotto voce. Couldn’t her aunt see that she had her shoulders pulled back as far as they would go? The sleeves of her ball gown would allow nothing else. It was as if they had been sewn on backwards, forcing her elbows into her sides and her shoulders in a direction they weren’t supposed to go.

  The viscountess sighed. With only one more niece to see married off this Season, she found herself hoping for a fall wedding for Jane. Should a willing suitor for her youngest niece present himself, she was tempted to offer him a good deal of money in addition to Jane’s dowry if he agreed to a spring wedding. Anything to divest herself of her last unmarried niece!

  So it was a rather pleasant surprise when the man she thought she recognized as the Earl of Bellingham suddenly appeared before Jane and asked if he could claim the next dance on her card! The earl might have been an earl in name only—she was sure he was the son of William Slater, Marquess of Devonville—but at some point, he would inherit the marquessate.

  A future marquess! The idea of Jane as a marchioness had her imagining a coronet atop her niece’s coiffure, a town coach at her beck and call, credit at the very best shops, and not just one modiste, but several to make all the gowns that would be required for such a position.

  Lady Eugenia Pettigrew watched Jane as the young woman angled her head to one side, the motion displaying her long neck and blonde ringlets to their best advantage.

  At least the chit didn’t remember the older woman’s instruction about requiring an introduction before accepting the offer of a dance. Titled gentlemen were exempt from the rule as far as Lady Pettigrew was concerned. At this point, all gentlemen were exempt, she decided.

  “You can have your choice of several, my lord,” Jane replied with a curtsy, holding out her wrist and a charcoal pencil in the direction of the apparent Earl of Bellingham.

  Stephen regarded the lines on the dance card, finding most of them empty. Goodness! This won’t do, he thought as he noticed the look of anticipation on the pretty girl’s face. Although a bit nervous, she seemed the typical aristocrat’s daughter—blond, blue-eyed, and put on display by a sponsor anxious to be rid of her in the Marriage Mart. “This one, then,” Stephen said as he waved away the charcoal and offered her his arm. He ignored the look of alarm that suddenly appeared on the viscountess’ face in favor of noticing the young lady’s blue eyes as they widened, the stunned expression indicating he had either made a huge mistake or that she was truly surprised by his offer of a dance.

  Without a backward glance in her aunt’s direction, Jane placed her hand on the handsome man’s arm and allowed him to lead her to where the other couples were lining up for the next dance.

  “I did not notice which dance this is,” Stephen said as he glanced about, rather surprised when he noticed a man placing a hand at his partner’s waist while he raised his other hand in midair. A second later, the woman had placed one of her gloved hands against the man’s hand.

  “The waltz, my lord,” Jane replied with a curtsy.

  Stephen stilled himself. “Until just a few days ago, I have been at sea for... eight years, my lady,” he managed to get out, remembering to add two years to his own length of service since that’s how many years Will had served in the British Navy. “And I have only seen the waltz performed whilst I was in Italy.” Or was that Austria? When someone insisted he visit Vienna while on his leave from the Greenwich?

  After so many years away from England and so many port cities around the Continent and Africa and along the South China Sea, he couldn’t keep track of what city was where. “But I shall give it my all and try very hard not to step on your beautiful slippers,” he added with a wink.

  Jane grinned despite her nervousness. Is he flirting with me? she wondered, rather liking the man’s playful manner. “It’s a three-count dance, my lord,” she said in delight. “And one I’m not usually allowed to dance.” This last was said with such happiness, Stephen wondered why she wouldn’t be allowed. Did the chit have any idea of how her face lit up with her comment? Of how truly happy she seemed at flaunting convention to dance a dance she was apparently not allowed to dance?

  And who in the world had made such a ridiculous rule?

  “Do you know how to do it?” he asked, a bit of panic making him think he may have made a mistake in choosing this particular dance to learn more about the pretty chit he had spied in the line up along the far wall of Lord Weatherstone’s ballroom.

  Given every young woman along that wall stood with a sour-faced chaperone, Stephen figured they were all wallflowers. And unmarried. Jane seemed to stand out from the others, however, her gown a beautiful ivory rather than the stark white most of the other young ladies wore. The color matched her pale blonde hair and seemed to make her blue eyes especially blue.

  “Of course, my lord,” Jane replied with a hint of mischief.

  “Then let us show them their mistake, my lady,” he countered, giving her his winningest smile. “I expect you to lead until I catch on.” He was about to say her name and then realized they hadn’t been introduced. “What shall I call you?”

  Jane’s eyes widened again before she smiled in return, a beautiful pink flush covering her features as she angled her head again. “Jane,” she answered simply, deciding she didn’t want to provide her full name just then. Since the young man was apparently newly returned to English shores, he wouldn’t know of her older sisters’ quests for husbands nor of her aunt’s desperate attempts to marry them all off in two Seasons.

  Or less.

  And he didn’t need to know. Her aunt may have wanted her married, but Jane had no intention of accepting any offers this year or next or maybe even never. Unlike most her age, she aspired to be a spinster. Unmarried ladies could do almost anything they wanted to—travel, attend social functions and even take lovers—without repercussions from Society. A far more suitable life than being married, Jane thought.

  “And you?” she wondered, hoping her waltz lessons with the French dance master, Monsieur Girard, would come back to her when the music started. At the moment, she didn’t know if she would be able to tell her left foot from her right foot.

  Stephen leaned toward her. “Stephen,” he said in a low voice. “And it shall be our little secret,” he added with a wink as the orchestra began playing.

  Jane’s eyes widened a bit at hearing the name. She expected him to say “Bellingham” or maybe “William” given she had provided only her given name. But Stephen? Must be one of his middle names, she reasoned as she lifted one hand to his and placed the other on his shoulder.

  Stephen wasn’t really sure of what he was doing at first, but in studying how the other couples on the dance floor made their moves and by following Jane’s initial strong lead—she had obviously taken his comment to heart—he was able to quickly copy the moves and was soon leading his enthusiastic partner in a dance that was most exhilarating.

  “How is it I haven’t seen you about in London?” Jane wondered, not giving a whit that she didn’t have a voucher to dance the waltz. If anyone admonished her, she would simply claim the Earl of Bellingham had requested the dance. What could they do to her? She rather doub
ted she would ever again attend an event at Almack’s, and not just because the lemonade was tepid, or the lobster cakes were dry, or the ratafia tasted as if it were made with too much orgeat. She just wasn’t going back there.

  Ever.

  Stephen allowed a quick glance at his dance partner, rather surprised she had enough confidence to address him. She seemed rather withdrawn when he had come across her as she stood with her chaperone near the wall of similar young ladies. “I just retired from the British Navy,” he replied, deciding the truth would work in this situation. “I haven’t been in London in an age.” Which was true. And it wasn’t necessary for her to know that he hadn’t been raised as an aristocrat’s son, even if it had been as close as one could get without actually being one.

  Marie St. Claire might have been a courtesan, but by the time Stephen was out of short pants, she was married to a member of the gentry in Kent. Since he wasn’t particularly wealthy—he died while Stephen was at Eton—and his mother hadn’t taken a lover after his father and her ended their liaison, Stephen figured she had been left with a generous endowment. Remembering her frequent correspondence with Gregory Grandby, a man who apparently made the wealthy wealthier with his recommendations of how to invest their funds, Stephen realized his mother must have followed his advice.

  Jane allowed a wan smile. “Such a shame, my lord. Your presence would have been most welcome earlier this spring. Probably any spring, for that matter.” Hell, the man would have been worshipped at any ball had he simply stood on the dance floor and looked eligible.

  Jane had to suppress the urge to grimace. Had she really just said what she thought she said? And out loud?

  Stephen grinned, rather liking the bold comment of his dance partner. “Well, I was at Lord Huntington’s soirée,” he hedged, realizing she must not have been in attendance. He would have noticed her, even if she had hidden behind a potted palm.