The Merchant's Yield

by Lorri Dudley

  The Merchant’s Yield

  The Leeward Island Series - Book 2

  Lorri Dudley

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Sneak Peek: The Sugar Baron’s Ring

  Get all the books in the Leeward Islands Series

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Want more?

  For my parents,

  Your love and encouragement bless me.

  “We are hard-pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.”

  * * *

  2 Corinthians 4:8-9

  Chapter 1

  London, England

  May 1814

  I should keep his secret, but it is bursting within me. My brother mentioned in confidence he shall request a dance if your mother is not in attendance.

  ~ From Miss Priscilla Middleton written to Miss Charlotte Etheridge

  “Of course, the islander would come.”

  Charlotte Amelia Etheridge stiffened at Mama’s acidic tone. She followed her mother’s gaze to the entrance of the Middleton’s modest ballroom where guests arrived in hordes of navy and formal black jackets bobbing amid a sea of colorful gowns. They filled the ballroom with boisterous chatter and a bouquet of expensive perfumes and colognes.

  Mama flicked her fan in sharp increments. “Even dressed in English finery, he appears barbaric and uncivilized.”

  Lottie focused on the landing where Nathanial Robert Winthrop bowed to Lord Gibbons and his wife. His large frame and broad shoulders dwarfed Lord Gibbons’s, making the average-height man appear slight in stature. Winthrop’s hand tossed back the coattail of his fitted charcoal jacket and tucked into his right pant pocket. He exuded a relaxed, casual self-assurance that uniquely contrasted with the pretentious lords and ladies of the Quality surrounding him. Their grandiose displays sought approval, a favor they would be hard-pressed to receive from her mother, for Lady Etheredge’s acerbic tongue could elevate or cut down a person with a single remark.

  Winthrop nodded at something Gibbons said, and his teeth gleamed the same bright white as his cravat and shirt front.

  Mama nodded in the direction of the gentlemen. “I will make certain Lord Gibbons reserves a dance for you. His mother owes me a favor.”

  A favor. The jab struck its soft target, but Lottie had numbed to most of her mother’s verbal attacks.

  “There she is now.” Mama stepped away to speak with Lady Gibbons.

  Lottie plucked at the sides of her skirt and searched for Priscilla, her closest friend. The large mirrors reflected shimmering light from the overhead multi-tiered chandeliers and exposed her abandoned position. A retreat to the retiring rooms to freshen up might be in order.

  Captain Anthony Middleton eyed her.

  Lottie paused mid-step.

  He weaved through the cluster of people to her side.

  This was it. Her pulse leapt. How long had she fancied Pricilla’s handsome elder brother and dreamed of this moment?

  “If it isn’t Little Lottie Ethridge.” The deep rich tone of Anthony’s voice sent a wave of tingles up her arm.

  Lottie fought to subdue a grin she knew would cross the lines of decorum.

  The boyishness in his face had disappeared, and he exuded virile sophistication in his navy captain’s jacket and highly polished boots. “It has been an age.”

  She longed to say something witty like how she practiced in front of the mirror while he’d been at sea, but all that came to mind was, “Indeed.”

  “Green is a lovely color for your complexion.” His gaze swept over her like a soft caress. “It also happens to be my favorite color.”

  Of which she was keenly aware. That, and the fact he despised snakes, took four lumps of sugar in his tea, and sang a little off key. Such knowledge was a boon of being close friends with his sister.

  “Would you like to—” He glanced away and shifted his feet. “Would you care to—”

  “Captain Middleton” Mama drew alongside the two of them. “Your mother is looking for you. I believe she said it was urgent.”

  Anthony craned his neck toward the entrance. “Perhaps another time.” He stole one last glance at Lottie, bowed, and excused himself.

  A whimper sounded deep in Lottie’s throat as she watched him go. The opportunity had been within her grasp.

  “You don’t want to dance with the likes of Middleton.” Mama frowned at his retreating form.

  She gaped at her mother. “Whyever not?”

  “He lacks a spine.”

  “For mercy’s sake.” Lottie gritted her teeth. “He commands a ship.”

  “I’m saving you from future heartbreak.” Tiny lines framed Mama’s pursed lips. “I have it on the best authority that Middleton dips too deep. I will not abide having a spineless, drunken wastrel as a son-in-law.”

  “You find fault in everyone.” Lottie’s fingers curled into tight balls. “Besides, it would have only been a dance.” One she’d hoped turned into courting, and soon after, marriage, but Mama didn’t need to know that at the moment.

  “You shouldn’t be overexerting yourself.” Mama fluttered her fan. “The last thing you need is to have another spell.”

  She hadn’t had a fever in over four years. What would it take to prove she was well enough to be like everyone else? If only she could have been able to make her own choice about the dance with Anthony. But once again, her mother had chosen for her. She sucked in a deep breath through her nose to curtail the roiling boil churning inside her.

  “You’ll find Lord Gibbons has exquisite dance form.”

  She didn’t want to dance with someone instructed to oblige her. She wanted to dance with Anthony.

  Mama glanced at Lottie’s coiffure and sighed. “I wish you had used powder.”

  Lottie resisted the urge to put a hand to her hair. “Mama, no one has powdered their hair in a decade.”

  Her mother’s mouth pursed into a thin line. “I’m well aware of the fashion trends, but the powder tones down your color, making your hair a much-preferred strawberry blonde. I daresay blonde is more fashionable than this”—she circled a finger in the direction of Lottie’s head—“vibrant red.”

  Lottie waited for Mama’s next line. She could repeat it verbatim.

  “Red hair is for opera singers and ballet dancers. Proof of the tainting of our pure bloodline.”

  Lottie’s periphery darkened as the rush of blood filled her ears, blocking out the lively background conversations. She fought to regain a measure of control. Her red hair was a constant reminder she was a disappointment. Not only was she born a girl and not a male heir, but her hair was red. Not a dark Auburn or strawberry blonde, but carrot red. Her mother blamed her father often with a mo
uthful of venom about the Etheridge line being tainted. Of course, Mama implied that had she known the family’s indiscretions, she never would have infected her pure blood with his. It was rumored Lottie’s great-grandmother on her father’s side had indulged in a fling with an Irishman. In mother’s opinion, Lottie’s red hair was proof that her grandfather was baseborn.

  An ember of hope ignited. If her ancestors had risked for love, then maybe—just maybe—she might have some of their blood running through her veins.

  “He thinks he’s one of us.” Mama crossed her arm and raised a haughty brow. “As if he can buy his way into the Quality.”

  “Who?” Lottie shook her head to clear her negative thoughts and pivoted to find Nathaniel Winthrop scanning the crowd with a hint of resigned amusement. For a stranger, he owned the room with his subtle manner, as if he didn’t care a wit about the pomp and circumstance of the ton or its social rankings.

  Priscilla said his father had grown wealthy through the sugar trade. Winthrop contributed to his father’s legacy by becoming a savvy merchant, trading in sugar and other goods. Clearly he was his own man, and she could picture him standing proudly at the helm of his ship, sailing the vast sea with wind ruffling his hair.

  Lottie’s eyes drifted closed. What would it be like to hold such freedom? An imaginary breeze pressed against her skin and whipped her undone tresses behind her. Her palms turned out to cup the air.

  “Lady Reinhart’s daughter danced with him at the Mayfair ball.”

  Lottie’s eyes sprung open, and she dropped her hands to her sides.

  “She complained about feeling hardened callouses under his gloves.” Mother shivered and a look of utmost disgust deepened the creases around her lips. “You must give him a wide berth tonight.”

  Lottie withered under the constant weight of her mother’s commands. Her lips had parted to offer the expected yes, mama, when the islander’s gaze met hers from across the room. Their eyes held, and she saw the confidence in their depth, the defiance, as if he were proud of being an islander and not one of them. Deep down within her being, buried under layers of insecurities, a spark of rebellion ignited.

  Mama issued her a sideways glance and lowered her voice. “Straighten up, dear. Etheridges do not slouch. You are the daughter of a viscount. Hold yourself with poise in accordance with your station. Hunching isn’t going to make you appear less gangly...”

  She would never raise herself high enough for her mother’s standards, so why should she bother? It was her life, and past time she lived it. Lottie lifted her chin and pulled back her shoulders, but not because of Mama. She ignored her mother’s droning and drifted in Mr. Winthrop’s direction as if a magnetic force drew her.

  “Charlotte Amelia Winthrop?” her mother called.

  Lottie weaved through the crowd toward the entrance of the reception hall, her eyes never leaving her target.

  He slanted a brow as if to say, have we met?

  Lord Gibbons touched Mr. Winthrop’s shoulder and gestured to Lady Reinhart as if offering an introduction.

  The spell was broken.

  Lottie froze. What had come over her? Curious stares of other guests bored into her skin, leaving her feeling naked. She pretended to wave to an imaginary acquaintance and hastened to the retiring rooms.

  After freshening up, she faced herself in the looking glass. “This can’t continue any longer. You are not a puppet. You have your own mind.” Her pale blue eyes darkened. “If you want to dance, then you should dance. You’re not going to collapse dead on the dance floor as Mama believes.” She inhaled a deep breath and, with a curt nod to herself, returned to the ballroom.

  Lottie’s brother, Gerald, and Anthony, her would-be dance partner, stood on her right with a crowd of their friends. She sidestepped a particularly tall guest and slid next to her brother. “Pardon my intrusion.” She dipped into a polite curtsy. “Gerald, I was hoping you would be a dear and allow me some reprieve from...” Her gaze flicked in their mother’s direction.

  Gerald groaned, and she could practically read his thoughts. If she was here, Mama was bound to follow shortly. “I was about to meet some chaps in the card room.”

  “Hmm.” She leaned closer to Gerald and whispered. “I’d hate to have to retire early due to an oncoming headache, which would leave you to escort Mama home.”

  Her brother’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Let me introduce you to my friends.” He nodded to Anthony. “Of course, you know Middleton.”

  She smiled at Anthony, and he briefly returned it before he flashed a nervous glance in her mother’s direction.

  Lottie turned toward the other man and stiffened. Her stomach dove for cover. The guest she’d rudely stepped around had been the islander.

  Gerald continued. “Lottie, may I introduce you to Nathaniel Robert Winthrop, of the Leeward Island Winthrops. You know, St. Christopher’s Island, in the Caribbean.”

  She winced, for his reference made her appear dimwitted. “I’m conversant with St. Christopher, or St. Kitts, as its natives refer to it.”

  Winthrop bowed his head.

  “Winthrop,” Gerald gestured in her direction, but his eyes panned the crowd, “this is Lady Charlotte, my sister. We fondly refer to her as… as… Lottie.”

  Gerald craned his neck to peer between Anthony’s and Winthrop’s shoulders. She followed his line of sight to where Mama left her dowager friends and searched the room.

  Lottie grasped Mr. Winthrop’s sleeve, using his body to shield her from view.

  The man’s brows snapped into a V.

  “I-I believe, we’ve already met.” She forced her gaze to meet Mr. Winthrop’s assessing one.

  “I didn’t know you and Winthrop were acquainted.” Gerald turned to the Kittitian.

  Curiosity and a flash of wonder glinted in the depths of Mr. Winthrop’s eyes. He arched a quizzical brow.

  “Indeed, I’m sure you remember.” She wracked her brain for a plausible explanation.

  Mama spotted Gerald and headed toward them.

  “Gerald introduced us at the Leicester dinner party. You requested a dance at our next meeting and”—she pleaded with her eyes—“here we are.”

  Her heart thundered as he studied her for a long moment.

  Gerald cleared his throat. “I don’t recall attending the Leicester’s… Ah.” He slapped Anthony in the gut. “Was that the night you brought out that bottle of port? If my mother found out…” His voice faded into the background, for she couldn’t tear herself from Winthrop’s intense gaze.

  “Er—what do you say we finish this conversation in the card room?” The pitch in Gerald’s voice raised, and he dashed away. Anthony followed, nodding to guests as he went.

  “Pleasure to meet you for the second time.” Winthrop bowed slightly.

  He moved to pursue Anthony, but she clutched his arm, using his tall frame for cover.

  Steely blue eyes locked on her and displayed exactly what he thought of her—a desperate, featherbrained, nitwit who must be nicked in the nob.

  “I’m dreadfully sorry. This is very forward of me and completely out of character, but I would love to dance.”

  She leaned left to see past his large form, only to find Gerald pointing Mama in her direction. Lottie ducked back behind Mr. Winthrop.

  He crossed his arms and glared at her with a sharpness that should have chilled her to her core, but her desperation for refuge overshadowed her embarrassment.

  The islander’s jaw clenched. His nostrils flared. She bit her lower lip and implored him with her eyes.

  Her anxiety must have struck a chord somewhere deep down in that statuesque physic, for he nodded and held out his hand.

  She released a breath and placed her clammy fingers in his. Thank heaven for the satin gloves that hid her perspiration.

  His grip was strong and warm as he pulled her onto the dance floor. The orchestra struck up another song, however, this one had a fast cadence. She hesitated. Did islanders dance? “Do
you know the quadrille?”

  One side of his mouth drew into a crooked smile. “A bit late to be asking now.”

  He jerked her into his arms and began to propel her around the ballroom. For a foreigner, he was an expert dancer. He commanded the floor with power, moving with panther-like grace in the waves of rhythm. She held an awareness of Winthrop’s every move as if she were an extension of him. The thrill of being whisked around in the brace of such strong hands set her pulse racing. Funny, but Melinda Reinhart had been correct. She could actually feel the roughness of his calloused skin through the thin material of his gloves. Mama would be justified.

  Within the safekeeping of his strong arms, Lottie dared to peer into the crowd. Mama’s pinched expression and lethal gaze foretold of a future tongue-lashing, not merely for avoiding her mother, but for dancing with someone Mama found beneath her. Not yet ready to surrender, she flashed what she hoped was a coquettish smile at Winthrop.

  Perhaps, she’d try her hand at flirting.

  Nathan beheld the titian-haired beauty in his arms. Bright copper curls laced with tiny inset pearls crowned a face with skin as smooth as the cream from the coconuts back home.

  She moved as one with him, adjusting to the slightest pressure of his hand. For the first time in a long while, he forgot about sugar, trade agreements, and the Amory’s missing crew, and merely enjoyed dancing with a beautiful woman in his arms.