“Understandably with the enemy coming by sea . . .”
The men continued their talk as Eliza gave a final poke with a pin, and the ship seemed anchored at last. “You are my foil tonight, Sister. Unpowdered and unwigged. Plain pearls and remade gown.”
Did Eliza suspect she tried to blend in with the paneling? “All the better.”
“Did I mention Quinn’s parents gifted me an heirloom tiara upon news of the baby? A shocking assortment of diamonds, Quinn says, that’s been in the Cheverton family a century or better. Sadly, my in-laws remain in England but plan to sail unless a declaration of war is decided.”
“When shall you wear the tiara?”
“As soon as it—and the heir—arrives.”
Esmée took a deep breath, her stays overtight. “What makes you so sure the heir isn’t a she?”
“We’ve only chosen names for a boy, so a boy it must be.”
Esmée quelled her eye rolling. “Best ponder daughter’s names, as the Almighty might have other designs.”
“Quinn has his heart set on a son.” Eliza lowered her voice as the men droned on. “I daren’t suggest otherwise.”
They rounded a curve that marked the last leg of their journey, sending Esmée sliding toward the window. She unclenched her fists from the folds of her gown to find her palms damp beneath her gloves. Her ordeal was at hand. How she wished for some of Eliza’s joie de vivre, her ability to glide through whatever life dealt her, smiling and undaunted.
The coach rolled into the forecourt of the Lightfoot mansion behind a line of conveyances as liveried servants sprang into service. Esmée alighted from the coach on her father’s arm, then followed Quinn and Eliza into the marbled hall, where a butler waited at the ballroom’s entrance to announce them. Biting her lip, she fixed an eye on her sister’s coiffure lest she need to right it, rather than the press of people on every side. There seemed an audible gasp at Eliza’s entry, which soon subsided as other guests appeared.
Lady Lightfoot was known for her democratic guest list. Among Virginia’s bejeweled gentry were wealthy Scots merchants and other notables of questionable pedigree who’d risen to prominence in the colonies because of their wits and business acumen and advantageous marriages. They had few of the airs and graces of the titled and genteel but were far more interesting, at least to Esmée.
Her father steered her safely to a corner, where old friends greeted them. Eliza and Quinn, ever popular, were moving about, speaking to those they knew and some they didn’t. From all appearances, her sister’s headdress was staying the course.
“My dear Miss Shaw . . .” Lady Lightfoot’s distinct tone cut through the hubbub as she passed in front of Esmée after greeting her father. For a widow of many years, she had retained her agile mind and slim figure. “I believe I spy a long-lost acquaintance of yours.” With that, their hostess moved on in a glittering display of silk and feathers, leaving a trail of dread and trepidation in her wake.
Father watched her departure with a lift of his graying brows. “I suppose this means Captain Lennox is at hand.”
Esmée scanned the ballroom, dismay leaving her breathless. “In truth, I never expected to see him here. He wasn’t one for dancing. Nor did I expect Lady Lightfoot to mention him outright.”
“She didn’t name him, my dear, though I did detect a certain glint in her eye. Lady Lightfoot has ever been one for a trick or a little matchmaking.” He gave Esmée a pained, apologetic half-smile. “Speaking of which . . .” His gaze strayed to the rear doorway, open and leading to the garden. Esmée’s did the same.
There stood Henri Lennox, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders squared and expression resolute, looking for all the world like a commander at the helm of a ship in a storm. As if a ball was more a navigational hazard than the high seas.
Esmée took out a hand fan and cooled her face, wishing the painted silk device were the size of a sail and she could hide behind it. Her smothering anxiety was overshadowed by a rush of heartsore remembrance. All the captain’s youthful lines had been chipped away into the sculpting of the hardened man he’d become. The jut of his jaw told her so, as did his sun-cast features more sharply chiseled. A face shaped by countless foreign ports and untold destinations. A gloss of black hair caught back with silk ribbon. Eyes of so cold an ocean blue they hurt her.
Ten long years.
She hardly knew him.
CHAPTER
six
Amid so much finery and so many faces, Henri felt at sea. And when he’d barely rediscovered his land legs, he was expected to dance.
“Captain Lennox! Just the man I was hoping to encounter.” Virginia’s acting governor gave a formal bow, his wig powder flaking onto the shoulders of his velvet suit. “Lady Lightfoot assured me of your presence tonight but cautioned me against cornering you and denying you an evening’s entertainment.”
“On the contrary,” Henri replied, warming to the official’s forthright manner. “Corner away.”
“After supper, certainly.” Dinwiddie’s broad Scots brogue warmed Henri’s ears, as did his convivial wink. “I dare not earn the ire of every unmarried miss in the room straightaway.”
The dancing commenced, a minuet stepped by the most prestigious and well placed among them, including a stunning young woman in a fanciful wig with a ship perched atop it. Henri’s wry amusement faded as recognition kicked in. Upon my soul . . .
Eliza Shaw?
The certainty took hold as guests framed him on both sides. His hostess, Lady Lightfoot, was making straight for him.
“Captain Lennox, how utterly dashing you look.”
Henri gave a little bow as she tapped his sleeve with her fan.
“I half expected to see you in naval uniform, but of course you are a free agent now and no longer one of His Majesty’s officers.” She smiled widely, eyes roaming the glittering assembly. “There are a number of young ladies here who are noticeably agog at your presence . . . including Admiral Shaw’s daughter, a prior acquaintance of yours, is she not?”
Was Lady Lightfoot jesting? He’d not spied Esmée in the throng, though it was likely she’d be present. Given their acrimonious parting, agog was the last word he’d choose. Aghast, rather.
Lady Lightfoot moved on, and the young woman to his right smiled up at him. He’d rather partner with a roomful of complete strangers than the estranged Miss Shaw.
“A dance, Miss . . . ?”
“Miss Traverse.” The young lady brightened at his forced words.
The minuet ended and a reel that all the Scots present excelled at was struck. Henri found himself caught up in the gaiety, the steps and turns easily recalled, his partner’s pleasure tempering his impatience to get on with the evening.
When the dance ended, he excused himself, distracted by a naval officer in uniform who drew him into conversation with two York shipbuilders.
“Tell us about the Relentless, Captain Lennox,” one gentleman said. “A three-masted ship of the line with seventy-four guns, aye? A gift from the governor of Nevis in the Caribbean for warring with buccaneers and securing shipping lanes in his province?”