She tried hard to make the steps as perfectly as she could.
“So,” he said. “Captain…Hamish…L’Amour, is it?”
Allegra stumbled.
He caught her.
She tried not to swoon at his touch. This was not the sort of dance where one touched one’s partner. In fact, at any moment, partners would change amongst the six in the lively set and she would need to carry on without him for several beats.
Allegra straightened, embarrassed that she’d lost her footing. Or used it as an excuse to throw herself into his arms, if only for a brief moment. It was hard to say what exactly had transpired.
“I’m afraid he’s not real,” she whispered.
Who was she afraid was not real? Captain L’Amour? Or the man before her?
“I gathered that much,” he answered. “After I accidentally assumed his identity.”
She winced. “I didn’t mean for you to.”
“I saw that as well.” The amused crinkle was back. Was there anything more attractive? “You said you had a plan?”
“I do.”
But before Allegra could explain it, she had to endure half a minute with Portia’s partner, and then another half-minute with Dorcas’s gentleman. Which meant each of her cousins had an opportunity to converse with Not-Captain L’Amour.
When he was hers again, his dark eyebrows shot high. “Before you tell me how we stop this, can you please explain what ‘this’ is?”
She nodded quickly. “Some time ago, I needed a fictitious suitor—”
“Eleven going on twelve years, according to the taller chit with the pert nose.”
“That would be my cousin Miss Dorcas Townsend.” Who should not have let on just how long Allegra’s between-suitors dry spell had been stretching on. “The other one is Miss Portia Townsend.”
“They both seem to think I have…sacked villages and leveled armadas whilst in the employ of English, French, and Russian governments, or possibly on my own, between privateering contracts, consuming delicate truffles, and dictating sonnets to my pirate bard?”
“There may have been some slight embellishing as the years went by,” Allegra allowed. “Rest assured you have stolen the identity of a fearless, clever, indomitable adventurer, and not some boring do-nothing.”
“Heaven forfend,” he murmured.
“He is a very romantic figure,” Allegra tried to explain.
“And hopelessly in love with you?”
“Well, he was, anyway. This is where the extraction comes into play. If you hadn’t shown up tonight, I was going to tell my cousins that the courtship was over.”
“Captain L’Amour is so fickle that he falls out of love with a beautiful woman?”
With a…beautiful… Allegra tried to remember to breathe. She was answering a question.
“It’s not his fault. People change. He hasn’t seen me in twelve years—or ever, as you might recall. What with him not being real. The idea was to tell Portia and Dorcas we’d simply grown apart and were no longer betrothed.”
“But I appeared out of nowhere.”
“But there you were,” she agreed. “This is perhaps even better. We can stage a small dispute…perhaps right here, during this dance…after which, we need never speak to each other again. It will be as easy as—”
The figures changed.
Allegra forced herself to smile at each of her cousins’ partners in turn, stomping her way through the figures until she was returned to Not-Captain L’Amour.
“You’re overlooking a crucial detail,” he said.
Allegra did not doubt this. Clearly her spur-of-the-moment plan to invent a suitor had suffered several glaring flaws from its very inception.
“What is it?” she asked.
“That we’ve begun,” he answered simply. “You can toss a pitcher of ratafia at me and I can storm off in a pet, but a dramatic and permanent dissolution of our nonexistent betrothal won’t change the fact that your cousins believe me to be Captain L’Amour. They have likely already informed their dance partners of my name, if not my exploits.”
Allegra closed her eyes. He was right.
She bumped against his chest.
He caught her. “Open your eyes. It’s easier to make the figures.”
Yes. That was definitely what she was trying to do. Make dainty little steps, not toss herself back into his strong arms for comfort. Or a passionate ravishing.
“What do you propose?” she asked.
“I’m thinking,” he answered. “One option is to confess the truth.”
Her throat filled with bile. To do so would be to lose the faith and love of both of her beloved cousins. Unthinkable.
“The other option,” he continued, “is that I become Captain L’Amour.”
Her eyes flew up to his. “Won’t someone else notice that you are…not he?”
“This is my first day in Brighton. I am not part of these circles. The likelihood of me being recognized is infinitesimal. Unless there is a Captain L’Amour who can put the lie to my claim?”
She choked and shook her head. “There’s no one.”
“Very well. How long is your holiday here?”
“All summer,” she admitted. “Or until Portia and Dorcas find husbands, whichever comes first. And you? How long are you here?”
“I have not yet determined.” His gaze held hers as though she were the reason for his indecision.
“Why would you do this?” she blurted out. “I appreciate it more than words can say. I will owe you every possible favor. But…why?”
“As it happens,” he said, “I am in want of anonymity. I had intended to keep to my rooms. Indeed, that is still my plan. I have much to do. But as I planned to conceal my identity anyway, I suppose Captain L’Amour is no worse a pseudonym than any other.”
Mysterious. She wanted to know more, not push him away. But a deal was a deal. “We’ll make our dramatic row and pass each other like ships in the night?”
“We could,” he agreed. “Although pretending to be depressed and resentful for the summer isn’t much of a holiday for either of us.”
“And…Dorcas and Portia would devote themselves to trying to get us back together.”
He inclined his head in agreement. “Then the plan is as follows. We carry on as we have done so far, and time the dramatic row for just before we part. A Brighton tragedy of Shakespearean proportions.”
Relief flooded her. He really had thought of everything. And there might even be another dance or two in their future. Perhaps even a just-to-keep-up-appearances kiss.
“Platonic partners in crime, of course,” he added.
There was the pin to her balloon.
“Platonic,” she repeated. “Of course.”
She hadn’t even asked him if he had someone else. Of course he must. A man like that…
He was the sort a woman might wish to hold onto.
Chapter 7
After the dance, John bowed to Miss Brown and her cousins, scooped up his cane from its pilaster, and exited the Castle Inn without another dance or a farewell glance.