“That’s it.” She beamed at him. “It’s worked for twelve years. An utterly infallible plan.”
He groaned. “There is not enough paper in the world to list all the ways your complete lack of a plan could go terribly wrong.”
“Limit it to sonnet form,” she suggested. “It looks better.”
“I can’t rhyme,” he said, deadpan.
She shrugged. “Why rhyme? Blank verse was good enough for Shakespeare. Captain L’Amour is a wild and rebellious maverick. His sonnets are likely in non-iambic tetrameter.”
“Troche.”
“What?”
“The opposite of an iamb is a troche. Our dear Hamish would scribe in trochaic tetrameter rather than iambic pentameter to show his poetic rebelliousness.”
“See? You’re an expert already. All differences in story can be easily explained away with a long and boring discourse on iambs and troches and the uses of tetra- versus pentameter. Your inquisitor will be so sorry she asked the question, she’ll be eager to return to the main storyline, no matter how it may differ from expectations.”
His eyes met hers. “Do I differ greatly from your expectations?”
She swallowed. “Did you lose your leg to a shark, a kraken, or an enemy sword?”
He blinked. “I fear I possess both of my legs.”
“Then, yes. You do differ materially from expectations. Whatever you do, do not show my cousins your perfectly sound legs, or their hearts will be crushed beyond all reckoning.”
He nodded sagely. “I shall attempt to refrain.”
She stopped walking and turned to look at him. This section of the beach was almost empty. The wind tousled the black waves of his hair.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
“I want something to turn out right for once.” He lifted his hand to her cheek. “If this makes you happy, it makes me happy.”
His hand on her face made Allegra forget the question altogether. Caressing her bare skin was a far superior attack than blathering on about iambs and tetrameter. She couldn’t even feel the cool breeze anymore, or taste the saltwater on her lips. Every nerve ending in her body was now located in her cheek, committing the soft brush of the pad of his thumb to memory.
“I…” she said eloquently. “Are you… Are we…”
“Platonic.” He dropped his hand and gave her a boyish half-smile. “I remember. I shan’t let Hamish steer the ship again.”
He took a wide step back before she could tell him that maybe…just maybe…she wouldn’t completely, terribly, horribly mind overmuch if he stole a wee tiny kiss. For research. Just to get their stories straight. Perhaps they could be…eighty percent platonic. Twenty percent. Dabble in platonic, revel in passionate.
“Where will you be later tonight?” he asked.
“Old Ship Inn assembly rooms,” she answered. “There’s organized card playing. My uncle will be there. It should all be insufferable.”
“I’ll be there to see you through it.” The words were low and musical. A promise. John inclined his head and set off down the beach, leaving Allegra behind…with a smile wider than the horizon.
Trochaic tetrameter. He’d replied in trochaic tetrameter.
She smiled. For a Not-Captain, her handsome faux suitor was full of surprises.
Chapter 9
“Will there be anything else?” asked the circulating library attendant.
“That should do for now.” John placed his books atop the counter and handed over the coins to pay for his new subscriptions.
He had been tempted to rent a lovely mahogany bookcase, but there was no sense redecorating his rented rooms to store them. Not because of the expense. He excelled at being a staid, sensible solicitor. His predictability was profitable. He needed to be reading these books, not collecting them like seashells. One or more of the recipes within could hold the key to unlocking his new future as an equally successful chef.
All he had to do was combine the right ingredients and bake them to perfection.
“Three hours a day, correct?” he asked.
“From seven to ten,” the attendant replied.
“Splendid.”
John tucked the books under one arm and retook the walking stick leaning against the counter. Normally, the handsome accessory was more a foppish affectation than a necessity, but as he’d spent the morning tromping on uneven sand without his cane, it was best to keep support close by, lest his shorter leg reach the limit of its endurance.
And…also for foppish affectation. It was an exceedingly smart walking stick, with a smooth blackthorn staff varnished to a shine and a spotless silver handle. He wanted Allegra to be impressed.
Theirs might be a faux courtship with its premature ending already foretold, but nonetheless John could not help but wish to look his best.
She had not said the words, but Allegra seemed as though she, too, was no stranger to life going horribly awry. John did not pretend to be able to solve the world’s woes—he had not even been able to prevent a simple exploding pâtisserie—but the least he could do was make something go right for Allegra.
After all, they would not be in this situation if he had not blithely assured her cousins he was exactly who they thought he was, without having the least notion who that might be. Not his wisest moment, but he could not regret it. Allegra had struck him as a goddess and nothing he had seen since had changed that opinion.
He enjoyed their time together. Having the end already mapped out was no hindrance. It was like setting an hourglass while the bread was in the oven. Turning golden and growing tall was the fun part. He got to skip the anxiety of the hunt and the complications of marriage and simply savor the easy middle. He hoped Allegra enjoyed it, too.
John was determined to be the best fake suitor she could imagine…and his unbetrothed was excellent at imagining fake suitors.
He straightened his waistcoat and took a deep breath before exiting the library back into the Old Ship Inn ante-room.
Allegra would be here tonight. Cards, she’d said, without much enthusiasm. He was not a card-player himself. Too much speculation and chance. So much more sensible to only do things you already knew in advance would turn out your way.
John made his way along the suites of card rooms and supper nooks, sending a casual glance inside each one in search of Allegra. He found her in the coffee room overlooking the sea.
He paused in the corridor before approaching. She was seated with her cousins in a trio of armchairs before a large window. Allegra pointed through the glass. Whatever comment she made had her cousins hiccupping with laughter. Allegra’s unrepentant smile shone brighter than the sun reflecting on blue waves.
There were other people in the room as well. John did not spare them even a cursory glance. He could not even say with certainty what color gowns her cousins were wearing. His eyes were only for Allegra.
And his hands. His hands were definitely for Allegra. He should not have touched her cheek this morning on the beach. The softness of her skin had burned into his brain. He longed to do it again and was grateful the pile of books in one hand and the walking stick in the other would prevent him from causing a scene.
Then again, tonight he was not dignified and restrained solicitor Jonathan Sharp. Tonight he was Captain Hamish L’Amour.