Like None Other

Caroline Linden

One

Number 12, George Street was a lovely home. It was new, built only in the last ten years, and contained all the modern conveniences, with well-fitted windows and floors that only squeaked a little and chimneys with impeccable draw. It was part of a row of terraced houses, with a neat little garden out back and smart marble steps with a blue-painted iron railing in front. Emmaline Bowen loved her little home, even though it wasn’t nearly as grand as the country manor where she’d once lived as Lady Bowen. Unlike Bowen Lodge, this house was all hers. She liked being able to paint the walls any colour she liked, from the bright yellow of her small dining room to the vivid turquoise of her bedroom walls. It was a joy to open her eyes in the morning and see that blue, brighter than a robin’s egg. She often lay still for a moment, thinking that heaven must be such a colour. She said as much to her maid one morning, when the girl brought her morning tea.

“Heaven, milady?” Jane blinked suspiciously.

Emma waved one hand, leaning back against her pillows and sipping the hot tea. “Just look at the sky! Can’t you see what I mean?”

Jane peered out the window. “I see clouds. Great, rolling grey ones. The blue won’t last today.”

“You’re old before your time,” Emma told her, putting down the tea and rising from the bed. “If there are clouds on the horizon, I’d better get out and enjoy the sun while it lasts.”

“Won’t be long, from the looks of it,” muttered Jane.

Emma ignored her, going to the wardrobe and opening the doors. She took out her favourite dress, the yellow-striped morning gown with pale-green ribbons. “I’ll finish my breakfast in the garden,” she said. Jane merely nodded, with one more jaundiced glance out the window, and left. Emma shook her head as she unbuttoned her nightgown; poor Jane, to be so dour at such a young age. She must not have had a chance to learn one of life’s hard truths – that sometimes the only way to keep from raging in bitterness was to smile and laugh, even if you must force yourself to do it.

By the time she went downstairs, armoured against any greyness of the day with her bright yellow dress, Jane had put together a tray with breakfast. Carrying her own small tea tray, Emma led the way into the garden, where the sun was blindingly bright. Only if she shaded her eyes and squinted at the horizon could she see the line of grey lurking in the distance. Like the sun, she ignored those dark clouds. She set down her tray on a small table in the dazzling light.

“You’ll want a parasol, ma’am,” said Jane. “And a shawl.”

“I shall want neither,” replied Emma firmly. “I mean to enjoy the sun this morning. But since you dread the coming rain, please go open the windows to air the house before the deluge comes.”

Jane peered at the sky. “Before dinner,” she said grimly. “Thunderstorms, with lightning and flooding.”

“Go on,” said Emma, trying not to laugh. The maid cast her an aggrieved look before heading back inside. Emma settled into her seat and picked up her tea. She raised her face to the sun. Just a few minutes couldn’t freckle her complexion too badly, and she would regret missing the chance if Jane’s predictions of thunderstorms came true.

As she sat in peaceful solitude, her ears caught the clink of china and the rustle of a newspaper from over the fence. Her neighbour must also be enjoying his breakfast outdoors. A moment later a deep voice called, “Is that you, Lady Bowen?”

“Yes, Captain Quentin,” she called back. “Good morning.”

“Indeed it is, although my man assures me it will rain later.”

She smiled. “My maid predicted the same thing. Perhaps they are comparing notes before we wake.”

The sound of his chuckle drifted across the high fence. “Ah, but Godfrey looks forward to the rain. It will wash the steps so he does not have to sweep them.”

“He must mention it to Jane, who does not.”

“He will be sure to tell her about the hurricane we encountered in the Caribbean Sea.”

“Perhaps he had better not speak to her, then,” Emma replied at once. “She will be certain it is a hurricane approaching, and wish to board up the windows.”

The Captain laughed. Emma felt the rich, deep sound right through her body. Captain Quentin had a very nice laugh. It went well with his voice. It was a lovely coincidence her neighbour liked spending as much time in his garden as she did in hers. He had done so many things she had never dreamed of: sailed around the Horn of Africa, been to India, seen the fantastical creatures who lived far out at sea, weathered storms and pirates and all manner of adventure. When he asked – very politely – about her own life, Emma had to laugh, a little embarrassed. She’d had no adventures. She had married sensibly, not very happily, and never travelled more than fifty miles from Sussex. They often talked over the wall that divided their properties. The Captain would tell her about his adventures, and she would sit and listen, letting herself drift out of her quiet little life and imagine seeing what he had seen.

And if the sound of his voice sometimes seemed to weave a spell over her, and made her think he was taking her with him to these fantastic places . . . She didn’t let herself think too much about that. He was being polite and friendly, sharing his tales, and she was being an idiot, wondering what it would be like to swim in the tropical ocean. To feel the warm water – as warm as any bath, he said, and as clear and blue as the sky – sluicing over her skin. To lie on the sand and stare at the stars on a moonless night. To feel the wind on her face as they sailed into the unknown.

But that’s what she thought of, and what made her smile, safely hidden on her side of the brick wall. The Captain would never know.

“When did you encounter a hurricane?” she asked, as much to hear him talk as to know the story. “Are they really as terrible as the stories say?”

“They are worse, and yet magnificent. The ocean itself seems to turn on you, as if it would swallow you up, tear you to pieces and fling you to the corners of the world. A man discovers his true feelings about life and death when faced by a hurricane, since he is balanced perfectly between the two, and only the storm can decide which will be his lot . . .”

Emma settled back into her chair and closed her eyes.

Two

Number 14, George Street was a grim little house, with narrow stairs and low ceilings and all sorts of things meant to be conveniences, which were never very convenient. After a neat, efficient ship’s interior, Phineas Quentin could hardly believe the carelessness that obviously had gone into building this row of terraced houses in the growing city of London, for all that it was almost new. He had bought it upon his retirement from the Navy five months ago, thinking he would soon get used to being settled ashore, and instead found himself missing the ocean more than ever. He missed the wide-open sky above him, and the rolling expanse of ocean below him. He missed the camaraderie of officers aboard ship, and the regimented routine of life on a frigate. Now he found himself living mostly alone, in a dark little house, crowded right up close to its neighbours, penned in from the sun and wind like an invalid.

In fact, one thing alone had kept him from selling the house. Number 14 was directly beside Number 12, and Number 12 happened to house the loveliest woman Phineas had ever laid eyes on. Two days after he’d moved in, when crates and boxes still filled the house and he couldn’t even find the strop for his razor, she’d knocked on the door, bearing a large jar of gooseberry preserves and smiling in welcome. Phineas had opened the door in his shirtsleeves, unshaven and impatient, and been rendered speechless by the sight of her. From the top of her golden brown curls to the tips of her slippers, Lady Bowen was dazzling in the morning sun, and simply perfect in Phin’s eyes. No matter how many times he cracked his head on the too-short doorway at the end of the hall or stubbed his toe on the narrow tread where the stairs turned, he wouldn’t have sold the house for any amount of money.

With the calculation of an admiral, he had set out to learn all he could about his beautiful neighbour. Lady Bowen was the widow of a baronet, a much older man who died of a weak heart. She was too genteel to say anything against her stepson, but her maid was not, and Phin’s man Godfrey had gotten every last scrap of gossip about the new baronet. Tight with money and critical of his stepmother, Sir William Bowen had not wanted her to leave Sussex. The maid was of the opinion that the Baronet had thought to keep her under his thumb as an unpaid housekeeper and hold on to her widow’s jointure. Phin was heartily glad the man was an ogre, for it kept Lady Bowen in London, right next door to him. He liked her humour. He admired her optimistic spirit. He loved the sound of her voice and the way her hair would escape her bonnet and curl madly around her temples when she worked in the garden and he wanted to get her into his bed like he had never wanted anything else in his life.

He had known that last bit since the moment she stood on his front steps and smiled up at him with those velvet brown eyes, but he had waited these last five months to be sure he liked the rest of her. He needed to choose the right approach. If she were one sort of lady, it might be only an affair. If she were another sort, he might do well to run the other way immediately, no matter how badly he wanted to have her. But everything about Lady Bowen indicated she was another sort of lady entirely, and somewhat to Phin’s surprise, he was rather pleased when he realized it. She wasn’t the sort a man trifled with, or the sort who squeezed a man by the ballocks for fun; she was the sort a man fell in love with and married.

That was all well and good by Phineas, except that he didn’t know how to court a woman. He had flirted with many and had had a few agreeable affairs, but never had he approached a woman with such serious intent. It was daunting. Every time they talked in the garden, divided by a brick wall that came to his head, he wished he could see her face to know if she really were as interested as she sounded, or if she listened out of politeness. Even as he fell a little bit more every time he spoke to Lady Bowen, he felt less and less sure of what she thought of him.

Did she really want to know about hurricanes, he wondered now, or was it just an extension of that dreadful polite conversation about the weather? He tried his best to make his accounts of life at sea interesting, and left out all the bad parts. But he was describing a storm that had killed five members of his crew and broken his mizzenmast, and left them run aground on a sandbar for a week before they could coax their wounded ship into port. Twice he found himself straying into unpleasant details, and had to stop abruptly. The last thing he wanted to do was to shock and alarm her. If only he could see her face . . .

Then and there, Phineas decided it was time to stop talking over a garden wall. He would have to call on Lady Bowen and discover her true feelings, and what – if any – chance he had.

Three

Emma never enjoyed her mother’s visits.

Mrs Hayton arrived late that morning, just as Emma finished cleaning the parlour. She was hot and dusty when her mother appeared in the parlour door, looking as cool and dignified as ever.

“Dusting, Emma dear?” she asked with a trace of disdain.

“Yes, Mother. Someone must dust, and Jane is busy upstairs airing the beds.”

“You need more servants.”

“I have all the servants I need.” Emma pulled off her cap and grimaced as dust settled on her dress.

“No,” her mother corrected her, “you have all the servants you can afford. There is a vast difference.”

She shrugged. “Not in this case.” She set aside her cap and dusting cloth, and made herself smile. “How are you, Mother? You’re looking very well.”

“I do not have to dust my own parlour. It is far easier to look well when you haven’t got—” She tsked in dismay. “Emma, you have cobwebs in your hair.”

“They don’t hurt.” She brushed one hand over her head. “Will you take some tea?”

“Yes,” murmured her mother, a jaundiced eye still fixed on Emma’s dusty, cobwebbed hair. “Please.”

The real reason for her mother’s appearance became clear as they sat and sipped their tea in the newly cleaned parlour. “I saw Lord Norton the other day,” she remarked. “He asked me to give you his regards.”

“Thank you,” murmured Emma, steeling herself. She had heard this introduction too many times in the last two years not to know what was coming next.

“His wife died over a year ago,” Mrs Hayton went on relentlessly. “I shouldn’t think he’ll wait much longer to wed again, what with a pair of daughters in his nursery.”

“I wish him very happy.” Emma, too, could be relentless, in ignoring her mother’s hints.

“Darling, you must know he would be a fine match for you.” Mother abandoned subtlety. “He is a viscount – not an old title, ’tis true, nor the wealthiest, but a good step up from a baronet.”

“I don’t need to marry a viscount. I don’t want to marry Lord Norton.” Mrs Hayton drew breath to respond, and Emma tried to forestall her. “I am happy as I am.”

“Happy?” Her mother looked her up and down. “Dusting your own parlour and wearing last year’s fashions?”

Independent, thought Emma. Free. “Yes. I shall wear this dress until it falls apart, and I adore dusting.”

Her mother wrinkled her nose. “Nobody adores dusting, and that dress is horrid.”

“Nevertheless, I like it. And I wouldn’t marry Lord Norton if he were to show up and prostrate himself before me.” Which he wouldn’t, because Viscount Norton thought himself a great deal better than any of Emma’s family. Her mother was scheming above herself again, unflagging in her quest for better connections at any cost.

Thankfully, Jane interrupted whatever her mother might have said next. The maid tapped at the door and came in. “You’ve a caller, ma’am,” she said. “A gentleman.”

Emma blinked in surprise. Gentlemen never came to call on her. Across from her, Mother’s head came up and her eyes sharpened, like a hound scenting a fox. “Indeed,” Emma said quickly. “Who is it?”

Jane hurried over to hand her the card.

“Oh!” She gave a little relieved laugh as she read it. “Captain Quentin! Jane, you gave me such a start, when it’s only my neighbour.”

“But I never seen him in uniform,” said Jane mulishly. “He looks much finer than a neighbour ought . . .”

Mrs Hayton turned to look at Emma, eyebrows arched in enquiry. “I did not know you had a new neighbour.”

“Oh, yes. He bought Number 14 a few months ago.” Emma kept her expression placid. “A retired naval officer.”

“Is he . . .?” Mama paused, eying Emma expectantly. “Amiable?”

“Perfectly, the few times I’ve spoken to him.” She got to her feet. “I wonder why he’s come to call. Mama, would you mind—?”

“Oh yes, I really must be going.” Mrs Hayton rose with a smile. “Will you walk me out, dear?”

Emma took a deep breath. “Of course.”

They met Captain Quentin in the hall. Jane was right; he did look finer than a neighbour ought. Finer than she had expected him to look, Emma realized. He wore his uniform, which made him look very tall and impressive in her narrow hall. Although, to be honest, she had only met him a handful of times outside of their garden chats. Even though she felt fairly well acquainted with him, she had almost never seen him so clearly or so close, with his dark hair brushed neatly back, his shoulders broad in his dark-blue coat, his legs long and powerful in his white breeches. He looked overwhelmingly male, and Emma had to consciously divert her mind from that fact.

She introduced her mother to him, and then Mother left, acting suspiciously uninterested in the Captain. Emma said a quick prayer that was so, and ushered her guest into the parlour. Jane had hastily whisked away the tea tray, and Emma asked her to bring a fresh one. She didn’t know if the Captain would like tea, but she didn’t have much spirits in the house. Not that she knew he drank spirits, either. She had some port; perhaps she should offer that? But it wasn’t even noon yet . . .

She gathered her scattered thoughts. “How nice of you to call, Captain,” she said as they sat down.

“I ought to have done so much sooner.” He sat in the chair by the window, where the sun fell full and warm on him, and smiled at her. Emma felt the room tilt around her. He had blue eyes, the same blue as her heavenly bedroom walls. Her neighbour was a handsome, impressive figure of a man, much more so than she had realized. For a moment she stared, transfixed.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

She jerked her gaze away from his and smiled. “Not at all! It just seems odd to speak to you face to face. We have talked so much over the fence, and so rarely called on each other.”

“The failing is mine,” he said with a rueful laugh, “and one I mean to correct.”

Still cringing from being caught staring, Emma barely heard him. “Of course,” she said, then blushed in realization as speculative surprise lit his face. And his eyes. “I m-mean,” she stammered, “that would be lovely. Of course we should feel free to call on each other more, as neighbours.”

“Yes.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “As neighbours.”

She took a deep breath. “And as more, I hope. I do so enjoy our conversations in the garden.”

“I do, Lady Bowen.” Again he smiled at her. Fine lines crinkled around his eyes. “Very much so.”

Well. Her heart skipped a beat. Why had he called on her today? She found herself smiling back. How silly she would feel if he had merely come to tell her Jane dumped the dishwater too near his steps.

But before she could hear why he had come, the door opened. “Dear me, I seem to have forgotten my gloves,” announced Mother. Her eyes darted between the two of them. “Please forgive me.”

“Not at all, Mrs Hayton.” Captain Quentin was on his feet already.

“I was some distance down the street when I realized I didn’t have them.” She smiled prettily at the Captain. “I am so sorry to disturb your visit.”

“Of course not,” said the Captain.

“Where did you leave them?” Emma asked, trying not to glare at her mother. She should have expected this. “I didn’t see them after you left.”

“Well, let me see . . .” Mother turned her head from side to side, her eyes large and limpid. “I don’t see them – oh dear, they are my favourites, I shall be so distressed to lose them . . .”

“Nonsense,” said Captain Quentin gallantly. “They are sure to be here somewhere. Let us look for them.”

Emma, who knew very well her mother hadn’t gone anywhere other than the chair where the Captain now sat, set to work, checking the table and looking behind the chair. Under Mother’s direction, the captain looked under all the furniture and behind all the cushions. When Mrs Hayton exclaimed happily that she had found the gloves, Emma was sure Mother had slipped them out of her reticule. Then she thanked the Captain profusely, and before long she was sitting around the tea tray with them. Just as Emma knew she had intended, when she came back on such a flimsy pretence.

She didn’t waste any time getting around to her purpose, either. “How nice of you to pay a neighbourly call, Captain,” she said, smiling at him with an almost adoring air. “I’d no idea my daughter had a new neighbour.”

“Not so new,” he said, returning her smile. “I’ve lived in George Street since early spring.”

“Oh, dear!” Mother glanced at Emma with wide eyes. “And you are just now becoming acquainted?”

Emma opened her mouth to reply, but the Captain didn’t notice and spoke first. “We have spoken often, Mrs Hayton. I hold Lady Bowen in very high regard.”

Emma closed her mouth. Her mother slowly turned her head to look Emma squarely in the face, her expression slightly victorious.

“Mother, the Captain will hardly wish to sit and chatter all day with two women,” Emma said in warning. “I am sure he is a very busy man.” Her mother was at it again, and if the Captain hadn’t been present, Emma would have asked her mother to leave at once.

“Of course, dear, of course.” Mother patted her hand. “But he came to call; that must indicate some desire to converse, surely?”

Emma flushed. Too late the Captain seemed to recognize the presence of a trap; his expression grew more closed and cautious. Mrs Hayton turned to him and smiled again. “Are you enjoying this fine weather, Captain?”

The grey clouds that had alarmed Jane were just visible through the window, although sun still streamed in. Emma glanced at the Captain just in time to meet his eyes, glimmering with wry humour.

“Very much so,” he murmured.

“Until the rain comes,” said Emma.

“Thunderstorms,” added the Captain.

“Fierce ones, I understand.”

“Really, Emma, you needn’t sound so gleeful,” exclaimed her mother, and Emma almost choked on a laugh. The Captain coughed.

“I had come to issue an invitation,” he said. “My sister and her husband have secured a box for a performance of Shakespeare next week. I wondered if you would care to accompany us, Lady Bowen?”

“Well, that is a lovely invitation,” said Mrs Hayton before Emma could speak. “But I do worry that Shakespeare is too clamorous for a lady. This Mr Kean has wrought such a change on the public, with his dramatic, violent portrayals of all those tragic heroes.”

Emma gaped at her, then jerked her eyes back to her cup of tea. Oh no. Please, dear heavens, no . . .

The Captain’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Indeed.”

“I find nothing to be so enjoyable as a dinner party among friends,” Mother went on. “There one can enjoy the society of the company and not be distracted by an unruly crowd in the pit.”

“Er . . . yes,” murmured the captain, staring at her in fascination.

Emma was almost quivering with fury. “I quite enjoy the theatre as well.”

Her mother laughed, her tinkling light laugh that had enthralled so many men. “Nonsense, dear! You had dinner parties all the time in Sussex; she is the perfect hostess, Captain. Emma dear, it’s certainly time you began going about again, but discreetly. You’ve been out of society so long.”

The Captain’s smile was a bit stiff. “Of course,” he said. “A dinner party.”

“Mother,” whispered Emma between gritted teeth. “Please.”

“Just a small one would be perfectly acceptable,” Mother said, ignoring Emma. “Don’t you agree, sir?”

The Captain blinked. “Yes,” he said cautiously.

She beamed at him. “I am certain Emma would be delighted to attend.”

Emma wished she had locked the door when her mother had left. Now she had no choice but to raise apologetic eyes to the Captain, who looked almost desperate. He cleared his throat. “Would you honour us with your company, Lady Bowen? On this upcoming Saturday evening?”

She would try to explain to him tomorrow, across the garden wall. For now she just wanted to help him escape, so she could tear into her mother. “You are too kind, sir,” she murmured. “Thank you.” He turned to her mother. “And you, Mrs Hayton?” Mother cast one twinkling glance at Emma as she laughed. “Thank you, but I must decline. I am engaged at the Powells’ that evening.” Emma was sure she didn’t imagine his shoulders easing in relief. “Well.” He shuffled his feet then rose. “I should leave you to your conversation. Mrs Hayton, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Lady Bowen.” He bowed as Emma and her mother made their farewells, then left.

Four

“How dare you!” Emma whispered furiously the moment the door closed behind him. “Mother, that was unpardonably rude!”

Mother waved one hand. “Unpardonable, pish. He fancies you, my dear; who are his people? Where is he from? What are his connections?”

“He is my neighbour,” she snapped. “He is a gentleman, and that is all I know about him. I shall have to apologise tomorrow – how could you do that?”

“Emma, my dear, you are such an innocent.” Mother was unmoved. “Sir Arthur left you a pittance. You shall have to marry again, and it might as well be to a man of means and station.”

“You mean someone unlike me,” she retorted. “Because I have modest means and modest station.”

“And you don’t want to sink lower, either!” Mother rounded on her suddenly. “You don’t know what it’s like to be watched with pity and scorn,” she said in withering tones. “Wearing your clothes until they are practically rags because you can’t afford a new gown or gloves. Dusting your own parlour so you look like a servant – and then receiving a caller in that state! I want more for you, dearest, and you should, too.”

Emma met her mother’s fierce gaze. Mother’s father had been a baron, but a destitute one. Mother had told her many times how the family went hungry after her father lost at the races or the card tables. There had been no money for fine clothes or servants, and that poverty had shaped Emma’s mother into a woman of endless ambition. With her beauty she had caught one husband, Emma’s father, who was a prosperous mill owner, and then a second. Mr Hayton had been an MP, and a decent man, although thoroughly under his wife’s thumb. Even now, twice widowed and with a healthy annuity, Mother was constantly thinking how she could improve her situation, by any means necessary.

Emma had learned early on that her mother would happily use her to do it. Mother had contrived to have her compromised by a wealthy viscount, even though he was three decades older than Emma, and then tried to persuade her to seduce Mr Fitzwilliam, who had no title but owned one of the largest estates in north-eastern Sussex. In desperation Emma had wed Sir Arthur, who was kind and genial and managed to keep her mother from overrunning their lives.

“Mother, I am content as I am. I do not need a new husband so that I might wear new gowns and keep my own carriage and dine on fine china. Sir Arthur left me enough to be comfortable, as I am,” she said, raising her voice to forestall her mother’s impatient protest. “Now you have gone and manipulated Captain Quentin just for fun, and he was too polite to say nay! He is my neighbour, and a kind man, and you have humiliated me.”

Mrs Hayton cupped Emma’s cheek in her hand. “You are so like your father,” she murmured. “Satisfied with so little.”

Emma clenched her jaw. Her father had been an affectionate papa. “Is that what you were to him?” she whispered. “What I was to him?”

Mother released her. “The Captain is a handsome man,” she said, picking up her reticule. “He is young to be retired; he must have made his fortune in the wars. I shall see what I can learn about him. Do not do anything until I speak to you again.”

“My feelings, whatever they may be, wouldn’t be affected in the slightest by anything you say.”

On her way to the door, Mother glanced back at her. “You would ignore a man of fortune, right on your doorstep, just to spite me?” She shook her head. “Emma dear, sometimes I wonder how you can be my child.”

“I do, too,” she replied quietly as her mother closed the door.

Phineas walked slowly down the steps of Lady Bowen’s house. That had not gone as expected. Mrs Hayton was a beautiful woman, but Phin thought he’d be careful not to be drawn into conversation with her again. She’d manoeuvred him right into throwing a dinner party when he suspected Lady Bowen would have rather accepted his invitation to the theatre. And now he would have to go tell his sister Sarah they weren’t going to the theatre after all, but that she must help him plan a dinner at his house. He’d never done such a thing. Sarah would have such a laugh at his expense over this. Whom could he even invite? Sarah and her husband, of course; perhaps he could get his old mate Hakeham to come, and Morris and Campbell were genial fellows . . .

No, too many gentlemen. Phin felt a flutter of panic. Just Hakeham, then, and . . . and . . . he could ask his mother, he supposed, or ask Sarah to invite another lady. Instead of going on to his club, as he had planned to do, Phin jogged up the steps of his own home and let himself in. “Godfrey!”

“Yes, sir?” Godfrey stepped promptly from the dining room.

“Plan a dinner party,” Phin told him, flexing his fingers and cracking his knuckles as he thought. “For Saturday next.”

“Yes, sir. Shall I send notes around to the usual guests?”

He meant Hakeham, Morris, Campbell and some other men who had been with them in the Navy, Phin’s usual companions. Phin squared his shoulders. “No. There will be ladies present.” Godfrey’s eyes flickered in the direction of Number 12, and he went a shade paler. “Yes, that lady,” Phin told him. “Clean the house from top to bottom. Send to Lady Stanley if you need any plate or advice or . . . anything. And, for God’s sake, get Smithy sobered up to cook a decent meal.”

“Truly, sir? A dinner party?”

Phin nodded. Lady Bowen had looked lovelier than ever today, her chestnut hair a little mussed and her pink gown that looked soft and worn. She was a beauty, but not a hard, polished one. Phin preferred a woman who looked natural and comfortable rather than a woman who looked arranged and artful, as if she would crumble the first time a man embraced her. He had spent far too much time already thinking about embracing Lady Bowen, but Phin wanted to court her properly. If he had to throw a damn dinner party to do that, so be it. As his man hurried off to carry out his orders, Phin took a deep breath. It was like the preparation to set sail, making sure the supplies were ordered and the men instructed on their duties. But he was in charge of setting the course.

Five

Emma tried at once to rectify the situation. The next morning, she was up early, and rushed into the garden, hoping he would be there. As soon as he came out, she called over the wall to him. “Good morning, Captain.”

“Good morning, Lady Bowen.” He sounded as cordial as ever.

Emma said a quick prayer he wasn’t holding Mother’s actions against her. “I must speak about yesterday, when you called—”

“Yes, I enjoyed it very much. It was a pleasure to make your mother’s acquaintance.”

He was a good liar, she thought. It had been a nightmare from her point of view. She forced herself to go on. “I must apologise for her behaviour, though. To suggest you throw a dinner party—”

“But no, my dear,” he protested, and Emma paused. “My dear Lady Bowen. I am delighted you agreed to join our party – it will be a small gathering, just my sister and her husband, my mother and an old friend of mine from my Navy days.”

Emma pushed aside the little flicker of interest in the way he’d called her ‘my dear’ before adding her name. She tried not to recall her mother’s blunt assessment of the Captain’s regard for her. She said the only thing she could say. “I’m sure it will be lovely. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

The dinner was almost a success.

Phin had prevailed upon his mother to act as hostess, since his sister couldn’t stop smirking when she looked at him. Mama had raised her eyebrows when he asked, and he knew Sarah had already told her why he was throwing together a party on such short notice. But Mama merely smiled and said it was good to see him taking an interest in society at last, and agreed.

Godfrey polished the dining room to a sparkle, and laid the table with Sarah’s second-best china and silver. He impressed upon Smithy, the cook, that his employment hung on this dinner. Phin was relieved by the succulent smells that filled the house as Saturday evening approached. Godfrey brushed and pressed his best coat, and Phin dressed with care. He hadn’t been this nervous even when the admiral had come aboard his ship.

Then Sarah and her husband arrived, Sarah still delighted by the image of Phin infatuated with his neighbour, and Gregory flashing Phin a glance of wry sympathy. Hakeham arrived, as good-natured and discreet as ever, and then his mother. Mama cast a critical eye over the arrangements, and then gave a satisfied nod. Phin kissed her cheek. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“You know you have only to ask, Phineas. I cannot wait to meet the lady who has inspired you.”

He’d told his mother all about Lady Bowen. Phin pulled out his pocket watch again and checked the time. “Perhaps I shall go escort her,” he said. “Would that be acceptable?”

Mama smiled. Sarah tried to hide her laughter in a cough. “Go fetch her, Phineas.”

Emma tried not to attribute too much to the evening. She wore her best dress, a glazed cotton with embroidered hem, and her favourite shawl. Her mother had called the day before, clearly ready to tell all she had learned about the Captain, and for once Emma refused to see her. She pleaded a headache and locked her bedroom door. She didn’t want Mother to pollute her impression of the Captain or his guests. She didn’t want to have her head stuffed with Mother’s talk of advantageous matches and how to seduce the Captain, if he were good enough for Mother’s requirements. She still felt a burn of humiliation over the way Mother had acted, and resolved to be as polite and restrained as possible, to prove she wasn’t like that.

But as she went down the stairs, her heart ignored all her sense and sped up.

Then she opened the door, and jumped back in surprise. The Captain himself stood on her doorstep, hand raised as if to knock. He looked as surprised as she.

Emma pressed one hand to her bosom and gave a shaky laugh. “I beg your pardon.”

“No, no!” He looked abashed. “I merely thought to escort you.”

Emma could see his front steps from the corner of her eye. “It is only twenty feet or so . . .” He looked to his steps and gave her a rueful smile, looking up at her from under his brows like a boy. Her silly heart bumped again. “But it is so kind of you,” she finished a bit shyly. “Thank you.”

He extended his arm and they walked down her steps, covered the short distance between the houses, and then up his. A servant was waiting to open the door, standing stiffly at attention. Emma had seen him chatting with Jane over the railings. He took her shawl, then the Captain led her to the drawing room, where he introduced his other guests. Lieutenant Hakeham, a charming, merry fellow, had sailed with Captain Quentin. Viscount Stanley was married to the Captain’s sister, Lady Stanley, who greeted Emma with warm enthusiasm. It was Mrs Quentin, the Captain’s mother, who gave Emma the most pause. She was tall and regal, and seemed to size Emma up with one glance. But her greeting was polite enough, and then Lady Stanley took over the conversation, chattering gaily.

“How wonderful you could join us tonight,” Lady Stanley said, drawing Emma apart. “I understand you are a gardener; my brother has often mentioned how lovely your garden is.”

“Oh,” said Emma, glancing at the Captain. He was talking with his mother, but watching her. Good heavens, he looked attractive in his evening clothes. His dark hair gleamed with lighter streaks in the candlelight, but his eyes were as blue as she remembered. Emma had to drag her eyes away. “Indeed.”

“Oh, indeed!” Lady Stanley exclaimed. “I vow, he has described a veritable Garden of Eden! You must share your secrets.”

“Oh,” said Emma again. “It’s really not so grand; it is only a small city garden, after all.”

Lady Stanley laughed. “To Phin, any patch of trimmed grass looks grand, after all his years at sea. Tell me, do you have roses? Our gardener does not like them, but I so long for some pink ones.”

Emma smiled, glad for a safe subject. She could still feel the Captain’s gaze on her back, like the heat of a fire. It warmed her even as she talked, with relief, of roses and gardens until they went in to dine.

Six

It wasn’t until dessert was served that everything went wrong.

Emma had excused herself to the necessary, and then took some time trying to pin up her hair again. The dinner had been marvellous, expertly prepared and served by the Captain’s man with astonishing speed and economy of movement; when the Captain mentioned Godfrey had been with him in the Navy, Emma understood why. All her fears about being out of place had evaporated in the easy atmosphere as the conversation flowed like wine – rich and mellow. The Quentins were an affectionate family, and it made Emma’s heart swell to see how the Captain was so easy and relaxed with his sister and his mother. It was exactly the sort of familial scene that had been so lacking in her own life, with her mother constantly worried about how such familiarity would appear.

In fact, the conversation at dinner had been so animated and lively, half her hair seemed to have slipped its pins as she laughed. As she twisted curls back into place, she caught a glimpse of her expression in the mirror. Her colour was high, her eyes bright, and her lips seemed stuck in a slight smile. Even with her hair verging on untidy, she looked rather nice, much to her relief.

It was only for female pride that she wanted to look nice, of course. She was not putting stock in what her mother said, nor taking her mother’s advice to pursue the Captain. She was just enjoying his company, and he was even more interesting without a wall between them. As he related some story, with frequent asides from Lieutenant Hakeham, about fishing in the Caribbean, Emma found herself drifting away as she always did when he spoke, and his rich tenor voice carried her imagination away to some faraway place. Only when she caught Lady Stanley watching her curiously did she recall where she was.

Her hair repaired, her heart light, she walked back to the dining room. As she reached the door, Godfrey slipped out, a laden tray in his hands. When he saw her, he bowed crisply, despite his tray, and left the door unlatched. “Thank you,” Emma murmured, moving aside to let him pass. She reached out to let herself back into the dining room.

“It’s her connection to Mrs Hayton that concerns me.” Mrs Quentin’s voice, though not raised or angry, carried through the partly closed door. Emma froze. “Phineas, her mother is quite beyond the pale. Her ambition is no secret to anyone – indeed, she does not try to hide it. I warrant she took one look at you and rated you a fine catch in terms of wealth, station and advantage.” Emma closed her eyes as each word struck home. “You mustn’t let yourself be taken in.”

The Captain’s reply was too low to hear, but Emma didn’t even try. It was bad enough that her mother’s scheming was widely known, and now presented to the Captain. He would have heard of it sooner or later, most likely. The Bowens had come to despise Mother because of her ceaseless manoeuvring for every little scrap of status. Her stepson William had refused to allow Mother at Bowen Lodge after his father died, not even for the funeral. He’d said he couldn’t bear to watch her try to catch a third husband over the cold meats, and Emma couldn’t argue against it. Her mother was shameless.

Quietly she turned and walked away. She should just leave. Emma didn’t want to know what the Captain himself might think of her now; her mother’s behaviour the other day could only have confirmed Mrs Quentin’s words. Perhaps if she stayed out of her garden for the next few weeks, the Captain would believe she hadn’t been scheming to marry him. Except . . . Oh, how she would miss him.

But the door opened before she had gone more than a few steps. “Lady Bowen,” said the Captain behind her. “Wait. Please, wait!”

“I must go,” she said in a rush, barely glancing back. “A sudden headache . . . I don’t wish to spoil everyone’s evening . . .”

“Wait,” he said again, firmly. He was already beside her, and took her arm. “I must have a word before you go.”

“Your guests,” she tried to protest.

“They can wait.” He pushed open the door to a small room. When he closed the door behind them, there was only cool, bright moonlight to see by, but she had no trouble making out his frown.

“You heard what my mother said.” He wasn’t asking.

Emma avoided his gaze. “You mustn’t think I am offended. She is, in general, correct; you saw for yourself how my mother can twist things to suit her.”

The Captain turned away and put his hands through his hair. “Damn.”

“But I wouldn’t want you to think I came tonight because my mother wished it,” Emma forged on.

He wheeled around. “Why did you come?”

“Be-because . . . I . . .” she stammered. “Because I wanted to.”

Relief swept over his face, and his shoulders sagged. “Why?” he asked quietly.

Her lips parted. “Because of our friendship,” she whispered. “Oh, I really must go.”

“No!” He lunged for the door at the same moment she did. His hand closed over hers on the doorknob. Emma froze. He was so close, his hand so large and strong over hers. She could smell his soap, and the wine on his breath. “One more question,” he murmured, his cheek right next to hers. “Just for friendship?”

Emma breathed deeply. She couldn’t think, not when he was so close. He must feel how he affected her, not at all like a friend. She didn’t say anything.

With careful hands he turned her to face him. “I should go,” she whispered again, without making any effort to leave. He just looked down at her with those blue, blue eyes. As he raised his hand, his knuckles brushed the outside of her breast. Emma sucked in her breath; her whole body flinched. The Captain paused, his eyes searching hers, and then he slowly brushed his knuckles deliberately over the same spot. This time Emma gasped. Her heart pounded against her ribs, and her knees felt weak. Still watching her, Captain Quentin lowered his head and kissed her.

It was a kiss like no other. His mouth was hot and sweet, flavoured with burgundy and passion. It took Emma off guard, and for a moment she leaned into him, opening to him and letting him deepen the kiss. For a moment everything else fell away, and she was carried away again by the spell he seemed to weave over her so effortlessly. This was no fantasy or flight of fancy; this was his arm around her, his mouth on hers, and her body straining into his.

But, as always, the spell broke. He lifted his head and Emma crashed back to earth. She was kissing him while his family sat a few rooms away, thinking she was laying a trap for him with her mother’s help. She had only ever spoken politely and properly with the Captain, and had no idea what his real intentions towards her were. And she hadn’t kissed a man since Sir Arthur died four years ago. For all she knew, those years had made her awkward and susceptible, too easily swayed by the most magnificent kiss she’d ever experienced.

She backed up a step, pressing her hands to her burning cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. He said nothing, just looked at her with a slightly dazed expression. “Please make my excuses.”

“Don’t go,” he said, as she pulled open the door. Emma just shook her head and fled.

Phin let her go. He wasn’t sure he could walk. His body had reacted with joyous alacrity when she opened her lips under his, and now he was so aroused, it hurt. He also wasn’t sure what to do. Perhaps his thoughts would clear when he could think of something other than the feel of her in his arms. That moment seemed a long time off.

He’d thought things were going rather well at dinner. Lady Bowen – Emma – appeared to enjoy herself, joining in the conversation and laughing when Sarah teased him about something. Phin had to work at keeping his eyes away from her. She was beauty itself in a dark-green gown that shimmered in the light, her dark hair piled in loose curls that made his fingers itch to unpin them. And when she excused herself from the table, Sarah had immediately turned to him.

“Oh, Phin, she likes you,” his sister hissed in delight. “Are you planning to propose?”

“Sarah,” murmured Gregory.

Sarah waved him off. “Are you, Phin? She seems very sweet and not at all proud.”

Phin had thought exactly the same thing, and been opening his mouth to say “yes” when his mother raised her hand in protest, and condemned Mrs Hayton. “You don’t want to get taken in,” she added gently.

But Phin had seen a shadow at the door. “Bite your tongue, Mama,” he had growled, and then run after Emma.

He hadn’t planned to kiss her. He had planned to be proper and polite all night. But the moment intervened, and left him more certain than ever that he wanted Emma as his wife.

“Sir?” Godfrey tapped at the door. Phin started out of his thoughts. “Do you need anything?”

Just her, he thought bleakly. “No.”

“Shall I bring the port to the table?”

Phin adjusted his trousers and sighed. “Yes.” Bring the damn port so he could bundle his guests out the door, and he could puzzle out what to do next about the luscious Emma Bowen.

Seven

Emma rushed out of the Captain’s house and ran up her own front steps. She banged on her door until Jane answered, and then rushed up the stairs to her room. She ignored her maid running up the stairs behind her, squawking in concern. Emma threw open her bedroom door and slammed it behind her, turning the key in the lock with shaking hands.

“Madam! Lady Bowen!” Jane thumped on the door, her voice sharp with fear. “Are ye ill? Should I send for a doctor?”

“No!” She pressed her hands to her face; the blush was still hot on her skin. “I’m fine, Jane. Never mind. You can go on to bed.”

Jane knocked again. “You’ll need help with your gown.”

“Not now I don’t! Leave me be,” Emma said sharply. There was a surprised hush, then Jane left, her footsteps almost drowning out the sound of her muttered indignation.

Emma paused and slowly raised her hand. She laid her palm against the wall, her heavenly blue wall. The plaster was cool and solid beneath her hand. His house would be the opposite of hers, the plans mirror images. If he had taken the best bedroom for his own, as she had done, it would lie directly on the other side of this wall. She took a deep, shaky breath, thinking of him undressing just feet away, separated only by a foot of plaster and brick.

And he wanted her.

She thought of his voice, smooth and strong, sliding over her like a caress. She thought of his hand, so large and strong, taking hers. She thought of his lips, brushing sensuously over hers.

He wanted her.

She touched the neckline of her gown; her fingers drifted along the puckered fabric. Gently she touched the swell of her breast and shivered. It had been a long time since anyone had touched her breast. Sir Arthur had thought it unseemly, even in the marriage bed. She didn’t think the Captain would hesitate to touch every inch of her, in bed. The heat in his gaze, when his hand had accidentally brushed her breast, was impossible to forget – and then he had deliberately done it again, watching her as he did so. Emma knew her body had betrayed her, even if her face had not, and that he was aware of her reaction. He wouldn’t have kissed her if he hadn’t been sure. She stroked her breast again, imagining it was his hand that touched her, and a sharp tingle raced through her.

She wanted him.

The blue walls around her might have been the reflection of his eyes, surrounding her, watching her. Alone in her room, she admitted to herself that she had been half in love with the Captain for some time now – the Captain, with his easy laugh and deep voice and the way he could describe a hurricane and make it sound as exciting and as sensual as it was dangerous and frightening. She had known anxiety and fear, but never with any exhilaration, and never with such high stakes as the Captain had experienced, with his very life caught between the storm’s tempest and his own skill as a mariner. Emma didn’t want to experience a hurricane on a ship in the middle of an ocean, but maybe, just once, she should risk a tempest of some sort. She had been quiet and sensible her whole life, trying so hard not to be like her brash, calculating mother. She had married a quiet, sensible man, and they had lived a quiet, sensible life together. There had been no excitement, only a calm contentment, with Sir Arthur. Emma didn’t once think it would be that way with Captain Quentin – with Phineas.

She went to her window, overlooking the garden where they had talked so frequently, and sat for a long time, thinking. When the clock chimed midnight, she pushed open the casement. It squeaked as it swung open, and she braced her hands on the frame, then leaned out to take a deep breath. She could smell the roses from her garden, and the jasmine from his. It was a sweet, wild scent, hinting of exotic lands and adventures. The jasmine had been there when he bought the house, but Emma thought it suited him. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, feeling something a bit wild and sweet stir within her.

Then she gave a huff of laughter. After the way she had run out on him, Captain Quentin probably thought her mad, or else repulsed by his declaration. “Blast,” Emma said, shaking her head. “What a fool I am.”

“Lady Bowen?”

Emma started violently, banging her elbow on the window frame as she leaped backwards. Her heart nearly stopped. “Captain!” she exclaimed. “I . . . Forgive my language . . . I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t realize you were there . . .” Her voice petered out, which perhaps should have happened sooner. Silently, Emma grimaced and bounced her fist off her forehead. Now he would think her mad and a slattern.

“I have heard far worse language, and I beg your forgiveness,” came his sombre reply. “I should have spoken as soon as I heard your window open.” He paused. “I confess, I was hoping to talk to you.”

Something about the way his voice dropped as he made that confession sent a shudder through her. He had been hoping to talk to her. Perhaps this way was best, when she couldn’t see him and he couldn’t see her. Emma wet her lips. “I am sorry for the way I left this evening.”

“I am sorry you were driven to it,” he answered instantly. “Please accept my deepest, humblest apology for what happened—”

“No,” she said softly. “I liked it.” There was a long moment of silence. The night breeze stirred the jasmine, and Emma filled her lungs with sweet wildness. “I was . . . startled.”

“I know,” he murmured. “I should not have . . .”

“Should I have been startled?” she asked when he stopped. “I have looked forward to our every conversation, and wished you were in your garden even more often. I have dreamed of the things you describe to me, and I can hear your voice in those dreams. I have kept those things to myself, not wishing to ruin our friendship, never dreaming you meant more. Have I been blind?”

“No. You have been everything a lady should be.”

“But now I wish to discover what a woman should be,” she whispered.

For a moment all was silent. “I am going into my garden,” he said. “And unlocking the gate in the wall.”

Emma’s heart skipped a beat. She had forgotten about that gate; it was small and narrow, and she had planted roses in front of it last year, never thinking she would use it. The thorns would probably rip her dress to shreds . . . but changing would mean waiting for Jane to come help her. Besides . . . She smoothed her trembling hands over her skirt. It was only a dress, sensible and modest. Without stopping to think about anything else, she crossed the room, unlocked her door and hurried down the stairs.

Eight

Straining his ears, Phin heard the faint sound of her door opening. Good God, she was going to meet him. Without pausing even to put his coat back on, he rushed out of his room and bounded down the stairs. Godfrey met him in the hall, looking alert.

“Something wrong, Captain?”

“No, nothing,” said Phin as he pushed past him. “I’m going to get some air.”

“At midnight, sir?” said Godfrey in surprise.

“Yes. You can go to bed.” Phin paused, thinking. “In fact, go now. Take a glass of port. Take the bottle. And whatever you do, don’t set foot in the garden.” Leaving his astonished man, he strode through the house to the rear door, unlatched it and stepped out into the night.

He knew Emma spent hours in her garden, weeding and pruning and even talking to her plants. Phin would sit quietly and listen, picturing her at work, her arms stretched overhead . . . or on her knees . . . or bending over to pick the flowers . . . Phin had peered over the wall a few times, and seen the bower she cultivated. His garden was nothing compared to hers. There had been a linden tree and some climbing vine growing there when he moved in and, since Phin had no talent with plants, that was all that grew there now. As he pulled aside the overgrown vines to get to the tiny connecting door, he realized the vine was flowering, with masses of small white flowers that gave off a faint sweet scent. When he dragged the door open, a shower of flowers rained down on him. He was still brushing them from his shoulders and hair when she appeared in the doorway.

For a moment she just stood there, watching him. Phin could only stare back. She still wore her evening dress, the dark-green fabric black in the night. Moonlight gilded her shoulders and hair with a silvery light. “Emma,” he whispered.

She stepped forwards, into the shadows, through the door. “Good evening.”

Great God. She was here, in the moonlit garden, with him, just as he had fantasized about. Now what should he do? Probably not seize her and carry her inside to his bed, which was where his fantasies usually led. “Thank you,” he said lamely. “For coming out.”

Her smile began in her eyes, then her lips curved and a faint dimple appeared in her cheek. “Is that all you wished to tell me?”

“To tell you?” he repeated. “No, there is a great deal more I want to tell you . . . But first . . .” He stepped closer. Her head fell back as she looked up at him, and a lock of her hair slipped free and fell across her shoulder. Phin reached out and wound it around his finger. Her eyes half closed and her lips parted on a soundless sigh of want. He shuddered, sliding his hand around the back of her neck, digging his fingers into her glorious curls, and lowering his head to hers.

The kiss began gently. His lips brushed hers, and Emma shivered. He must have thought she was cold, for his arms went around her, enveloping her in the warm, male scent of him. Through the thin linen of his shirtsleeves she could feel his muscles flex and bunch as he pulled her closer, and Emma moaned softly. She slid her hands up the front of his waistcoat, anchoring herself to him as his mouth slanted over hers, more demanding, coaxing, seductive. This was a tempest she could lose herself in, most willingly . . .

“Captain,” she whispered as his kisses drifted over her temple.

“Call me Phin.” His breath stirred her hair, and she shivered again.

“Phin.” He smiled when she said his name, a masculine, hungry smile. His hands slid down her back, curving her spine until her body pressed against his. Emma tried not to gasp aloud as her breasts flattened against him. Against her belly she could feel his erection, growing harder by the minute, and this time she had to bite her lip to keep from moaning. He wanted her as much as she wanted him.

“Phin,” she said again, trying to keep hold of her fraying thoughts. “I should tell you . . . What your mother said . . .”

“I don’t want to talk about my mother or your mother.” He was kissing the side of her neck now. Emma tilted her head, shamelessly begging for more.

“But my mother is ambitious, even grasping. She . . . oh my . . . She coerced you into having a dinner party . . .”

“Emma,” he said, his voice low and ragged, “if she’d suggested I host a circus in my parlour for you, I would have done it. If she said I could call on you only if my connections were good enough, I would have lined up every relation and friend I have, just to ensure I could see you.”

“But you can see me any time,” she protested.

“That’s not what I want, with a wall between us.” He kissed her brow, smoothing her hair back. “I want to see you like this.”

“Phin.” She slid her hands around his neck, making him look at her. “You didn’t need to appease my mother to see me.”

He paused. “No?”

Emma blushed. “I didn’t spend so much time in my garden before you arrived.”

He blinked, smiled and then threw back his head and laughed. “And I’ve been plotting a careful campaign to seduce you.”

“You have been, all this time,” she said. “With just the sound of your voice.”

“Really.” Interest sparked in his face. “Just my voice?”

“Yes,” Emma admitted. “And your tales of adventure and danger in foreign lands. I would imagine I was there with you.”

Phin laughed. “Well! That is good to know. For I have a tale of adventure to tell you, my darling Emma, and, while there will be no danger or foreign lands, I plan to seduce you most thoroughly, and with more than my voice.”

She smiled up at him as he gathered her into his arms once more. “I’ve been waiting months for that adventure.”

“It will be like none other,” he promised. He kissed her again, bearing her back into the jasmine, and a shower of tiny blossoms covered them both.

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