Captain's Bride (3 page)

Julian smiled knowingly. “Come along. I think it’s
time you met the guest of honor.”

Julian skirted the dancers and headed toward the far
corner of the room, where Glory was holding court. Nicholas had to
admit she was a beauty, perfection in every way. The kind of woman
who excited him in bed but elsewhere bored him to distraction.

He eyed the group of well-dressed men surrounding
her. Her simpering beaux irritated him. Nicholas found it
humiliating for a man to make a fool of himself over a
woman
—any
woman.

Watching Gloria Summerfield being fawned over,
virtually worshiped by her young admirers, raised the hackles at
the back of Nicholas’s neck. She would probably turn out just like
Lavinia and all the other women he’d known: unfeeling,
self-centered, with the morals of an anchor rat. He found himself
determined to dislike her even before they were introduced.

Nicholas brushed past clusters of elegantly gowned
ladies as he followed Julian around the room. He didn’t miss their
appreciative glances or the invitation in several pairs of
dark-fringed eyes. As the two men neared the comer of the room,
most of the young men stepped away from the girl gowned in white,
and a last stem glance from Julian sent the handsome brown-haired
man, who seemed to be the girl’s most ardent suitor, scurrying to
the punch bowl.

“Glory, I’d like you to meet Captain Blackwell.
Nicholas, my daughter, Glory.”

Glory extended a slim hand, and Nicholas Blackwell
bowed slightly, bringing her gloved fingers to his lips. Though the
gesture appeared gallant, it somehow lacked sincerity, and Glory
wondered why.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, sir,” she said,
meaning it. Her father had been praising the virtues of Nicholas
Blackwell for as long as Glory could remember.

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Summerfield, I assure
you,” the captain said. His dark eyes roamed over her in a manner
that sent bright color to Glory’s cheeks.

“Father has spoken of you often,” she said, her hand
still in his, “always with glowing accolades. But I must confess,
Captain, I expected a much older man.”

“Then I’m sorry to disappoint you,” he said. And
Glory knew without doubt the captain knew he hadn’t. Nicholas
Blackwell was rakishly handsome, with angular features, curly black
hair, and a swarthy complexion that gave him a slightly foreign
appearance, though Glory knew him to be of English and French
Creole descent. His black evening clothes fit his tall frame
perfectly, outlining broad shoulders and tapering to narrow hips
and long lean legs.

“If you two don’t mind,” Julian said, “I believe I
need a drink. Maybe Glory could find it in her heart to grace you
with a dance, Nicholas.”

“I’m sure Miss Summerfield’s heart is already
overburdened,” he said dryly, “what with every dandy from here to
New Orleans simpering at her feet.”

Glory bristled. Her father chuckled softly and walked
away, leaving her to duel with the handsome captain alone. Still
feeling the bite of his words and rising to the challenge—the first
she’d had in what seemed like ages—Glory turned the full measure of
her charm on Nicholas Black-well, expecting him at any moment to
crumble and join the others in their adulation.

“You speak of my admirers, Captain, yet it is you who
have been ravaging the hearts of the ladies this evening. Every
woman in the room has been watching you; I’ve even caught myself a
time or two.”

“Oh, really?” He quirked a sleek black brow. “I can’t
imagine when you’d have had time.”

Glory refused to respond to the gibe. The captain
might be a little more sophisticated than her other beaux, but he
was still a man, and when it came to handling men . . . well, she
hadn’t found one yet she couldn’t manage. “I’m beginning to think
you don’t approve of a woman being courted, Captain,” she said with
a pout as she lowered her lashes.

“What I don’t approve of, Miss Summerfield, is a
woman who leads men to believe she feels something for them when in
truth she is merely using them to feed her vanity. I had hoped for
more from the daughter of a man like Julian Summerfield.”

Glory felt the high color in her cheeks, which were
suffused with an angry heat.
Why, the insolent ass
, she
fumed. No longer enjoying the game, she turned toward Eric Dixon,
who had been awaiting any indication his attention would be
welcome.

Glory forced a smile in his direction, and Eric
stepped forward, a possessive look in his hazel eyes.

“Eric Dixon,” Glory said coolly, “this is Captain
Blackwell. The captain’s an old friend of Father’s.”

“Yes, I can see exactly how
old
he is.”

Glory had told Eric of the captain’s forthcoming
visit, portraying him as a kindly older man whom her father
virtually revered. No wonder that image didn’t match the
other
stories she’d heard! The tall, dark-haired captain
with the cool gray eyes was a far cry from the kindly middle-aged
sea dog she’d expected.

Eric shook hands with an obvious lack of enthusiasm,
and Nicholas smiled thinly, barely lifting one comer of his
mouth.

“I believe this dance is ours, Glory,” Eric said,
drawing her toward the floor.

Nicholas stepped between them. “I’m sure, Mr. Dixon,
since you spend so much time with Miss Summerfield, you won’t mind
giving up a dance for an old friend of the family.” He emphasized
the word “old,” and Glory secretly fumed. The man wasn’t much older
than Eric, who was twenty-seven, though the captain had a
worldliness it took most men years to acquire.

Before Glory could protest, Nicholas Blackwell had
gripped her wrist and led her onto the floor. His other hand
settled on her waist with a casual possessiveness Glory found
infuriating. It was all she could do to control her temper as he
stepped into the strains of the waltz and whirled her unerringly
around the dance floor.

“You’re beautiful when you’re angry,” he said, “but
then, you were just as lovely before.”

“Surely, Captain, you can come up with something more
original than that.”

“Temper, temper,” he baited. “You wouldn’t want one
of your lapdogs to think I’ve insulted you. He might call me out
and wind up getting himself killed.”

Remembering whispered gossip about the captain’s
skill with the pistol, Glory stiffened and tried to pull away, but
Nicholas only tightened his hold.

“My father may find you a paragon of virtue, Captain
Blackwell, but I heard you were a rake and a rogue. I just didn’t
expect you to prove it so quickly.”

“And I heard, Miss Summerfield, you were pampered and
spoiled and in need of a man who could take you down a peg or
two.”

If he hadn’t been holding her, Glory might have
stumbled. It was all she could do to suppress the murderous glint
in her bright blue eyes.

“Smile,” he said. “Remember your lapdogs.”

“Let me go,” she said through gritted teeth. “How
Father could be so fond of you is beyond me.”

“We’ll finish the dance, Miss Summerfield; then I’ll
escort you back to your . . . friends.”

“You are the most despicable . . .”

For the first time Nicholas Blackwell allowed himself
a genuine smile. “You and I are going to get along just fine,” he
said. A wave of relief swept over him, as wel-come as an early
spring rain. He had been drawn to the young woman from the first
moment he saw her, even more so now that he had held her in his
arms. If she had warmed to him in the least, he would have been
hard pressed to stay away from her. Though he tried his best to
keep them at bay, thoughts of the graceful blonde warming his bed
still danced at the edge of his mind.

The girl was Julian Summerfield’s daughter. The only
way Nicholas could bed her would be to marry her—and that he would
not consider. It was better she loathe him, stay as far away from
him as possible.

The dance ended and Nicholas returned Glory to Eric
Dixon’s care. Her cheeks glowed with anger, but her demeanor
remained courteous. She had taken his warning to heart. At least
she wasn’t quite the unfeeling tease she appeared.

“Thank you for the dance, Miss Summerfield,” Nicholas
said with a hint of sarcasm.

“My pleasure, Captain Blackwell,” she replied with an
equal lack of sincerity.

With a last appreciative glance, Nicholas turned on
his heel and strode toward the gentlemen’s bar. The syrupy voice of
Lavinia Bond trailed him across the room.

“Good Lord, Glory, who was that man?” Miriam
All-stor, Glory’s best friend, hurried up beside her. Glory checked
her appearance in the gilt-framed mirror in her chamber and pinned
back a stray curl that had tumbled loose during a schottische she
had danced in the arms of Jack Flanagan, another of her
suitors.

“That’s Captain Blackwell, father’s friend.”

“My, God! No wonder they say he’s a rogue.”

“He’s also an arrogant jackass,” Glory said, her
temper heating up again. “The man is no gentleman, I can tell you
that.”

“He made advances to you! Oh, Glory, how exciting!
I’d simply swoon if he did that to me!” Miriam’s green eyes rolled
skyward at the mere thought.

“He did no such thing. In fact, he doesn’t even like
me. He thinks I lead men on just for my—Oh, never mind what he
thinks. Captain Blackwell is an arrogant fool.”

“Maybe. But he’s certainly an attractive man—in a
wolfish sort of way.” She grinned mischievously.

The girls left Glory’s chamber and returned to the
landing just outside the second-floor ballroom. Miriam located
Nicholas Blackwell leaning against the far wall of the room in
conversation with Lavinia Bond and several other married ladies, a
bored expression on his face.

“Lavinia certainly seems to like him,” Miriam said.
Glory followed the line of Miriam’s gaze. “Well, I don’t. I hope
Father enjoys his company, because I certainly don’t intend to
entertain the man.”

Miriam leaned over to whisper in Glory’s ear. “I
heard a rumor the captain was seen leaving Lavinia’s house early
yesterday morning. Can you imagine?”

Glory’s head snapped up. “Surely you’re
mistaken.”

“I didn’t see him. Willard Darcy did. Willard told
Sarah Hashim and Sarah told me.”

“You shouldn’t pay attention to gossip, Miriam,”
Glory said. “Besides, I don’t believe Father would invite a man
like that to our home.”

“Men don’t think like we do, Glory. I know you’re a
little naive, but—”

“I think we should change the subject, Miriam.
Captain Blackwell is our guest,” she said with feigned propriety,
but felt a surge of temper as she watched Lavinia leaning over him,
giving him an unfettered view of her lush bosom, and added, “even
if he is a . . . a
cocksman
!” Relishing the shocked
expression on her friend’s cherubic face, Glory stifled a grin.
“I’d better go now. Mark Williams has this dance. He’ll be looking
for me.” With a swish of organdy skirts, Glory left the hallway—and
her friend Miriam staring after her in wide-eyed astonishment.

At supper Glory was seated beside Captain Blackwell,
with Eric Dixon on her right. The captain barely spoke to her. Most
of his conversation was spent on Alicia Townsend, an attractive
widow from Goose Creek whose late husband had been a close friend
of Glory’s father. Alicia was quietly attractive, with an elegant
figure and thick dark brown hair. She was intelligent and a good
conversationalist. Glory found herself straining to hear what
Alicia had to say to Nicholas Blackwell. Worst of all, she found
herself slightly pricked that he was paying the pretty brunette so
much attention.

“Is something wrong, Glory?” Eric asked when the
waiter lifted her untouched bowl of she-crab soup.

“What? Oh, no, Eric. I’m just not very hungry.” The
sound of the widow’s soft laughter set her even more on edge, and
Glory wondered if it really was her vanity making her so angry.
Could one man’s lack of attention upset her so? Glory didn’t want
to believe that about herself, but what other reason could there
be?

Picking up her silver fork, she attacked her salad
greens with a little extra zeal. Whatever there was about the
infamous Captain Blackwell, Gloria Summerfield would not be
daunted. She intended to ignore him, pay him not the slightest
heed.

That was no easy task when his solid thigh
inadvertently pressed against her, or when the deep cadence of his
voice in whispered conversation with the widow drifted to her
ears.

Morning at Summerfield Manor was a joy to the
senses. Nicholas awoke to the fragrance of azaleas floating through
the open windows, the heat of the sun on his cheek. He stretched
and rolled to his side, meaning to caress the warm body next to him
but, with a start that erased the last of his hazy sleep, realized
he slept alone. No flaxen-haired beauty nestled beside him—she was
only a dream. With his mouth curved in a rueful half-smile,
Nicholas shoved back the satin cover and swung his long legs from
the huge four-poster rice bed onto the floor. A thick Tartan carpet
protected his bare feet from the coolness of the wide oak planks
beneath him.

After pouring water from the blue porcelain pitcher
into the basin on a marble-topped bureau, Nicholas performed his
usual morning ablutions, dressed in riding breeches and a crisp
linen shirt, and headed downstairs.

Glory Summerfield, in a light green chambray gown,
was seated in the dining room beside her father, their discussion
animated until Nicholas walked into the room.

“Nicholas.” Julian stood up and indicated a seat
across from Glory. Louise Summerfield was nowhere to be seen.
“Plenty,” Julian beckoned, “you may serve now.” The buxom black
woman swayed precariously, her pendulous breasts swinging with her
jaunty gait as she moved toward the door to the pantry.