The Pirate Captain - By Kerry Lynne Page 0,167

She was beginning to think this entire venture had been a bad idea. Worse yet, he acted as though it had all been her idea.

She had barely turned when the bell in the hall sounded, announcing it was time to dress for supper, Sally entering on cue. Behind her trailed a small legion of assistants, bearing a dress and all the necessities to render Cate presentable.

By most standards, the gown that was laid out on the bed was a simple one, but it was the noblest Cate had worn in a very long time: striped dimity, cream and azure, over a floral petticoat. She stood in the middle of the maids as they buzzed about like skirted bees, tugging, tying, and pinning, often with conflicting instructions: “Stand straight,” “Bend over,” “Put your foot here,” or “Don’t move.” A stomacher pinned, filet lace apron tied, a few plucks at her hair, a black ribbon at her throat, and she was declared ready.

Cate turned to the mirror and a complete stranger stared back. It only added to the sense of disorientation suffered since Harte had whisked her out of the tavern. She glanced over her shoulder toward the balcony and the long shadows of the garden beyond. Somewhere out there, Nathan was waiting. She wondered if he would approve of what he saw, or if the accusation and mistrust exhibited as he went over the rail would only deepen.

Any further thoughts were cut short by Sally’s urging her out the door.

Once again in the downstairs foyer, Cate stalled at hearing voices echo from the drawing room. Gathering her nerve, chanting, “Only be a little longer,” she made her entrance.

Supper at Lady Bart’s was apparently the social height of the region and her guests dressed accordingly. The sight brought Cate instant flashes of being at Court. Not near so grand, the opulence was shocking against anything she had experienced in nigh a decade. Nothing so trivial as a tropical evening had dampened the guests’ verve for style. Swirling hooped skirts, ruffles and flounces, flaring coattails and deep cuffs, it was a riot of vibrant colors of satin and silk, brocade, moiré, and taffeta. As they craned their necks to see who had entered, their rice-powdered faces looked like a covey of ghosts. Seeing it was only her, they returned to their conversation. Harte materialized at her side to seize her hand.

“I was so distressed that you might be too indisposed to join us,” he murmured fervently over her knuckles.

Cate felt a surge of compassion for Harte’s valet; the poor man must have been exhausted. The Commodore’s linens were fresh, his jacket brushed and uncreased, and the bow at the back of his head as crisp as ever a ribbon could hope.

Cate forced a smile, while attempting to graciously extricate her hand. Taking no notice of her intent, Harte tucked it into his elbow. She made her curtsey before Her Ladyship on his hand.

The furniture had been cleared in order to make room for the grandeur, and so the guests milled about in small clusters while waiting for the dining room doors to open. Even in her new finery, Cate felt like a brown wren among the peacocks. She shifted first on one foot then the other at Harte’s side. As uncomfortable as she found him on a personal level, she was grateful for his presence. For the first time in her life she felt protected by the Royal Navy. Erect and square-shouldered, in his navy and buff, bullioned epaulets and ornaments of commendations gleaming under the chandeliers, his resplendency deflected the stares.

The crystal cup thrust in Cate’s hand contained a punch of some sort, with rum. Ah, well. There seemed to be no way of avoiding it in the West Indies. It was both fruity and spicy, and most particularly, cool. It was delectable. Her tension drained with each sip, the twirling sensation she suffered earlier being replaced by a pleasant lightheadedness.

Her uneasiness abated somewhat. It wasn’t as though she was without social skills. Although she was rusty, it wasn’t difficult: a smile, a nod, murmur some inconsequential something on the rare occasion when addressed. The problem lay in the fact that such parlor skills were not her nature. Standing next to Roger, the cold disapproval from the women was easily managed. Jealousy was rarely a good color on anyone. While she observed the women, however, she looked up several times into an emerald haze of him watching her. She smiled faintly and

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