The Pirate Captain - By Kerry Lynne Page 0,169

depend on one’s categorizations,” he said under the table’s chatter. He scanned the table briefly. “A few are just arrived from Barbuda, here for the season.”

Cate nodded knowingly, in spite of not having the foggiest what “the season” might entail. Days? Weeks? Months?

“A few more are somewhat more of a permanent arrangement, having arrived months ago,” Harte said with open disapproval.

From the corner of her eye, Cate saw Mrs. Big Wig, fork gone forgotten in her hand as she craned an ear. Out of open malice, Cate lowered her voice further, obliging Roger to lean nearer yet.

“Has Her Ladyship not heard of putting a pineapple on the bed?” she asked.

Roger hesitated, and then unsteadily laughed at the tradition of using the celebrated symbol of hospitality as a means to inform a guest of having overstayed their welcome.

Perhaps the thought of being so handily excused struck too closely.

“And pray, how long do you plan to visit?” Cate’s question had been meant as a jest, but a poor one. Her cheeks heated. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to be forward.”

“Not at all.” Harte was so much more handsome when he genuinely smiled as he did then. “The lodgings in Hopetown are insufferably dreary. Lady Bart has been kind enough to indulge me of her hospitality.”

For a fraction, Cate felt sorry for him.

“Have you known Lady Bart long?” she asked.

Momentarily distracted by something said down the table, Roger seemed surprised by the question. “Yes, I made her acquaintance some years ago, shortly upon my arrival to the West Indies. I met her husband first, of course, but since I have come to consider myself a friend.”

Glancing toward his hostess, he smiled with the same regard one would show toward an eccentric aunt. “Bart can be trying, but she is a dear.”

Time passed. Dinner dragged. The room became oppressive, in spite of the opened doors and windows, and bank of fans overhead, operated by a doe-eyed slave boy in the corner. Rivulets of moisture trickled from under the wigs, leaving flesh-colored paths on the rice powder. The heat combined with perfume, sweat, and pickled eel brought a prickle between Cate’s shoulder blades. Wondering if her cheeks were as red as they felt, she looked up into Roger’s intense green look. Good heavens. Surely he didn’t think her flush was on his account.

Attempts on the part of Lord Whatever-His-Name to catch Cate’s eye were easily ignored. Directly at her elbow, however, Fordshaw’s efforts were not. Such a dandyish sort, she wondered what he could possibly want with her or any woman, for that matter. At one point, his foot came down on hers, the slippered toe brushing her ankle. The side of his leg came against hers. Soon after, his forearm pressed her, with a meaningful look from the corner of his eye.

Cate was opting between a fork into Fordshaw’s hand, a well-aimed spoonful of aspic to the face—or better yet, her entire plate—or a more overt table knife to the ribs, when Roger turned to direct a footman. Fordshaw took the opportunity to lean close enough for his breath to be warm on her neck.

“I wish you joy of your escape.” He lifted his wine glass to his mouth, cupping the curve of the glass as if it was a breast, and ran the tip of his tongue suggestively along its rim. “Might I offer you something in the way of further condolences in your hour of need?”

Inwardly seething, Cate lifted her glass as if in a toast. She batted her lashes with all the charm and innocence she could muster, and said through a frozen smile, “Touch me again, and I’ll cut off your cock with this table knife, just as I did that pirate while he slept.”

The dainty laugh Cate added at the end, as if having just heard something witty, drew Roger’s attention. He scowled at Fordshaw, now pale under his powder. Fordshaw smiled unsteadily then made a great show of shifting both his chair and attention away.

“I say, Diggie,” said Lord Peach-Moiré called from the far end as the cloth was pulled for dessert. “Where did you say Lord Creswicke’s intended is to land?”

“I didn’t,” Roger said somewhat dryly, pleased when all ears turned his way. “She’s destined for her aunt's home.”

He rolled a sip of wine in his mouth, ostensibly appreciating its bouquet, but actually allowing the suspense to build.

“Here!” Lady Bart cried, beaming. “She’s to come here. The poor child is my niece.”

Caught in mid-sip, Cate choked. Sputtering,