The Scoundrel and I - Katharine Ashe Page 0,13
do. Best if you pick out the bits you need yourself.”
“But—”
“I can’t be counted on to get it right.”
“Captain, I find it hard to believe that a victorious naval commander could not accomplish such a small task without assistance.”
She wouldn’t be the only one.
He went toward her, forcing a jaunty grin. “Trust me on this, Gabrielle. It ain’t going to be quite as easy as knocking on Uncle Frederick’s door.”
“It is not. Why not?”
He glanced at her gown that had seen better days. Many better days. And yet in the simple frock that displayed her curves without embellishments of laces and whatnot, she looked as sweet to him as a mango tree after a westbound crossing.
But Bishop Frederick Baldwin would take one look at her and turn up his nose.
“My uncle don’t like people he don’t know coming into his house.”
“Doesn’t know.”
“And he doesn’t go out much. I’ve got an idea of where he’ll be two nights from now, though, and I can introduce you. Then you won’t be a stranger. Have you got a ball gown?”
“A ball gown?”
“You know the sort of thing, a fancy dress for—”
“I know what a ball gown is, Captain. For what, pray tell, do you suppose I would ever require such a garment?”
He lifted his brows. “Attending balls?”
Her lush pink lips went perfectly flat. He wanted to kiss them. He wanted to take those lips beneath his and taste every flavor of her sassy mouth. By God, his pulse was flying at ten knots and he wasn’t even touching her.
Touching her in that manner, however, was not in the cards for him.
Cards.
Blast it.
Also, she was looking at him like he was a blockhead.
“I suspect I am as likely to have a ball gown, Captain, as you are. Unless you are hiding an interesting secret beneath that coat.”
He bit back a grin. “No ball gown, then?”
“No ball gown.” She was obviously fighting her own smile.
“I’ve got an idea.”
Chapter Four
With a quick grin and a “Trust me,” the captain disappeared into the rain.
He did not reappear that day. Elle had no confidence that he would ever reappear, and no conviction that she wanted him to. And she most certainly did not trust him, no matter that the king and Admiralty obviously did. Only one man had ever deserved her trust, and he was now in heaven.
The following day she invited her friends to the shop to read Lady Justice’s latest installment.
“A sweet tongue and a soft caress,” Mineola read aloud for the fourth or fifth time, a quiver of excitement in her voice.
“That rules you out, Elle,” Adela said with a wry smile.
“That isn’t fair, Adela,” Esme said, stroking her fingertips along the edge of Charlie’s desk. “Elle offered both a sweet tongue and soft caresses to Mr. Josiah Brittle Junior.”
“Until he married that rich Scottish papermaker’s daughter.”
“And broke Elle’s heart.”
“And left her determined never to fall in love again, which is the most foolish part of it all.” Minnie’s lower lip poked out. “Really, Elle, you must relent someday.”
“If Peregrine appeared at the door of this shop at this very moment,” Esme said, “I suspect Elle would leap headfirst into love.”
Elle pursed her lips. “You three are a pack of romantic ninnies. If Peregrine did ever appear in this shop—”
The shop door opened and four pairs of eyes went to it, three hoping the caller would be arrogant, aristocratic, and named Peregrine. Elle hoped for a naval hero, despite herself.
Instead the caller was a man of about five decades, rather short, dressed neatly, possessed of a ramrod straight spine, with skin even more deeply tanned than Captain Masinter’s.
“Miss Gabrielle Flood?” he said.
Elle stepped forward. “Yes?”
“How do you do? I am Cob.” He gestured out the door. “The carriage awaits you.”
Her friends’ eyes went wide when they saw the vehicle: wheels and panels shining, the pair hitched to it splendid, and the coachman atop the box dressed even more nattily than Mr. Cob.
“The captain wished to escort you,” Mr. Cob said. “But he suspected you would prefer not to travel in a closed carriage with a gentleman to whom you are not related.”
Minnie gasped. Adela hiccupped. Esme lifted a hand to her mouth.
“Travel to where, Mr. Cob?” Elle’s heartbeats were ridiculously quick. She might have anticipated something like this. She should have. Men were, after all, men.
“To Madame Étoile’s home.” He pronounced the name Ay-twaal with perfect French intonation. “She awaits you there to see about a ball gown.”
“A ball gown?” Adela breathed.
“Madame Étoile?” Elle said.
“The