the ton. High society’ll adore you, Elle.”
“I never said you could call me that.”
“Won’t, if you don’t like it.”
But she did like it. She liked it enormously. He pronounced her name like a caress, and perhaps it was spending hours wearing a gown studded with diamonds, or all the chocolates, but she had the most pressing urge to ask him to say it again. Her name. His voice. Like a caress.
“You may,” she said.
He grinned.
Of course he grinned. This was all his plan, his ridiculous lark. Not his future at stake. Not his real life. He could amuse himself with her troubles now and, when it was all over, be none the worse, while she would be in prison.
“If you don’t want to go to the ball, Elle, you needn’t. We’ll find another way to replace that type,” he said, entirely destroying her righteous indignation.
“You keep using that word.”
“A man’s bound to repeat a word every so often. Tell me which one you don’t you like and I’ll do my best to avoid it.”
“We,” she said.
His brow knit. “What other word would I use? But damned if your speech ain’t finer than mine. Beg pardon—dashed. All right, teach me a new word, Madame Printer. I’m all prepared to expand my vocabulary.”
“There is no other word for ‘we’, of course.” Her cheeks were burning. “You . . .”
“You?”
“You and I. But I already told you that.”
“And I remember it.” He tapped his fingertip to his head and his smile broadened. “Not entirely empty up here.”
He was a ship captain in the Royal Navy. Men did not win the command of vessels worth thousands of pounds, and the ruling of dozens of other men, unless they were intelligent.
“I do not dislike it when you use the word ‘we,’” she finally said, too quietly probably.
“Happy to hear it.” His voice was a bit rough. “You’re all right with it, then. The ball tomorrow?”
“I am afraid I will embarrass you. I . . . I don’t know how to dance.”
His eyes widened.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, twisting her fingers together. “I never learned. I never had the time.” Or the opportunity. For five years after her mother died and her father disappeared—years in which girls like Mineola, Adela, and Esme had attended country fairs and the occasional party at somebody’s home—Elle had scrubbed the floors of her neighbor’s house and fish shop in exchange for a pallet in the corner of the kitchen and food. Five years of raw hands and aching back and fish oil stench that would never wash away, until her grandparents appeared from America and rescued her.
“I don’t give a damn if you know how to dance or not,” he said.
“Whether I know how to dance. Then why are you gaping at me?”
“You just used a contraction. Twice. Didn’t think it was possible.” He spoke with sincerity, but the slightest crease in one of his cheeks marred the effect.
She pinched her lips to prevent a smile. “Can you never be serious, Captain?”
“Life’s too full of misery, Elle,” he said, abruptly sober. “No point in lingering in worries when a man can do something to make it better.” He leaned forward and grasped her hand lightly. “Try not to fret, will you?” he said. “We’ll work this out.”
It was too much for her—his strong fingers, his wonderful scent, the honest sincerity in his gorgeous eyes. Obviously she was not as immune to scoundrels as she wished. She withdrew her hand and clasped it with her other in her lap.
“I am afraid I will not impress your uncle and that this all will have been for naught,” she said. “I wish I knew how to go along at a ball. I truly do.”
He leaned back against the squabs, entirely comfortable while her pulse was racing.
“Daresay you could simply stand there and look prett—” He straightened and his gaze sharpened.
“What is it?” she said.
“An excellent idea’s just occurred to me. Needs refining, though. I’ll have it all worked out tomorrow.” His smile blinded. “Where to now, Miss Flood?”
“Brittle and Sons, please.”
“Nearly dark already. I’ll take you home.”
“No.” She swallowed over the alarm in her throat. “No. Please, to the shop.”
“As you wish, ma’am.” His smile dimmed a bit, but he did as she wished.
~o0o~
The young curate from the charity church, Mr. Curtis, was departing when Elle entered her flat. She knew immediately the message in his gentle greeting.
“She is worse this evening, isn’t she?” she whispered as she untied the