The Captain and the Wallflower

“Not for all the gold in England would I dance with you, sir.”

His eye twinkled and he smiled more sincerely, with a crooked expression that warmed something inside her. “I’m not offering all the gold,” he said, “but a significant portion could be yours if you’re amenable.”

“A proposition, sir?” She raised an eyebrow with the question. “Am I to run weeping at the insult or deal you a resounding slap? How do the bets go that I will respond?”

“No bets and no proposition. I have a very decent proposal in mind.”

“I am already the object of ridicule,” she told him frankly, withdrawing her hand from his. “Go find another to tease, who will at least award you points for originality.”

He inclined his head. “Will you not grant me a small favor, at least, and take a turn about the floor?”

Perhaps this was an arranged jibe, compliments of her uncle. “Do you know Wardfelton?”

“I have not met him yet, but I shall seek him out immediately if you will give me leave to ask him for you.”

“For my person? Not only a dance? How droll.”

“For your hand in marriage,” he said without equivocation.

All too often we judge on appearance alone. There might be a really wonderful person concealed beneath a less than perfect façade. As the hero and heroine of THE CAPTAIN AND THE WALLFLOWER discover, perceptions can change radically when one delves a bit more deeply and discovers true character and personality.

I write romance to entertain, but also to illustrate my heartfelt belief that selfless love does exist and ought to be celebrated! It is possible to find someone who would jump between you and a bullet, who would put your happiness before their own, and who would love you unconditionally. Some of us have found that person, and to those who haven’t as yet I say, ‘Keep an open mind, keep up the search, and don’t forget to note what’s beyond the surface!’

I hope you enjoy the journey as Grace and Caine discover the sort of love neither dared hope to find when they first stumbled into a marriage of mutual convenience. If you enjoyed The Ugly Duckling, Cinderella and Beauty and the Beast as a child, I think you will appreciate my grown-up story THE CAPTAIN AND THE WALLFLOWER.

About the Author

A painter of historical events, LYN STONE decided to write about them. A canvas, however detailed, limits characters to only one moment in time: ‘If a picture’s worth a thousand words, the other ninety thousand have to show up somewhere!’ An avid reader, she admits, ‘At thirteen, I fell in love with Emily Brontë’s Heathcliff and became Catherine. Next year I fell for Rhett and became Scarlett. Then I fell for the hero I’d known most of my life and finally became myself.’

After living for four years in Europe, Lyn and her husband Allen settled into a log house in north Alabama that is crammed to the rafters with antiques, artefacts and the stuff of future tales.

The Captain and

The Wallflower

Lyn Stone

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is for my wonderful and courageous friend,

Garland Whiddon Rowland. This is for all those

discussions about what love is when we were teens

still anticipating it. Oh, and for being my maid

of honor once I found it! So happy that you found it, too!

Prologue

London

July 25, 1815

Caine Morleigh studiously avoided touching the cloth bandages covering his eyes as he waited for the physician to arrive. For five long weeks, his injuries had remained under wraps, the bandages changed by feel in pitch-dark to avoid further damage from the light. And to avoid revelation, he admitted to himself. Today, he would know whether his sight had been destroyed.

There would be so much for him to learn if that proved so. Already, he had begun counting steps from one place to another so that he could eventually get about the house unaided. He fed himself in private still, but was becoming good at it.

Control would not be beyond him. In time, he would be able to manage the impediment, if forced to it. Damn, but he hated being dependent. Impatience warred with apprehension as the wait dragged on in the drawing room of his uncle, Earl of Hadley.

He heard his aunt Hadley gasp again as Trent, his best friend and companion, regaled her with prettied-up details of their final day on the field of battle. Caine paid little heed to the words. He’d heard it all before in considerably more graphic terms. Hell, he had lived it. Trent talked entirely too much, but his effort here was admirable, Caine admitted. It was Trent’s way of lessening the tension and distracting everyone from the purpose of the gathering.

“We were wounded on the charge along with most of our brigade, most never to rise again! Caine fell beside me, unable to see, and I, my leg badly twisted, could not hope to walk. But did we lie there and die? No, ma’am! I served as his eyes whilst he got us to my horse. His horse had collapsed, you see, so we mounted double and rejoined the charge, galloping full speed. There was no going back….”

Someone cleared their throat and Trent, thank God, left off his narrative at the interruption. “Dr. Ackers and Miss Belinda Thoren-Snipes,” Jenkins, the butler, announced.

“Show them in! Show them in!” his aunt exclaimed. Caine heard the rustle of taffeta skirts as Aunt Hadley approached and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I thought he would never come.”

“How convenient they’ve arrived together,” his uncle said. “I sent a note round for your Belinda to join us, too. I knew you would want her here.”

Caine sighed, wishing he had not. He wanted to discover for himself whether he could see before he encountered his fiancée. If he was to be blind for life, she should not be held to the betrothal. For that reason, he had not initiated any contact at all since his return to London.

He had no trouble recalling how she had looked the last time he had seen her. He hoped against hope he would see her again. She was a blonde, rose-cheeked beauty, his Belinda. Her image had sustained him for nearly two years as he had faced the ugliness of war.

He heard approaching footsteps, the physician’s heavier masculine tread interspersed with the soft click of Belinda’s dainty shoes on the marble floor of the corridor. Did he actually smell the scent of her lilac perfume as she entered, or was that merely a fond brush of memory and expectation? Caine was convinced he loved her and had from their first meeting.

Despite that, he realized he knew very little about his future wife. He had courted her, of course, but not for long and always under the strictest of supervision. Their desultory conversation then, and later her infrequent letters filled with frivolous details of life at home, had not told him much.

In fact, he did not know a great deal about women in general, other than in the biblical sense. That paid-for expertise was helpful only in the bedchamber, but valuable nonetheless. Perhaps that was all that any man could hope to understand fully or, in fact, would need to know.

He employed respect with all females, regardless of rank, as well as chivalry and what charm he had acquired. Common courtesy demanded that much of a man, and rightly so.

He forced a smile to greet Belinda even as he wished for her own sake, as well as for his, that she were elsewhere this morning. Her scent of lilacs, the essence he had recalled with fervent longing in the midst of war, now nearly overpowered the senses he had left.

“Captain Morleigh!” she said with obviously forced brightness.

“How are you, my dear?” he asked, sick with apprehension, holding his smile in place by sheer force of will.

“Fine, thank you,” she replied, the brightness slipping, replaced by a tremor.

He noted that she did not return the question. Her fear of the answer must be nearly as great as his own, at being faced with the very real prospect of having a blind husband to look after. He would release her from their betrothal if it came to that, but she did not yet know it.

Caine identified the sound of the medical bag being opened.

“Could we get on with it?” he asked, impatience winning out. He wanted this over with, whatever the outcome.

“Certainly, my boy,” the doctor answered, his tone entirely too sympathetic and tinged with worry. “Let’s turn you away from the lamps to the soft light from the window.”

Caine moved as directed and heard the others in the room, Trent, Aunt Hadley and Belinda, shifting positions, as well.

“Belinda, you must stand just there so that you will be the very first thing he sees!” his aunt said.

Belinda muttered her thanks as the doctor slid a scissor blade beneath the bandage at Caine’s right temple and began to cut. He carefully peeled the cloth away and dabbed something wet over both eyelids, soaking them thoroughly. “There,” he said finally. “Now open your eyes slowly.”

Caine concentrated as he did so and sensed the doctor move to one side and expose him to the window.

He blinked, saw blessed light … and heard the screams.

Chapter One

London

Cavanaugh House

August 25, 1815

“Spot the homeliest of the lot, Trent, and speak to her sponsor on my behalf.” Caine Morleigh smiled at his friend as he handed his cane and top hat to the attendant. “She should look utterly frightful, perhaps be a bit dull of wit and wanting in every respect, or she won’t do.”

Trent sighed, rolling his eyes as he tugged at his gloves. “You don’t have to do this. You’re making far too much of that girl’s reaction.” He scoffed. “Porridge for brains, that one.”

“That’s as may be, but I have a more significant reason for this than the way I look.” The receiving line had dispersed, and apparently they weren’t to be announced, since they had come so late. He led the way, following the music down the wide corridor. He glanced inside a smaller room, which had been set up for card playing and refreshments, then turned and entered the ballroom.

He kept his voice low as he leaned sideways to continue his conversation with Trent. “I need someone who will require little attention, a woman satisfied to simply change her marital status and then leave me alone. I shall have more than enough to do as it is.”

Trent huffed. “A woman who needs little attention? Is there such a creature? In my experience—”

“I know all about your experience. Now, stop blathering on and help me look.”

The gathering at Lord Cavanaugh’s was far from a crush, since it was past the regular London season and many had retired to the country. Decorations had been held to a minimum and this appeared to be a rather modest affair. Still the columned entry, the great expanse of highly polished floor and elegantly curved staircase needed little embellishment to shout wealth.

The musicians sounded rather good, though they were few in number compared to events he had attended in years past. He watched the dancers move through their measured steps without much gaity or conversation.

“Not much of a rout, is it,” Trent commented with a sigh of resignation. “I’ve seen more excitement at funerals.”

“Suits my need perfectly,” Caine responded. Most of the single women present would be the leftovers and their sponsors, hoping for a late-made match. Perhaps with a bit of luck, he could make one of the hopefuls content, if not happy.

Trent snorted. “Damned harebrained idea. You’re obsessed with controlling every aspect of your life. Always have been. And it’s not possible, y’know.”

“I can but try.”

“You’re treating this like a military campaign, and you know how I hate taking orders!”

“Think of the compensation. You may go for the best-looking one for yourself. It’s a small thing I’m asking of you,” Caine said, applying his most reasonable tone. “Asking, not ordering. And as a friend, Trent.”

“Fine! It’s your own throat you’re cutting. Your uncle was wrong when he put the condition on you to marry. I wouldn’t do it if I were you. You’ll have his title no matter what you do or don’t.”

Caine shrugged. “Yes, but it’s the fortune that will go to Cousin Neville, plus the estates, since none is entailed. Think of all the people now employed by the earl who would suffer if Neville lost everything over a stupid game of cards or on a damned horse race. He could, and probably would, piss away everything the family has worked for these last two centuries.”

“You don’t know that he will. You haven’t seen him since you were children.”

“Oh, I’ve heard enough of his maddening exploits from my uncle. Knowing such things, I cannot imagine why he would even consider leaving anything to Neville, but Hadley seems amused by it all and oddly unconcerned. Therefore, I must prevent it however I can. So I will marry, as he stipulates. I don’t have any strong objections. He is my uncle, after all, and I do care about his feelings. I should settle his mind before he gives up the ghost.”

“But why must you have a woman who’s desperate to marry?” Trent clicked his tongue, exasperated. “Not every female in London runs screaming from the room when she sees you.”

“One certainly did.”

“Well, only that one, and as I’ve said before, she’s not all there.” He tapped his temple with two fingers and shook his head. “Silly witch.”

“Well, she’s not here, either, which is why I came.” Caine heaved out a breath of frustration and began strolling the perimeter of the room, Trent at his side.

“Watch how each miss gives me a look of repulsion as we pass, terrified I will take an interest.” He shook his head. “Times such as this, blindness would be a blessing.”

“Well, I’m damned glad you’re not blind and you ought to be, too! Perhaps their regard is merely a reaction to your grim expression. Try smiling now and again. They could do far worse than you, and you know it. So you have a few scars. A wife would get used to that after the first shock of seeing them.”

“I hope you’re right.” Caine stopped beside a towering plant and picked absently at one of the leaves. “But I think it best to choose a woman not prone to play the social butterfly. The most beautiful exist for it. I despise these sorts of occasions and would like to be done with them.”

He hadn’t used to hate social events, not when he’d been a young lieutenant, flirting, dancing, assessing the newest crop of preening lovelies, giving Trent solid competition. That’s how he had found a little beauty of excellent birth, whom he had thought would be the perfect mate for a rising army officer. A young fool’s mistake, that. Now he knew better.

He had been only third in line for the earldom then, with a military career underway. However, with the deaths of his father and a brother during the years Caine had served in the army, he was now set to inherit from the eldest of that generation, his uncle. He had not been born to the title, nor had he been trained for it. The responsibilities were enormous, greater than he had ever imagined. There was so much to learn. So much to sort out.

The old earl, who admittedly was not long for the world, demanded that his heir be settled and ready to assume his duties. That involved Caine’s getting a wife immediately, so here he was, shopping. He surveyed the goods, evaluating faces, postures, attitudes.

This time he knew he must rely on different currency for the negotiations. The women he had been well acquainted with in his life thus far had proved rather shallow, valuing a handsome face, charm and practised manners well above anything else in a man. They left it to their practical families to ascertain whether their choice possessed the necessary means to support them.

Now he must find a suitable woman desperate enough to overlook his altered appearance and lack of social inclinations to settle for his prospective wealth and title. More important, as he had impressed on Trent, he needed one who would not impact on the time he would require to fulfill his duties as earl. The task of handling the earl’s business matters already proved daunting. He must live up to it.

Trent’s words troubled him. Did such a woman as he required actually exist? He continued scanning the ballroom, dwelling on the corners where the wallflowers perched, trying to conceal their hopes and dreams behind fans and half smiles. None of their smiles were directed at him.

Suddenly, his good eye landed on one in pale yellow, a painfully thin figure with lank brown hair, a colorless complexion and enormous, doe-like eyes. Caine immediately sensed in her a mixture of hopelessness and resignation, yet she somehow maintained an air of calm dignity he admired. “A definite possibility there,” he muttered, more to himself than to Trent.

The girl was not precisely ugly, but it was certain no one would describe her as pretty. He felt a tug of … what? Sympathy? No, more like empathy. She did not wish to be here, either, most likely for similar reasons. Yet they must be here, probably striving toward the same goal—a suitable match.

These mating rituals were such a trial for any not blessed with the allure necessary to attract the opposite sex. At least he would have wealth and the title to recommend him. She had only her dignity apparently. If she were an heiress, she would certainly be better dressed, coiffed and bejeweled. Her pale neck and earlobes were completely bare.

If he could look past her surface, perhaps she would be willing to look past his. But he must put it to her in a way she would find palatable. He couldn’t very well say “You look like a quiet, unprepossessing chit I could count on to not complicate my life any further than it is already.”

Could he summon enough charm, persuasion and outrageous bribery to convince this one to have him? Yes, he decided, approaching her might be worth the risk of rejection.

“Yes, I think so,” he said to himself. “That one, Trent,” he said, nodding toward the candidate. “The one in the lemon-colored frock. She’ll do.”

“What? She’s a bean stalk, Morleigh, and the beans don’t appear to have developed yet.”

“I’m not out for beans,” Caine said tersely, his gaze still resting on the waiflike girl.

“Well, she looks like death on a plate. I doubt she’ll live through the month, much less the rigors of a wedding.” He nudged Caine with his elbow. “Besides, you said you’d let me choose.”

“Don’t be tedious. I believe she’s the one, so go. Do what we came to do,” Caine said simply, straightening his sleeves.

He hoped to have the selection completed with this one foray into society, because it was damned uncomfortable submitting himself to all these stares. He knew he wasn’t that monstrous looking and that they were mostly curious, but it bothered him.

His left eye bore only a few scars, but those surely made everyone imagine the very worst of the one he kept covered. The right, he always avoided looking at in the mirror and concealed it behind a rather large eye patch whenever he was in company.

That was probably a useless vanity due to the well-broadcast observation of Miss Thoren-Snipes, his former fiancée. She had declared to one and all that he was a horrible sight that turned her off sick, a fright she would never forget, one that caused her nightmares.

To her credit, his aunt’s reaction that day had verified that Belinda did not exaggerate by much. He made women faint, cast up their accounts and scream in their sleep. Avoiding that hardly qualified as vanity on his part. No, more like a gentleman’s consideration, he thought.

Trent did not understand, and why should he? He had the wherewithal to pick and choose and take his own sweet time about it. No woman would refuse Gavin Trent, handsome as he was, a hero of the wars and witty as hell. Caine owed him his life, admired him enormously and wished him well. Envy had no place in a friendship as enduring as theirs. But Trent’s eternal optimism and infernal teasing tried his patience to extremes.

The girl in yellow was now getting an earful from one of the other unfortunates, an overweight dumpling who seemed entirely too vivacious to qualify as second choice if he needed one. Her glance left no doubt about whom she had chosen to revile.

Caine wondered if perhaps he was overly sensitive and tried not to be, but he was unused to it yet. He had attended none of these functions since his return to London. He was grateful that he was still able to see and wished he could simply bypass mirrors forever and ignore how he looked. If not for this acquiring of a wife, he could be content with himself as he was.

The object of his future suit looked up and her very direct gaze again met his across the room. He should march right over and ask her to dance. Three times running. That would seal the deal. But not yet.

Caine snagged a glass of champagne off the silver tray of a passing waiter circulating among the guests. He raised it slightly, toasting the girl, and forced a smile as he spoke to his friend. “Go, Trent. Find out who she is. I’ll wait here.”

“You’re certain you want to go through with this?”

“Yes, quite.” He sipped the sparkling wine and concealed a wince. He preferred a stouter drink with some substance to it.

A quarter hour later, Trent rejoined Caine. “She’s Wardfelton’s niece, Lady Grace Renfair,” he declared. “His lordship laughed in my face when I spoke with him. Told me she has no dowry. She’s penniless. Worthless was the word he used to describe her, an ailing, aging millstone around his neck and none too bright.”

“Aging? How old is she?”

“Twenty-four or thereabout. I inquired of a few others, as well as her uncle. Lady Nebbins, that old talebearer, told me the chit was orphaned at sixteen, engaged to Barkley’s second son, a lieutenant in the navy, who died aboard The Langston six years ago. She lived as companion to the lad’s widowed mother until that lady remarried. Lady Grace has been with Wardfelton for these past two years.”

“Ah, good. Of suitable birth then. And something in common already, noble uncles with a foot on our necks. Perhaps she’s ready for a change.”

Trent hummed his agreement. “I don’t doubt that. Rumor about town had it she was perhaps dead. People had begun wondering aloud whether she was deceased and how she came to be so. It’s thought Wardfelton has trotted her out tonight to dispense with the gossip. I must say, she might yet make it a fact. To call her frail would be kind.”

Caine smiled. “No matter. I can go forward with it then.”

“Ah, well, there’s a fly in the ointment,” Trent informed him. He rocked to and fro as he spoke. “Wardfelton didn’t take me, or my request on your behalf, seriously at all. He thinks

we are making fun of his simpleminded niece and seemed to find it highly amusing that we should do so.”

“Simpleminded?” Caine didn’t believe it for a second.

Trent shrugged. “He doesn’t think much of her, obviously. Probably exaggerated. I would remind you, you did ask for dull of wit.”

“He didn’t refuse outright to let me address her, did he?”

“No, he doesn’t really expect you to,” Trent admitted. “I spoke with Lord Jarvis, too. He says she is the daughter of the previous earl. Wardfelton’s actually the third brother to hold the title. The second, Lady Grace’s father, was a physician until he inherited. Only held it for a couple of years before he died of the cholera during the outbreak here, along with his wife. The girl was left home in the country and escaped their fate. And as I said, Barkley’s mother took her in.”