Page 8 of The Captain Claims His Temptress

“For almost two hours?” Stephen asked.

“There are a lot of species of bloody roses,” Calhoun said.

Stephen choked back a laugh and another quaff.

“Are you inebriated?” Major Blythe asked.

“No!” It had been ages since Stephen had been foxed. However, a fuzzy haze swirled in his periphery, his cheeks were warm, and his tongue would not cooperate with his brain.

Major Blythe removed the almost empty glass from his hand. “Let us get some fresh air.”

Stephen tried not to slur his speech but failed miserably. “S-splendid idea.”

The men navigated the room to the veranda, where the crisp autumn breeze instantly sobered him.

“Stephen, I dare say. You are not yourself this evening,” the major said.

“Where in the deuces is Dupont?” There was also the beauty he had never spoken to, making him crave the company of a woman.

“Lady Saxton said he has been delayed and should be here tomorrow morning,” Blythe said.

Dupont was probably busy rolling around naked in stolen provisions and British shillings. Stephen winced at the disturbing image.

Blythe caught Stephen’s gaze. “While surrounded by such wealth, there will be many temptations, and we must be disciplined because people look to us to set a good example. We are ambassadors for the Crown.”

Blythe was correct. There was no excuse for Stephen’s behavior since his arrival at Herald Hall. Not the scallywags Myrle and Diggins who were probably long gone. Or worrying about his free-spirited siblings. Not his mission or decadent libations. And surely not the most enchanting woman he’d ever seen. He needed to keep himself in check. He detested Pierre Dupont, but hate was blinding and muddled one’s thinking.

“Agreed, Major Blythe,” Stephen said. “I apologize for my slip in judgment. I will not over-imbibe again.”

A bell rang three times.

“Dinner.” Calhoun licked his lips. “May I abandon discipline to enjoy the roast pheasant?”

Stephen chuckled. “I find myself quite famished.” He’d ignored thehors d’oeuvresto over imbibe in liquid refreshment.

The major’s eyes lit up. “Let us enjoy the banquet and the Port in moderation.”

Surely there could be no harm in small pleasures.

“Hear, hear,” said Calhoun as they entered Herald Hall.

Chapter four

October 3rd, 1817

Eventhoughtheguestswere her uncle’s business colleagues, Maddie pretended she was attending an elegant British house party, perfecting every detail of her appearance for the opening night of Sir Saxton’s event.

Her dress was of the finest scarlet satin and displayed herdécolletageto her advantage. Portia, her aunt’s ladies’ maid, formed Maddie’s hair into an elaborate updo, then twisted one long strand into a soft curl that hung over her left shoulder.

The wives in attendance were not overly friendly and most of the men were the same age as her father. However, instead of ignoring her as the women did, they lavished her with the flattery and conversation she desperately craved. Despite her better judgment, Maddie found the male attention quite flattering.

A few men were close to her age. Two were Southern Americans and the other was Hugo Adams, her uncle’s solicitor. The three men kept her company for a good part of the evening.

Two soldiers were slightly younger than her and quite handsome. One had a head of blond curls and big blue eyes. But it was the quiet one who stole her breath. Perhaps it was how colorful he was. Thick cinnamon-colored hair, emerald eyes, long golden lashes, a healthy peach glow to his countenance, and luscious pink lips. His red coat molded to his perfectly sculpted torso, and trousers clung to his muscular thighs.

He'd been on his way to talk to her when her uncle intervened and then steered him everywhere that she was not. And now he sat at the opposite end of the dinner table from her, devouring food. Occasionally he would gaze in her direction, only to quickly look away.

Luckily her aunt was seated beside her, so she had someone to talk to. She leaned close to ask, “Who is the red-headed soldier?”