Page 46 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“Loyalty,” he added silkily, “can always be purchased. Now—let Mrs Walton pass.”
Mrs Canards fell silent as she waved the wheelwright’s wife through. She gave a saccharine smile to the earl, then beckoned Flora and Helen forward.
“Acceptable,” she sighed boredly, handing their vouchers back without so much as glancing at either girl.
Flora followed Helen up the narrow staircase, her anticipation mounting with every creak of the steps. At the top, she emerged into the assembly room—a space that, though hardly grand, had been polished and preened for the occasion.
Garlands of autumn greenery draped the windows, their ribbons stirring faintly in the draught, while a trio of fiddlers tuned their instruments upon the dais at the far wall. The air thrummed with excitement that seemed to echo Flora’s own racing pulse. Helen gave her excuses and made for one of the benches where Nora, the Mifford’s maid, was seated.
Alone now, Flora scanned the room, feeling suddenly conspicuous. Anxiety began to set in and then she saw him—Captain Thorne—already making his way toward her. Her breath caught, and for one wild moment she feared she might combust on the spot.
How tragic it would be, she thought, if she were consumed by flames before she had even had the chance to feel his arms around her.
Mercifully he reached her side before death could claim her, bowing low as though she were a duchess and not simply Flora Bridges in borrowed silk.
“You look ravishing, Miss Bridges,” he said.
Her heart gave a traitorous flutter. Ravish me, Captain, her mind supplied at once—though she was sensible enough to bite down hard on the thought before it escaped her lips. Instead, she managed to offer her own shy compliments on his appearance.
He looked every inch the captain and gentleman—broad-shouldered in dark evening dress, his cravat tied with unstudied elegance. That he should cross the crowded room to stand at her side, when he might have chosen any lady there, seemed almost too wonderful to be real.
“Your dance card?” he queried, one brow lifting in faint challenge.
Flora fumbled with the reticule clasp until it yielded. She drew out the flimsy card and, for one absurd moment, nearly snatched the rosemary sprigs too—wondering if chewing them might conjure more courage than simply carrying them.
The captain drew a pencil from his pocket and, without hesitation, scratched across her dance card before returning it to her.
Flora glanced down—and her breath caught. Beside every set, in his strong hand, he had scrawled a single word: mine.
“I trust that makes my intentions clear?” he asked, one brow arched, his tone somewhere between teasing and utterly serious.
“Completely,” Flora replied weakly. When he offered her his arm to escort her for lemonade, she accepted it at once, grateful for his strength. How strange, she thought, that he should be the very answer to the storm he set loose in her.
They had just claimed two cups of lemonade from the refreshment table when a familiar voice caught their attention.
“Mrs Walton! I knew the assembly would draw you out!” Mrs Mifford cried, bustling toward the table with a broad smile. Her eyes sparkled as they dropped to the lady’s gown. “And I see you kept the satin after all.”
Mrs Walton’s cheeks pinkened, and she gave a stiff curtsy before flouncing away from the refreshment table with her nose in the air.
“What?” Mrs Mifford turned to the Duchess of Northcott, who had tailed her, staring daggers. “I said draw, not drawers.”
“I think it would be safest Mama, if tonight you were to keep speaking to an absolute minimum,” the duchess sighed in reply. She turned her attention to Flora, her expression brightening. “Why, Miss Bridges, you look wonderful. Doesn’t she, Mama?”
Mrs Mifford nodded mutely in response and the duchess pinched the bridge of her nose as though she had acquired a sudden headache.
Thankfully, the musicians at last struck up the notes of the first set and Captain Thorne excused them both.
“Miss Bridges has promised me this dance,” he informed Mrs Mifford. “In fact, she has promised me all her dances for the night.”
“I told you I have a gift,” Mrs Mifford cried in reply, her vow of silence broken by her biggest temptation—boasting.
On the dance floor, Flora and James took their places in the long lines of the country set. Flora was aware of the curious glances of the villagers, though she assumed their interest had more to do with her partner than the murder. Perhaps Mrs Mifford was correct, she thought; people were willing to overlook an accusation of murder if a woman married well.
The country set was a brisk and lively affair—hands joined, parted, turned, and rejoined again in quick succession. The figures came fast, and Flora found herself breathless, the heat of Captain Thorne’s steady hand at her waist making her clumsy at steps she thought she knew.
As they cast down the line and back again, she spotted Mr Goodwin grinning at her from across the set. He gave a vigorous wave that nearly knocked Miss Vale off balance. The poor girl looked pale and wan beside him, as though she’d rather be anywhere else than there.
The set ended in a whirl of laughter and clapping, and Captain Thorne guided Flora back toward the refreshment table. She sipped at her lemonade to calm her breath, then forced herself to speak before nerves betrayed her.
