Lyn Stone - 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.

A painter of historical events, LYN STONEdecided 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.

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!

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.

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.”