"Are you hurt?" The naval officer shed his gloves and ran his hands down her arms as if seeking injuries. “Holy St. George! Is this your weapon?” The hatpin rolled into his hand from her slackened grasp, and he tucked it safely within a pocket. His frown softened a bit, he shook his head, and gave a low chuckle.
He clasped her hands as if he feared she might break and smoothed his thumbs over the soft pads beneath her thumbs. If the stranger continued his exploration for injuries, Sophie feared she might expire from pleasure. If only he knew the ink-stained fingers her white gloves hid.
Lydia for once had nothing to say, but watched over them, her eyes wide. Sophie thanked the gods Lydia’s lady’s maid had not been able to accompany them on the latest ribbon expedition. She would have been horrified and sent the gentleman packing. The thought of the uncompromising older woman spurred her to action. Damn the pleasure.
"No." Sophie snatched back her hands. Only then did she notice his eyes. They were an extraordinary shade of blue, the sort of blue that didn’t belong in such a stern, dark face.
That pleasant discovery, however, did not stop her shout of frustration. "Why did you help me? I was getting the better of those scoundrels when you showed up, and, and now—" She refused to cry, but moisture leaked from the corners of her eyes which she imagined were a reddened fright by now. "Not only is my sleeve torn, but my reputation is probably ruined as well, and I've lost the final lines of my—"
She stopped short of finishing her wailed lament. Her predicament was none of this young officer’s fault. He could not help she had been born a bastard, and he had nothing to do with theton’sattitude toward a young woman who’d spent time in a gypsy-like home with her profligate poet father.
Bereft of its handy hatpin, Sophie's tippy, over-embellished bonnet leaned precariously to the side before toppling to the pavement. Her long, dark curls tumbled free.
"What have you lost?" the stranger asked and pulled her to her feet, guiding her toward a nearby tea room. Lydia scooped up Sophie’s lost bonnet and followed.
"My last two lines," Sophie said, and batted at his hands. “Please, leave us.”
“You’ve no reason to fear me,” he insisted. “I’m Captain Arnaud Bellingham. My mother lives near here, on Hanover Square. Now please tell me where your carriage waits.”
Lydia moved closer. "Thomas said they would keep rounding the park until we were finished. The carriage is all black, with a team of grays.” She leaned even closer. “I fear this is not completely proper, but under the circumstances you should at least know our names. I’m Lady Lydia Howick, and this is my friend, Miss Sophia Brancelli."
Captain Bellingham made a small nod of acknowledgement. “I regret the circumstances, but I am pleased to make your acquaintances, and to be of service.”
Although Lydia gave him a silly, flirtatious smile, Sophie could not meet his gaze. She knew she should show her appreciation for his brave intervention, but all she could do was pretend to study her boots. She’d been unsettled at his unexpected kindness and valor. Sophie was not used to being the center of attention. She’d learned to take care of herself out of necessity and was uncomfortable with the acceptance of assistance of any sort.
The owner of the millinery shop, roused from the commotion at her front door, hurried to Captain Bellingham’s side. “What has happened?”
“The ladies were accosted outside your shop by ruffians who tried to spirit Miss Brancelli away in a hired carriage.”
“Please let me help,” the small woman pleaded. She shook her head so hard, her tight curls bounced. “I have never had anything so terrible occur at my doorstep. I will arrange for a tea tray at my neighbor’s shop.”
Once Lydia and the captain helped her to a chair in the small shop, Sophie began to shake and was grateful to be able to sit in a comfortable, cushioned chair and have others cosset her with a steaming cup of tea and sweet tart provided by the milliner who had returned to her shop. Thankfully, there were only one or two customers at a table near the front of the shop.
Captain Bellingham bent low over their table and spoke to Lydia. "She appears to be in shock. Wait here. I will find your carriage and have your man, Thomas, come for you.” He headed toward the door, but turned at the last minute. "What did she lose? What does it look like? I'll try to find her lost 'lines' if I can."
"Her poetry," Lydia said. "She's been trying to finish her latest poem. It was on a worn piece of foolscap she must have been holding when they tried to grab her."
He nodded thanks to Lydia before heading out into the street.
Captain Arnaud Bellingham returned to his friend, Dr. Cullen MacCloud, who still paced up and down Bond Street outside the tea shop, making sure the men who tried to abduct Miss Brancelli did not return. "Thank God we happened by when we did," Arnaud said, and let out a whoosh of breath. "Those footpads meant that poor woman harm."
“Harm?” Cullen said with a sputter. “They wanted more than just her reticule. Those bullies meant to rip her from the very street.”
Arnaud shook his head. He’d acted out of instinct and could only imagine how terrified Miss Brancelli had been. Hell, he was still shaking and almost light-headed at the memory of the terror in her dark eyes. He checked himself at the forbidden line his mind had taken. He was back in London for only a month or so until his ship was refurbished for his next assignment off the coast of Africa, his first posting under his own command. He could not afford an entanglement with a young woman like Miss Brancelli. He’d already made up his mind on his life’s path.
As if reading his thoughts, his ship’s surgeon added, “And such a fine lass. I can tell she turned your head.”
"No," Arnaud said with emphasis. "This is not what you think. She's an innocent. I did what you or any of us would have done." He did a quick, surreptitious look at the walkers along the street to make sure no one could overhear their conversation.
"Yes, of course," Cullen said, with a quirk of a smile. "Was she injured?" he asked, his teasing tone gone. "Should I see to her?"
"No," Arnaud said, his voice hard. "She's just badly shaken. Could you walk to my mother's townhouse and get that beast, Achamé, out of the mews? Since the young woman seems uncomfortable in my presence, I'll ride behind the carriage to see them safely home."
"Of course, I'll fetch him,” Cullen said, and headed out at a trot, northeast toward Hanover Square.
After Cullen disappeared, Arnaud thought over the fast-moving series of events as if looking through the wrong end of a spy glass. Everything seemed off, small and faraway instead of up close and precise.
He and his ship’s surgeon had walked to Bond Street from the Admiralty where they’d received orders for their next ship. They’d planned on being fitted for new shirts at a tailor’s shop before they parted ways, Arnaud to his mother’s townhouse, and Cullen to his father’s house on Savile Street.
