Would he?
Henri darted a glance at Esmée. Was he seeking her approval? His gaze traveled from her to her sister, leaving her a bit bereft. Once she’d grown lost in those sea-blue eyes, a silvery light in them when he was amused.
“Church?” A softness crept into his tone. “Most welcome after salt-spray services with a sea chaplain.”
Would he attend with them, then? The wonder of it washed over her, and she sighed a little too audibly. Henri’s intent gaze ricocheted back to her. She forced a smile and looked to her lap.
As soon as supper ended, thinking Henri might excuse himself and leave, Esmée was surprised to find herself seated beside him on the parlor sofa while Eliza played the harpsichord across the room. Her father and Quinn were deep in conversation by the hearth.
Henri leaned back, one arm along the sofa’s curving arm. “So, tell me, when did your sister meet Lord Drysdale?”
Esmée was distracted, not by the question but by his nearness. Her full petticoats brushed against his leg and completely covered one of his buckled shoes. The room was cool, but she felt flushed. She needed to do something with her hands, only she didn’t have a fan. Nor could she fiddle with her chatelaine, which was upstairs on the dressing table.
“They met a few years ago.” Esmée was cast back to their courtship, far smoother than her own had been. “Quinn first spied her when at the York coffeehouse. Eliza was helping Mama in the chocolate shop. But it wasn’t till Eliza was riding around Williamsburg in an open carriage that he decided to further their acquaintance. He happened to leave the Raleigh Tavern the precise moment she went by. And so she tossed him the love token she kept in her pocket as the carriage passed. ’Twas engraved with her initials and a heart.”
A romantic story, making falling in love seem ridiculously easy. To her credit, Eliza hadn’t known who Quinn was, other than a well-dressed gentleman, and couldn’t be blamed for the fortune hunting some accused her of later at the governor’s ball.
Henri ran a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. “Do you remember how we met?”
His quiet question was nearly lost as Eliza finished a robust Italian concerto, the notes soaring. They clapped, delaying Esmée’s answer. Hoping for a quieter piece, she asked Eliza, “Won’t you play Bach?The Well-Tempered Clavier, perhaps?”
“Why don’t you?” Eliza replied good-naturedly. “’Tis your favorite, and you perform it better than I do.”
Esmée gave a decided shake of her head. Nothing would tear her away from answering Henri’s surprising question. “Please ... play on.”
With a slight lift of her shoulders, Eliza returned to her music.
As she struck the first note, Esmée toyed absently with the lace trim on her sleeve. “I do remember how we met.”Though I’ve tried to forget.
Was he recalling finding her shelling on the beach? And later at the supper party? Her lowered gaze caught the slow fisting of his hand where it rested on the sofa, the Jerusalem cross plain.
“Mayhap the end of a matter is more important than the beginning.” The gravity in his voice held her, much like the inked tattoo.
“Perhaps,” she replied rather vacuously.
What more could she say? And what exactly did he mean? She looked at him in question, the drone of Quinn and her father’s conversation and Eliza’s quieter playing a thousand miles distant. He was not looking at her but straight ahead as if weighing his words. Charting his course.
“Are you ... spoken for?” His was a bold query, made bolder by their broken past.
“My heart, you mean?” Her calm reply belied the roiling inside her.
“Aye.” His eyes roamed her face as if trying to reconcile a decade’s difference and all the events and people that might have come between them.
“I ... nay.” She paused, her need to know overpowering any shyness and turning around the question. “And you?”
“Aye.” A curt nod of his tousled head sent her spirits to her shoes. “Betrothed to my ship. My crew. The sea.”
Heat stained her face. “I regret saying such.”
“You simply stated the truth, Esmée. Though at the time I was unwilling to hear it.”
Esmée. NotMiss Shaw.
Her stomach flipped. His use of her given name muted the harsh memory somehow. A long-suppressed desire flickered deep inside her. How she wanted to say his name in return and not merely think it.Captainseemed so formal, keeping him out of reach.Henriseemed a leap forward yet held the rusty disuse of years.
She swallowed. Fought to steady her nerves. “I—I am not the woman I was, Henri.” Entreaty framed her words. “I regret a great many things.”
His gaze cut to her again, held her eyes for a beat longer than propriety deemed necessary. The music had stopped, as had the room’s conversation. All eyes were on them, bringing their heartfelt conversation to a sudden, maddening halt. Flushing again, Esmée looked away from him. How much had her family overheard?
