The Trouble With Misbehaving. Victoria Hanlen

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      Diamond lights sparkled in the large, dark-lashed eyes gazing up at him. Tight sable ringlets framed creamy skin. High cheekbones lent strength to a comely heart-shaped face. A thin, straight little nose tipped up with just a trace of determination. And her lips, oh, her full, soft lips were made to bedevil a man’s imagination.

      At first he thought her a delicate maiden. In the next instant, she pursed those lovely lips ever so slightly to reveal an edge and maturity that hinted older. And with closer examination, her charming womanly curves suggested older as well. Surely this spectacular creature couldn’t be the C.C.

      Stunned, he couldn’t respond, only watch her study his face and give him a smile—a very pretty smile—white teeth, a dimple on her soft left cheek. The glamour of it spurred stirrings he’d not felt in nearly a year.

      “Oh dear, I must have been mistaken. Terribly sorry.” She turned to walk away.

      An elbow dug into his side. The mustachioed man shot him a look of disbelief and gave a quick nod in her direction.

      Rubbing his rib, Beau’s mind finally snapped into gear. “May I help you, miss?”

      She turned back. “If you aren’t Captain Tollier, then no. I’m very sorry to bother you.”

      Curiosity wrestled with uncertainty. She couldn’t have written the letter, could she? Stunning women made very beguiling spies, yet something about her didn’t quite fit the part. Sweeping his hat from his head he smiled, “And if I were he?”

      “Then you’d know who you were. Do you know who you are?”

      He couldn’t decide if her tone held a joke or condescension.

      American women. They spoke the same language, for the most part, but if he wasn’t mistaken, this one’s cheekiness included a subtle challenge.

      Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the mustached fellow angle his arm for another shot to his ribs.

      Beau quickly stepped to the side. “If I should happen to make his acquaintance, who might I say is enquiring?” He flashed her his dazzling smile. The one that usually brought blushes to even the most hardened old harridans.

      A graceful brow rose.

      The intensity of her gaze sharpened as she openly assessed his new black top hat; took careful note of his face; measured the breadth of his shoulders; inspected his new suit, cravat, starched shirt, waistcoat and burnished boots; slowly drew her gaze upward to his lips and then directly into his eyes.

      Beau found himself straightening to attention. For a man of the world and a former Royal Navy officer, he’d never experienced a more unabashed, thorough inspection. His voice came out a little too tight and stern. “Do I pass muster, madam?”

      Humor flashed in her eyes, hitting him like an electric jolt. His gaze flew to her delectable mouth. More curiosity stirred.

      The music swelled into another rollicking polka.

      Peripherally, he saw ‘mustache’ nodding his head toward the bandstand.

      Nothing about this supposed business meeting had been typical, but life and freedom were meant to be enjoyed. Why not dance with a pretty woman? Beau could ask questions with her in his arms as well as anywhere else. “Shall we take a turn about the dance floor?”

      She turned to him in surprise. “You know this new polka, Captain?”

      Her response gave him pause. Women had often complimented him on his dancing. How hard could it be? He glanced at the dancers’ antics while positioning his hat on his head. “We’ll soon find out.”

      ***

      C.C. placed her gloved hand on his arm and let him lead the way toward the packed dance platform. Could this truly be Captain Tollier? Having not met him until now, she’d counted on his portrait, painted a dozen years before, to at least somewhat resemble him.

      Above, the orchestra increased its tempo. Couples spun faster, skipped and twirled in wild gyrations, barely missing one another. She gazed about the roiling mass of bodies.

      Discussions would be difficult on the rowdy dance floor, and the stakes were too high to risk misinterpretation. Though C.C. grew up in New York, after her father’s death, her mother moved back to be with her family in North Carolina. Now they were in desperate need of her help. It was imperative she persuade Captain Tollier to take her through the Union blockade.

      “We must discuss my proposal. The gardens are quieter,” she shouted over the music and pulled on his arm to guide him toward the path around the platform.

      His brow rose and a glint sparked in his deep-set aqua-blue eyes. Magnetism hit her like a gale-force wind. Her pulse began to pound in her ears. Laws, what had she been thinking? Dealings of this sort should take place in a dignified business setting with no prying ears.

      When the captain didn’t answer her first two proper meeting requests, she’d reckoned he might respond better to something rather improper. It had worked, but now she wondered at the wisdom of that bright idea.

      As they moved through the throng, the sweet smell of cinnamon apple tarts eddied on the breeze. Deafening cheers erupted from the game booths. Suddenly, the crowd surged. A large man nearly knocked her off her feet.

      The captain circled a muscular arm around her shoulder, steadying her. “I know a shortcut. Let me lead the way,” he announced, his deep voice full of command. The side of her body locked against his tingled, even as his assumption of control began to annoy.

      She needed to keep charge of the situation. This whole endeavor depended on her ability to work with this man. He’d a reputation for being wily and unpredictable and clever as a fox. No doubt he’d an impressive stubborn streak as well. But then, he was a captain.

      As he forged a path through the chaotic revelers, she slyly studied him. Pleasant features could hide all sorts of unpleasantness. Of this she was well aware. His younger, callow portrait had resembled a blond Adonis, and accounts of his bravery and adventures had kept her spellbound.

      Now up close, she could see his face had become leaner, more honed. Years at sea had weathered his skin, transformed the handsome face of a youth into that of a formidable man. Strength and resolve now etched his striking features, carved distinction into the shrewd line of his jaw and made his lips all the more sensuous with an added cynical curve.

      Heavens! Desist! She sounded like a starry-eyed girl. She tore her gaze from him as they entered the shadowy gardens’ main walkway. Scents of vegetation wove through the air. Fog had rolled in off the Thames, cloaking the elms’ and poplars’ branches in a murky haze. Goddess-shaped lampposts stood on the long path like sentries guarding the well-tended flowerbeds. Their gauzy areoles of light marched into the distance.

      “I take it you are familiar with Cremorne?” the captain drawled.

      Were her ears playing tricks on her, or did that certain note in his voice refer to the garden’s ribald reputation after dusk? Surely he didn’t think this meeting included something a little more ribald, did he?

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