Captain of Her Heart. Lily George

tongue and made your eyes water a bit, but you couldn’t resist eating another, and then another. Refreshing, that’s what Harriet was.

       He cleared his throat, which caused Talos to prick up his ears. It didn’t matter a whit what Harriet had become in his absence. His thoughts lingered on her and he still discerned her violet scent simply because he had been away from women so long. That was all there was to it. He should concentrate solely on pretty Sophie, his intended. If his visit with Harriet foretold anything, it was that Sophie was as beautiful as ever. That was all he needed to focus on. He would see her tomorrow, and within a year, they would be wed.

       Suddenly tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough. Brookes kicked Talos into a canter, speeding toward the elaborate gates that marked his estate. He might ask Cook if she still had the family gingerbread recipe, and if she would bake a few. For old times’ sake.

       The next day, rain streamed from a leaden sky. Sophie, still clad in her chemise while dithering between two gowns, pounced on Harriet for the millionth time that morning.

       “He’ll never make it. Not in this weather. Oh, Harriet!”

       “Stop, Sophie. A little rain won’t deter a man like Brookes. He slogged through the mud at Waterloo, you know. A sprinkle won’t keep him from you.”

       “Is Brookes still handsome? Did he say he missed me?”

       “Silly goose, he couldn’t have said that to me. But yes, he is handsome. More so, I think. The war made him…” Harriet cast about for the right word. “Distinguished.”

       “And…his leg?”

       “He limps a little, but I did not discern any real change in him. He still rides better than anyone in the county. If anything, Sophie dear, the war has improved him. He’s not so rowdy or childish anymore. He is a man now.” Heat flamed in her cheeks. She sounded too approving, betraying her careful study of his character.

       Sophie’s eyes sparkled with mirth. “I am not used to hearing praise about young men from you.”

       “So few young men deserve it.” Harriet pursed her lips, assuming a spinsterly manner to cover up for her earlier warmth. “Now, for goodness’ sake, go and finish dressing. You must be ready for his arrival. I’ll go sit with Mama in her room, and make sure she is all right.” With a gentle shove, Harriet sent her sister back down the hallway to the room they shared, then turned toward Mama’s bedchamber.

       Harriet knocked softly on the door, but Mama slept. She leaned over and kissed her mother’s smooth brow. Harriet drew a chair close beside the bed and pulled out the shawl she was knitting for the winter. Perhaps she should change into a prettier dress, too? No, it was Sophie’s afternoon to shine. Captain Brookes would only have eyes for Sophie.

       She glimpsed a movement out the window and spotted the captain picking slowly down the hill on his black horse. She sprang from her chair, heart hammering like a bird beating its wings against a cage. Compose yourself, she scolded silently. Tiptoeing across the room, she slipped through the doorway.

       “Sophie? Sophie darling, he is here.” She dared not raise her voice, for fear of waking Mama.

       Her sister collided with her at the top of the stairs. “You meet him, open the door—I can’t!” Sophie whispered fiercely. She stayed rooted on the landing, out of sight of the entry hall.

       Harriet inhaled deeply to calm her nerves, but still jerked the door open with a lightning-fast motion. Captain Brookes, hand poised to knock on the door, fell back a step in astonishment. “C-Come in, Captain,” Harriet stammered.

       He wore a heavy greatcoat that emphasized his broad shoulders, his Hessians still polished to a gleam even after the long ride from Brookes Park. Harriet opened the door wider, casting a tentative smile his way when he crossed the threshold. He stood in the hall, raindrops rolling down in rivulets from the brim of his hat, and gazed up. Sophie stood on the landing. How beautiful Sophie was, her lovely curls tucked up and glowing like a burnished cloud of gold in the dim hallway light. But when Sophie’s gaze fell on Captain Brookes, the color drained from her face. Two bright red patches glowed on her cheeks.

       Why was Sophie behaving so strangely? Why did she stand so still on the landing? She must be in shock—of course, that was the only answer. To cover for Sophie, Harriet sprang into social action. “Please, Captain,” she burst out, in a voice a shade too loud. “Let me have your hat and coat. I’ll spread them out so they can dry by the fire.”

       Captain Brookes, rooted in place beside the door, started at the sound of Harriet’s voice and tore his gaze away from Sophie. He allowed Harriet to guide him into the parlor, where a fire burned brightly.

       “Sophie dear, tell Rose we will take some tea,” she called, in that same unnatural tone. She spread his coat over a chair and laid his hat on the warm hearth to dry. “It’s the shock, you understand,” Harriet whispered to him urgently. “Until we received the word that you had survived, she thought you were dead. She must feel like she is seeing a ghost.”

       Captain Brookes graced her with a solemn expression. She too had met him yesterday, but her reaction was very different. At the memory, her cheeks grew warm, and she dropped her gaze to the floor.

       “Yes.” His tone was frosty. “I am sure it is a great shock.”

       Harriet ushered him to one of the chairs near the fire, a spindly one included with the original cottage furnishings. He sat, his tall frame dwarfing the chair. Sophie entered with Rose and the tea service, but her face still had the stunned expression of one recently slapped. Harriet drew a table near the fire and helped Rose and Sophie with the teapot and cups. Those few rapid domestic chores jolted Sophie out of her trance. She even managed a pale smile for the captain.

       The little mantel clock chimed the quarter hour, and Harriet peeked at it in startled confusion. Surely an hour had passed already? Carrying the social niceties was exhausting. For the fifteen minutes since his arrival, Sophie refused to speak to the captain. Harriet was primed to cheerfully throttle her baby sister the moment he left. She took a small sip of tea. It tasted bitter, like stewed dandelion leaves, and a wave of nausea hit her.

       Despite the tense atmosphere, Brookes responded to her stilted questions and followed the social rites like any good soldier would when confronted with a changed situation. Harriet burned with shame. When the clock chimed the half hour, he rose from his chair, nodding briefly at Sophie. Harriet helped him gather his greatcoat and hat, and showed him to the door, leaving Sophie sitting like a graceful wooden statue on the settee.

       “Please, Captain.” She grabbed him, ignoring the tingle that ran through her fingers when she clasped his muscled forearm. “Forgive my sister. I am sure it is the shock of seeing you again that has affected her so. I beg you, please call again soon. Sophie will rally, of that I am sure.”

       “Please do not distress yourself, Miss Handley.” He put on his hat with careless assurance. “I had a pleasant afternoon and am most happy to see your family again. I shall be delighted to call on you soon.” He closed the door behind him with a decisive click.

       Harriet grasped the cool brass doorknob for a moment, her head bowed. What a bitter reception Sophie offered the captain. He deserved better. A lump formed in her throat when she pictured him riding out into the rain, returning to his lonely home. How humiliated and angry he must be. She longed to run after him, and beg his forgiveness on Sophie’s behalf. She closed her eyes, praying for strength. Then she lifted her head and trudged back to the parlor. Assuming her best “elder sister” expression, she prepared to take Sophie to task.

       Sophie raised her tearstained face when Harriet entered. Her beautiful curls were no longer tucked up neatly, but instead cascaded down her back, giving her the look of a Botticellian angel. She twisted her handkerchief in her hands. “Oh, Hattie,” she whispered. “He’s changed so much…” Her voice broke and she wept anew. “Sister, I don’t love him. I don’t love John Brookes.”

       She glanced at the spindly chair that Captain Brookes had occupied earlier. It looked so insubstantial