How to Woo a Spinster. Кейси Майклс

awake, and not in the middle of a nightmare that incongruously somehow included a man best described as the perfect lover of her more pleasant dreams.

      “Lady Emmaline? May I please summon someone now?”

      She shook her head, unable to speak. She waited for the tears, but they didn’t come. In all, she felt rather numb. What had been the last words Charlton had said to her five days ago before climbing into his traveling coach behind George and Harold? Oh yes, she remembered. Make me a happy man, sister mine. Run off with one of the grooms before we get back!

      Her nephews had laughed hard and long at their father’s joke. She could still hear them laughing as the coach moved off down the drive.

      Emmaline snapped herself back to the moment at hand.

      “Was…um, was there a storm?” She didn’t know why she asked this. But she felt it was something at least halfway sensible to say, something to break the oppressive silence.

      “No, ma’am. Not anything I’d call a storm, at least. As I understand the thing from speaking with the survivor, a Mr. Hugh Hobart, the captain was intoxicated and belowdecks at the time, and one of your nephews was at the helm. Waves are powerful things, ma’am, even on a day that could only be called choppy from the wind along the Channel. Ride with the waves and you fly across the water. Hit one of them wrong, and even a sturdy ship can crack like an egg.”

      He looked at her, wincing. “I’m sorry. That was stupidly clumsy of me. I shouldn’t say that the tragedy could be laid at your nephew’s door.”

      “The yacht was a recent…acquisition. I can’t imagine what either George or Harold could have been thinking, to attempt to take the wheel like that. But that’s what this Mr. Hobart told you?”

      The captain nodded. “The man was rather overset and unintelligible. But, yes, he said his friend Harold was at the helm. That is—was—one of your nephews, correct?”

      Emmaline nodded, still waiting to cry. She should be crying, shouldn’t she? Clearly Captain Alastair believed she should be weeping, in need of comfort. She was an unnatural sister, that’s what she was, and an unnatural aunt.

      Because all she could feel, of the little she seemed capable of feeling, was relief…

      Chapter Two

      John Alastair was certain he’d felt more uncomfortable in his lifetime, but at the moment he could not recall anything that measured remotely close to the impotence he felt as he sat across from the bravely stoic Lady Emmaline Daughtry.

      He wasn’t certain what he’d been expecting from the woman once he’d delivered his terrible news. Tears, protestations that he was wrong, slightly buckling knees or even an outright swoon necessitating burnt feathers being passed beneath her nose to revive her.

      He was in considerable awe of the woman, even as he was grateful that he wouldn’t have to deal with a hysterical female, as he did not believe playing the role of sympathetic comforter was one of his stronger suits.

      Although the thought of having Lady Emmaline in his arms as he comforted her probably appealed to him more than it should.

      The late duke’s valet, whom John had run to ground at a tavern in Shoreham-by-Sea, had rather grudgingly informed him that Lady Emmaline was the late duke’s closest relative, and then gone back to drinking himself under the table, bemoaning the loss of his master. John had asked that the man accompany him to Ashurst Hall, but the valet had demurred, pointing out that there was nothing for him there anymore so he’d stay where he was for the nonce before returning to Ashurst Hall, thank you very much, and then maybe take himself to London to find a new position. When the valet began loudly complaining that he’d have to find that new employment without aid of a written recommendation, considering that the duke was currently fish food, John left the useless man where he was, and good riddance.

      He left feeling certain that whatever belongings of the duke and his sons had remained in their rooms at the tavern would soon be sold in order to line the servant’s pockets, but it wasn’t as if he could command the fellow to show him the way to Ashurst Hall. Instead, he’d commandeered the duke’s crested traveling coach and set out to be the Bearer of Sad News.

      News Lady Emmaline Daughtry seemed to be taking exceedingly well. What sort of men were the late duke and his sons? The valet had cried…the sister had not?

      John studied her as she spooned sugar into her tea and then added cream, her hands steady, her movements graceful. She was a mature woman, little of the girl about her. Her blond hair was styled very simply, swept up and back, away from her face, which showed her smooth chin line and remarkable cheekbones to his admiring eyes. Her brown eyes were rather long, their shape definitely bordering on the exotic, although she did not use them to their best advantage.

      Not that he’d expected her to flirt with him. For the love of heaven, what was he thinking? This was probably what happened when a man hadn’t stepped foot onshore, let alone been in the company of a beautiful woman, in more than half a year.

      “Lady Emmaline?”

      “Yes, Captain?” Still slightly bent toward the tea tray, she looked up at him from beneath her curiously dark eyelashes. Now she was using her eyes as they were meant to be used. Except he doubted she realized that, even as he was certain she couldn’t know how his traitorous body had reacted to the look of vulnerability he saw in those soft brown depths.

      “I apologize again for being the one to bring you such disturbing news, and feel I have intruded on your sorrow long enough. I took advantage of having your coachman drive me here in the duke’s coach, so I would be most appreciative of the loan of a horse so that I might be installed at an inn before nightfall. I’ll see that the horse is returned tomorrow.”

      “You…you’re leaving?”

      It seemed a strange question. But he couldn’t ignore the sudden apprehension in her voice. What was wrong with him? She’d told him she was alone here. Alone, and most probably completely at sea as to what she should next do.

      As if to help decide the question of his departure, there was a loud boom of thunder just as the skies seemed to open in a downpour that would have had him soaked to the skin in moments were he to step outside.