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An Officer But No Gentleman
Bronwyn Scott
London, 1839Ex-cavalry officer Captain Grahame Westmore is restless for change, but escorting a diplomat’s spoiled daughter to Vienna isn’t what he had in mind—though for once he hasn’t been hired for his skills in pleasuring women! Independent, fiery and strong-willed, Elowyn Bagshaw is not the simpering lady he expected. Used to getting her own way and giving the orders, Elowyn will not be controlled so easily. Grahame soon realizes that he’s got a fight on his hands—and it’s one they’re both going to enjoy!Rakes Who Make Husbands JealousOnly London's best lovers need apply!


London, 1839
Former cavalry officer Captain Grahame Westmore is restless for change, but escorting a diplomat’s spoiled daughter to Vienna isn’t what he had in mind—though for once he hasn’t been hired for his skills in pleasuring women! Independent, fiery and strong willed, Elowyn Bagshaw is not the simpering lady he expected. Used to getting her own way and giving the orders, Elowyn will not be controlled so easily. Grahame soon realizes that he’s got a fight on his hands—and it’s one they’re both going to enjoy!
Rakes Who Make Husbands Jealous
Only London’s best lovers need apply!
An Officer
but no
Gentleman
Bronwyn Scott


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Author’s Note
Meet our next gentleman escort, Captain Grahame Westmore—or perhaps you remember him from before? Grahame made an appearance in Nick’s story, Secrets of A Gentleman Escort, at the house party. Now he’s back in a story of his own.
He’s off to Vienna to take up a position at the Spanish Riding School, but on the way he has to escort a diplomat’s daughter to her father’s latest posting. He thinks he knows all there is to know about diplomats’ daughters, but nothing has prepared him for Elowyn. She’s strong, determined and passionate. She’s a woman who takes what she wants, and she wants him! Grahame has met his match when he least expected it.
The story is a sexy road-trip romp but, underneath it all, a reminder that love can find you when you least expect it, and sometimes making the choice to love is the toughest decision of all.
Enjoy!
I’ll see you on my blog at bronwynswriting.blogspot.com (http://bronwynswriting.blogspot.ca).
Dedication
For my friends Leslie and Jim. Just because.
Contents
Chapter One (#ufba115cf-75a9-5cb0-92ea-c0251e8bfdd8)
Chapter Two (#u94c7aa80-fcab-572f-a640-33b31af3e660)
Chapter Three (#u82028342-1369-5160-9d2b-a1e9ca2efc03)
Chapter Four (#u38ece6b8-5f93-56c8-b7e1-a7414b9ce56e)
Chapter Five (#uf20c7b0f-44e1-52bd-8ede-732bc1ee84ca)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
London, Fall 1839
Some men thrived in peacetime. Captain Grahame Westmore definitely wasn’t one of them. His army, the Queen’s army, didn’t need him anymore and four years of London life had left him restless for a change. That restlessness caused him to eye the file on Channing Deveril’s desk with a mixture of suspicion and anticipation as he paced the league’s office. Would the next assignment be the adventure he was looking for? He doubted it. His work for the league was starting to pale, not that he’d ever tell Channing. He probably didn’t have to. Channing likely already knew.
“Go ahead, open it.” Channing grinned and sat back in his chair, hands steepled in supreme confidence. Someone who didn’t know Channing well would take that grin as a sign of complete unawareness to the restlessness plaguing him. But Grahame knew better. Channing was not given to obliviousness. It would be a mistake to assume otherwise. As the founder of the League of Discreet Gentlemen, an underground organization dedicated to the pursuit of women’s pleasure, Channing prided himself on perfectly matching his men to their missions. As a result, Grahame’s senses were on high alert. What was he about to be matched with? Or more appropriate, to whom?
Grahame picked up the folder with healthy skepticism. Something was definitely afoot. Channing was far too smug this morning. He opened the folder and scanned the brief for pertinent information. Details could come later. He saw all he needed to make his decision. He slid the folder back across the desk and gave Channing his one-word answer. “No.”
“No?” Channing arched a blond eyebrow. “Care to have a seat and tell me why? You’ll wear me out with all that pacing.”
Grahame took the chair. He could humor Channing in that respect, at least. He was not taking this assignment. “I’m a cavalry officer not a nursemaid.”
“Ex-cavalry officer,” Channing corrected. “And I think your skills in that regard make you the ideal candidate. I admit it’s not our usual. We’re escorts, not bodyguards, but when this opportunity came up in conversation I immediately thought of you.”
Grahame sat up a little straighter, instantly wary. Now they were getting somewhere. “You didn’t already commit me without my approval?” It was one of the rules of the league that no one be forced into an assignment. In their line of work, where assignments ranged anywhere from providing an innocuous escort to an opera or ball to more physically intimate engagements, consent was essential.
Channing gave an easy shrug. “I simply told the people in question I might have a man for them.”
“Then you can tell them you were mistaken. I am qualified to lead men in battle, not play governess to a diplomat’s spoiled daughter,” Grahame replied firmly. Squiring a diplomat’s daughter to her father’s new post was not his idea of anything remotely positive. He knew the sort. He’d seen how diplomats traveled during his time in the military. He wouldn’t just be moving a daughter. He’d be shepherding a household. She’d come with wagons of luggage, carriages of servants and an attitude to match. These daughters were the children of second and third sons, often raised with an eye toward privilege as granddaughters of earls and viscounts. As such, Grahame found them to be usually unsuited for the difficulties of travel.
“I must respectfully disagree with your assessment.” Channing remained unfazed by his firm response. “You are not giving yourself enough credit. If you can organize a troop of men on horseback in the melee of battle, I would think moving one woman and her luggage would be easily done. Additionally, you’re competent with a variety of arms and could defend her little cavalcade if necessary.”
Now that pricked. “Competent? I am more than competent with pistols and saber.” It was a point of pride that he was known in high military circles for his skill with weapons on horseback. He’d worked hard for that reputation, learning early on that without a title, perfection was his only route to respect.
Channing just smiled. “Exactly. As I said, you’re perfect. Don’t you even want to know where she’s going?”
“It won’t make a difference.” There was only one place Grahame wanted to go, only one place that had any need for his unique skills, but it was a continent away and it would mean leaving Channing, something he was reluctant to do. It would leave Channing shorthanded at the agency. Channing had always been loyal to him. Now he had a chance to return the favor by staying.
“I think it will,” Channing said quietly. Grahame tried not to shift in his seat. Channing’s incessant smiling was making him nervous. He liked Channing Deveril immensely but Channing had an unnerving talent to literally read people like books, which was a good thing, Grahame reasoned, because Channing didn’t read. It wasn’t that he couldn’t read, the man was certainly literate, he simply didn’t. But that talent was deuced awkward when it was turned on him. It meant Channing knew something he did not and that made Grahame uneasy, indeed.
“All right then, tell me.” The room had suddenly become fraught with an invisible air of anticipation. Grahame far preferred the foe he could see.
Channing pulled out another file from his desk. He pushed it toward him and spoke one word into the tense silence. “Vienna.”
Of all the words Channing could have spoken, this was the one he couldn’t resist. Vienna, home of the Spanish riding school, the very place that had written two weeks ago and asked him to come for an interview on the eighteenth of the month. They thought perhaps they could use an instructor of his caliber on horseback and with his distinct specialty in sabrage, a gentleman’s art to be sure.
Vienna represented everything he’d been chasing since he’d known what it was he hungered for—the chance to belong, the type of belonging that came with a sense of permanence and respect, not because of birth but because of skill.
Grahame blew out a breath and gave in to the urge to shift in his seat. He crossed and recrossed his legs. He wasn’t like the others here: not like Channing, an earl’s second son, or Jocelyn Eisley, heir to an earldom, or even the recently married and retired Nicholas D’Arcy who was at least the son of gentry. He, Grahame Westmore, was nothing. He’d earned his commission, not bought it. He’d fought for his leg up in the world every step of the way. To have been an English officer and to now be invited to the Spanish riding school in Vienna, was the best he could hope for, a dream, really, for a boy of his humbling beginnings.
“You know very well what that means to me,” Grahame said slowly. “I would escort the devil himself in order to get to Vienna.”
Channing nodded. “Then I’ll take that as a yes. But you’re cutting it pretty fine. They’ll expect you to arrive on time if you’re serious.”
Grahame gave a tight grimace. He knew what it meant to escort the devil. There’d be hell to pay.
Chapter Two
What the devil was going on down there? The sound of barked orders and the hurried march of booted feet on hardwood floors brought Elowyn Bagshaw to the balustrade overlooking the townhouse foyer. Below her, footmen carried boxes and trunks out the door, maids scurried to and fro with last-minute packing supplies. Everyone was organized and purposeful in their tasks, the chaos of moving minimized with efficiency and it was all wrong, every last bit of it, starting with the fact that they weren’t moving.
At least not today. She should know. She’d been moving her father’s household since she was fifteen. Boxes and trunks weren’t scheduled to be loaded until Thursday and by all accounts, today was Tuesday. She knew exactly where to place the blame—Captain Grahame Westmore, a man she’d met only by letter. More like by note. The two lines he’d sent over yesterday hardly qualified as a letter.
The culprit stood with his back—his very wide, broad-shouldered back—to her, directing it all, looking for all intents as a man on a mission. There was a bridled urgency to the way he ordered the staff, as if it mattered how quickly this task could be done.
It had not been hard to pick him out. Her eyes had found him with little effort. Elowyn suspected he would be easy to spot in any room. His physical presence reeked of command. Captain Westmore was taller than most men, his hair longer, his shoulders broader and his stance wider. Attributes which were all emphasized by the absence of his coat. There were other attributes emphasized, too, like the firm, muscled contours of his buttocks encased in snug riding breeches. She’d always had a weakness for horsemen. There was nothing sexier than a well-made man in tight breeches.
Still, a delicious derriere and the fact the hall was emptying at an impressive pace didn’t excuse his arrogance. It would have been nice if he’d seen fit to consult her before he started carting up her mother’s china without so much as a by your leave. She was in charge here. He took orders, he didn’t give them.
Elowyn started down the staircase, ready to do battle. It was not her first choice of introduction but he’d left her no option with his unorthodox barging in. It would be a long trip to Vienna if she didn’t put him in his place. One should always begin as one meant to go on; it was the essential rule of establishing control in any relationship. If Westmore thought he could just walk into her home and start moving her things without permission, who knew what other presumptions he’d make?
A bit of naughty excitement trilled through her. There were presumptions and then there were presumptions. He looked like a man who didn’t let the difference stop him. Dear Lord, she hadn’t even officially met him and her imagination was already running away with her. Now was not the time. There was business to take care of. When he’d written to say he’d call in the morning, she’d never equated that two-line statement with this.
Elowyn raised her voice to be heard over the noise. “What do you think you’re doing, Captain?” The foyer fell silent, all activity freezing in motion at the sound of her challenge. Captain Westmore pivoted toward her and advanced, hands on lean hips, drawing her eyes to the core of his swagger—hips, pelvis and the place in between.
What had been impressive physicality at a distance was imposing masculinity up close. Elowyn took an involuntary step up the staircase to establish an equality of heights and tried to focus her gaze on the rugged features of his face instead of that one place a well-bred lady never looked on a man. It would have certainly helped if he’d been wearing a coat. Then again, the man fairly exuded raw sexuality. It was likely to find its way out regardless of how many coats he put on. Well, this was just fabulous. Her father had managed to hire the most dashing guard in London.
“What does it look like I’m doing, princess?” Westmore planted a booted foot on the bottom stair and gave her a gray-eyed perusal that suggested the answer to his question was less about moving boxes and more about something else altogether, something that sent a slow trail of heat straight to her stomach.
Elowyn met his gaze evenly. “It’s hard to say, since what it appears you’re doing isn’t scheduled for another two days.”
“There’s been a change of plan.”
That was it? There was no attempt at an apology, no effort to be conciliatory. Not even an explanation. This was not the attitude of a model employee.
Elowyn crossed her arms and stood her ground. Leave it to her father to also hire the most arrogant escort available. She was beginning to wonder if her father had even met Westmore. He wasn’t really her father’s type. “Since when do you make the plans, Captain?”
“Since the weather changed.” Again, the unrepentant stare. “My sources on the Channel coast say there’s a storm moving in. Unless you want to be holed up in an inn with your wagons stuck in a stable yard for a few days, we leave now and hope we can beat the weather.”
She hated being cornered. The captain had to know very well she wouldn’t want the wagons exposed to the elements and possible theft any more than they had to be.
Captain Westmore gestured to the room behind him, now empty of boxes. “I believe we’re packed. We’re just waiting on you, miss.”
She wanted to wipe that self-satisfied smile off his face. There was winning and then there was gloating. He was gloating. He thought he had the upper hand. The captain was about to get his comeuppance. “I believe you are mistaken. There are still the trunks in my room. I always have them loaded last so they’ll be first off.”
He raised a dark eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“I’m afraid it is.” Elowyn gave him a sweet smile and moved past him, unable to resist a parting shot. “You would have known if you’d asked first.” Round one to her. Elowyn stopped in the foyer to claim her victor’s prize. She got to watch that derriere of his go up the stairs five times. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d enjoyed moving quite so much.
Chapter Three
Grahame couldn’t recall the last time he’d enjoyed ruffling someone’s feathers quite so much. He whistled a little tune atop his big bay stallion, Aramis, as London disappeared behind them. Miss Bagshaw had shown a surprising amount of fire this morning when faced with his dictatorial orders regarding an early departure.
True, it would have been easier if she’d meekly acquiesced. Meek acquiescence was always easier but a lot less fun. It was also true that she lived up to his expectations, or down, depending on how one looked at them. She was a diplomat’s daughter, haughty and used to getting her own way. When she’d stared him down with green eyes, hard as emerald shards, he knew he’d been right on that account. But she’d done more than stare in anger. She’d also stared in interest.
He’d not been oblivious to the gaze that had followed him up the stairs. Over the years, he’d come to know when a woman wanted him. He’d also come to know when things could be allowed to progress that far. This was not one of those jobs. This was not escorting a notorious widow to a ball or accompanying a lonely woman to the opera while her husband was out of town. Elowyn Bagshaw fit into neither of the usual categories. She was a diplomat’s daughter.
It was a pity, really. Her demeanor suggested she was a passionate woman by nature, a woman who had not reached her mid-twenties without some experimentation. The realization wasn’t all that surprising considering her extensive travel and the fact other countries had more lenient outlooks on female sexual purity—outlooks he personally favored. He could well imagine all that carefully coiffed chestnut hair of hers falling over naked shoulders, candlelight limning her curves in provocative shadows as she sat astride her lover. Of course, her lover would have to be a man who could take that attitude of hers in hand or she’d never respect him. Respect was just as essential in bed as it was elsewhere.
Grahame shifted uncomfortably in the saddle against the pressure of a growing arousal. His little fantasy had brought on a rather awkward erection. It was not a pleasant way to ride. He turned in his saddle and surveyed the road behind him for distraction, anything to keep his mind off more prurient subjects. The five wagons of goods stretched out at decent intervals and were keeping up but the going was slow. Caravans were always slow. At this rate it would take two days to reach Dover. It would put their arrival on Thursday night. They could sail on Friday, just ahead of the reported storm front.
Grahame drummed an impatient hand on his thigh. When he had thought of all the inconveniences that would manifest themselves on the journey to Vienna, he’d not counted celibacy among them. He’d been hired for her safety, not her seduction. Never mind that she had a siren’s own body and a caramel cascade of Rapunzel-esque hair that would drive any man mad. She was not in the job description and he’d do well to remember it. A woman like her never would be. Single women of her background had expectations of their men like titles, wealth, social standing, none of which he had to offer. Elowyn Bagshaw was off-limits.
The captain was technically off-limits but that didn’t stop her eye, or her maid’s, she noted, from wandering to the coach window on frequent occasion to view the masculine scenery. Elowyn had come to the conclusion long ago that she was a woman who liked men and there was no point in pretending otherwise. However, there was always a point in being judicious with one’s behavior. Her first lover, a French vicomte of incomparable charm, had chosen her, but she had chosen the other two—an Italian count and a Russian prince, both of whom had understood the discretion and sophistication required of a successful physical affair. They’d also understood the need for brevity in such circumstances. Nothing lasted forever. She preferred it that way. Control was essential. Brevity was essential. Possession, however, was not. In fact, possession, in most cases, had a tendency to undermine the other two.
Elowyn glanced back out the window. Would the captain understand that? He was a man of the world. He’d seen much of Europe with the military. With his rank, he’d have been invited to balls and parties. He would have met women who would have welcomed a short dalliance with a strong, attractive officer. Yet she did not have the impression it was a world to which he’d been born.
Outside, the captain kicked his horse into a trot. Elowyn bit the knuckle of her thumb. If he was half as good in bed as he was on that horse, he’d be magnificent. “Do you think the captain is out of bounds, Annie?”
Her maid looked up from her knitting with a knowing smile. “He’s a fine figure of a man, miss. The way he hauled those trunks downstairs this morning drew more than a couple of eyes.”
“That wasn’t my question.” Elowyn grinned and nudged Annie’s toe playfully with her boot. “Do you think he’s open to a little sport?”
“Of course. He’s a man, isn’t he? Which of them isn’t?” Annie laughed. “The question is who with? I don’t think you can expect him to make any opening overtures if he’s a man of honor and if he’s not, then you’re better off without him, no matter how well he rides.”
Elowyn tapped her index finger against her lips in thought. That had been her assessment, too. “Then it’s up to me to make the first move.” That suited her just fine. Making the first move gave one a certain modicum of control from the very start, the power to define the course of the relationship and set the rules. Although, she supposed that hot stare he’d given her on the steps could have counted as his opening salvo.
She was already mentally choosing possible gowns. Tonight at supper would be the perfect opportunity to make her intentions known, but not before she had a little payback for the upheaval he’d caused this morning. She didn’t want to reward him for usurping her authority. If she was too easy he’d never respect her and she’d give away the control she valued so much in a relationship. By her estimate, they had two more hours before they’d stop for the evening. Just enough time to plan a perfect welcome reception for the captain.
She was all regal authority when she descended from the coach into the noisy yard at the inn. Elowyn had taken great efforts to appear as perfectly pressed and coiffed as she had that morning. She and Annie had put her traveling case to good use those last two hours to ensure she captured the captain’s eye. A tired and mussed appearance drew no one’s eye. He was over by the horses, holding their heads and talking with the driver. Ah, good, he saw her. She had his attention now. It was time for step two, a little harmless revenge.
Elowyn marshaled her troops with a gesture of her hand, the merest tilt of her head, issuing orders that left no misunderstanding as to who was in charge of this little expedition. “I’ll need those two trunks. Annie, follow them up so I know the trunks get to my room. Then I’ll need a bath set up right away and my sheets on the bed.” She turned to the driver, “Christopher, see that the horses are rubbed down and have an extra ration tonight. We want to leave early in the morning.”
That did the trick. Orders about the horses had infringed on his territory directly. The captain was by her side immediately. His hand took up proprietary residence at the small of her back, sending hot spears of excitement through her, his quick-silver eyes glinting with displeasure, but not entirely. Not too far off limits then, Elowyn thought smugly. He could be swayed with the right inducements.
He propelled her toward the common room, his head bent toward her, his mouth close to her ear in a way that suggested familiarity and intimacy to onlookers, a lover’s gesture, his words for her alone. But his words were not lover’s words. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Elowyn gave him a coy smile. “That is the burning question of the day, isn’t it?”
Chapter Four
Grahame knew very well what she was doing. He had no doubt her show was for his benefit, a payback for usurping her authority this morning. But payback or not, it was garnering the wrong kind of attention from the wrong kind of men as they made their way across the crowded inn yard, and it made Grahame uneasy. Not every eye in the place belonged to a gentleman he’d classify as reputable, or even as a gentleman, for that matter. “You’re a bit spoiled, I’d say.”
“You’re a little close, I’d say.” Elowyn tossed her head and tried to move away but he held fast. He knew what these men were thinking. A man who couldn’t stand up to a woman wasn’t a man at all. If he backed down, it would be nothing short of blood in the water. Elowyn would be fair game for any man there. He knew what Elowyn was thinking, too; she could handle them. She’d be wrong.
He ushered her through the door to the public room, regretting his decision to pass up the inn in the town an hour back in lieu of this one. This inn was well positioned for staging tomorrow’s journey and it was an inn he knew, at least he thought he did. He didn’t recall it having such a rough clientele the last few times he’d stayed here.
“Two trunks? Is such excess really necessary?” He kept his voice low at her ear, hoping to prove to those about them she belonged to him. She smelled good, like lemongrass and wildflowers, even after a long day in a coach. Grahame shot a hard look at the two men lounging near the door who hadn’t quite taken the hint yet. Lucifer’s balls, crossing that yard had been nothing short of charging through a battlefield facing enemy fire. He gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim interior only to discover it was very much a case of “out of the frying pan and into the fire.” The room was noisy and crowded, full of rough working men, not all of whom, Grahame guessed, were legally employed. “We’ll hardly be here twelve hours.”
“One is for bedding,” Elowyn said as if that excused the need for two trunks.
“In case you didn’t know, one usually uses a man for that.”
“Are you always this audacious?” She snapped.
“Me? I’m not the one announcing to all and sundry I will be naked in my room shortly.”
Emerald eyes met his, burning with green fire. “I have done no such thing.”
“You most certainly did when you called for a bath.” He paused and arched an eyebrow. “Unless I’m mistaken and you intend to bathe with your clothes on?”
She looked at him as if he were the most ridiculous man she’d ever met. “You know very well I don’t intend to bathe in my clothes.” It was said a tad too loudly. Too late, she realized her mistake. Color rose becomingly in Elowyn’s cheeks. “I hadn’t thought of it quite like that.”
His grip relaxed. She was starting to understand. “I assure you, my dear, they most certainly did.” He gave a nod past her shoulder to indicate the overpopulated tap room beyond. “I don’t find the notion unappealing and I’d wager last month’s salary these men don’t, either.”
The innkeeper hurried over, drying his hands on a towel. “Captain Westmore, my apologies for the clientele. There’s a cockfight in the next town over. We’re full to the rafters but I’ve got your rooms and a parlor set aside for dinner.”
Grahame smiled. “It’s good to see you, Horace. I remember your wife’s cooking fondly. I am sure all arrangements will be satisfactory.” The cockfight explained it. Those with money would have taken rooms closer to the event. The knowledge, though, was merely a consolation prize. It wasn’t going to make his job any easier tonight when it came to protecting Elowyn, who clearly had no idea she needed protecting. Beside him, she gave a huff at being pointedly ignored in the exchange with the innkeeper and mounted the stairs with a final order. “My maid will be coming with my trunks. Please direct her to my rooms.”
Grahame watched her go with a chuckle. The innkeeper shot him a considering glance. “I’d say the chit’s a bit spoilt. If you want my advice, best take that one in hand before it’s too late or she’ll walk all over you.”
Grahame grinned. “Horace, I was just thinking the same thing.” He was also thinking dinner would be very entertaining. Miss Bagshaw had not liked being thwarted in her show of power and she would not let it pass without comment. Grahame found himself looking forward to what that response might be. She’d chosen competition and challenge as her flirtatious weapons today and used them to her advantage.
She’d chosen wisely. He liked strong women, women who weren’t afraid to stand up to him or put off by his more earthy approaches. The simpering miss was not for him. He had no use for women who portrayed themselves as nothing more than pretty dolls. He was starting to have no use for his self-enforced rules of celibacy, either. Just because Miss Bagshaw had not hired him to seduce her didn’t mean he couldn’t. It just meant he wasn’t being paid for it—a concept that held some novelty in itself. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been part of a real seduction, not the paid fictions he played out nightly for London’s more adventurous women. A real seduction. It could be fun. And why not?
Oh, Grahame didn’t kid himself. There were legitimate reasons as to why not—her father’s trust that he’d behave as a gentleman, although her father hadn’t even bothered to meet him. The man had simply taken Channing’s word, an agreement between gentlemen. That was the other reason, his loyalty to Channing. He had no desire to bring scandal to Channing if word of this dalliance ever reached England. But even that was doubtful. If he had to lay money on it, he’d bet Miss Bagshaw was a woman of discretion, and secrets on the road were far easier to hide, especially in foreign countries where no one knew your language, let alone your name. Hmm. It seemed the reasons for resisting were shrinking.
Salvos had been fired from both sides now. It wasn’t as if he were forcing the issue. He could argue he was merely responding accordingly to opening maneuvers. If there was one thing Miss Bagshaw had proven she could do today, it was that she could play the game men and women had played since the beginning of the world, and she could play it well. Fortunately for her, so could he. It was time to cast off any notion of celibacy and see where the game led.
Chapter Five
It was time to make her intentions clear. Elowyn swept down the stairs, fully confident she could tempt the captain. Exactly how far she could tempt him remained to be seen but that was half the fun. After all, what thrill, what challenge was there in a chase to which she already knew the conclusion?
Elowyn paused briefly outside the private parlor and smoothed her skirts. One must go fully armed to the hunt, and she’d done just that. She’d dressed carefully for her campaign in a gown of crushed gold silk embroidered with muted green and orange leaves at the hem. She straightened the topaz necklace at her throat, a gift from her Russian prince. She tightened the barrette in her hair. She’d opted to wear her hair loose tonight, caught back at her nape with a simple gold barrette due to time constraints. Her hair had taken longer than she had estimated to dry it and there had been no time to put it up. Satisfied that all was in place, Elowyn squared her shoulders, lifted her chin and put on her smile. It was the same ritual she went through before meeting her father’s important guests when he entertained. Although this promised to be far more exciting. Let the negotiations begin.

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