How to Treat a Lady (13 page)

“Wh—I—I never thought about—that is—” She snapped her mouth closed for a full minute while Chase watched. “Captain Frakenham, that is not a proper topic of conversation, even for an engaged couple.”

“How can you say that? Who other than an engaged couple would discuss—”

She whirled and marched to the door and on to the dining room.

Chase followed along, noting with growing pleasure the fine, firm lines of her back and the curve of her rump through the thin material of her dress.

Oh yes, it was good to be a sea captain. Very good indeed.

C
hase allowed Harriet to herd him into the dining hall. He supposed their tête-à-tête was over.

Mrs. Ward turned toward them with a relieved expression. “There you are! We were beginning to wonder if you'd gotten lost.”

Chase smiled. “Hardly that. I stole a few moments with your charming daughter.”

Mrs. Ward looked at Harriet and apparently read her own meaning into Harriet's flushed cheeks and thin-lipped expression. “Well!” Mrs. Ward said in a hurried voice. “We should eat. Captain Frakenham, you sit there. And Harriet will sit beside you.”

“Excellent.” Chase made a show of holding Harriet's seat, which seemed to delight her sisters.
Ophelia beamed approvingly, while Sophia sighed as if he'd done something quite romantic. Chase made sure to let his hands brush Harriet's very upright shoulders before he took his own place beside her.

She shot him a wary look, as if uncertain he'd touched her on purpose. Chase just smiled blandly back, though he wondered at the silken feel of her skin beneath his fingertips.

Almost immediately the first course was served and soon a pleasant babble of conversation broke over the table. Chase found himself relaxing as the meal progressed.

Normally, at a formal dinner, one conversed with the person to either one's left or right and never across the table or down it. The Wards, however, much like his own family, eschewed this rather rigid conventionality, at least in the comfort of their own home.

Which was a good thing because with Derrick sitting to one side, apparently deep in thought as his gaze never left his plate, and Harriet stiffly sitting on the other, Chase would have had no conversation at all.

As it was, Sophia and Ophelia made several attempts to pull him into a conversation, all of which he avoided with great skill. He began to realize that playing the part of a man with no memory made casual conversation a rather difficult chore.

Eventually, they ceased trying and turned their attention to Stephen, who sat at the head of the table, his posture a bit arrogant. Chase supposed the whipster had taken his father's place as was appropriate, much to the chagrin of his siblings.

Chase smiled to himself. There was a warmth to
the Wards that reminded him of his own family. He and his brothers and sister didn't see so much of one another any longer of course, since two of his brothers and his sister were married. But still, they'd had many a laugh over the dinner table growing up.

Sophia leaned across the table. “Captain Frakenham, do you know the waltz? I hear they are dancing it all over London.”

Chase opened his mouth to respond, then caught sight of Harriet's dark brown eyes as they rested on him, watchful as ever.

He knew how to waltz. In fact, he loved the dance. But he made himself shrug. “I'm afraid I don't remember. But if it should come back to me, I would be delighted to teach you all, with your mother's approval.”

She waved a hand. “If they're doing it in drawing rooms all over London, I'm certain it would be fine to attempt it at Garrett Park.”

Sophia gave a happy bounce. “Oh! That would be lovely!”

“Captain Frakenham”—Ophelia leaned forward eagerly—“what about the Sir Roger? Do you know that dance as well?”

Harriet shifted in her chair. “Let the man eat. You may speak to him another time.”

“Oh, let them ask me what they will,” Chase said magnanimously. “I've nothing to hide.” Just things he couldn't mention.

“Of course you have nothing to hide. And even if you did, you wouldn't remember it, anyway,” she said with some asperity.

“That's true.” He pursed his lips together. “I suppose it is possible that I committed some dire deed on my way here.”

“How do you know you didn't commit a dire deed before that?”

“Because if I'd committed a sin prior to that, I'm sure you would never have made me welcome to begin with.”

Harriet glanced sideways at him and said under her breath, “I'm not so certain we should make you welcome now.”

He picked up his water glass and replied, “You are certainly cruel to someone whom you are supposedly in love with.”

“Perhaps I accepted your hand for your wealth. We are certainly in need of it now.”

Chase's lips twitched. Harriet Ward pulled no punches. He rather liked that. “Wealth? But I am a sea captain. Do sea captains
possess
that much money? And if so, where do they get it?”

“From their trade.” Harriet used her fork to spear a bit of lettuce. “Captain Frakenham is a very wealthy man. We told the bank he was waiting on a payment from a shipment he'd made of Chinese silks.”

“You told the bank?” Chase lifted his water glass to hide his smile. “Strange. You make it sound as if I didn't know about this supposed payment. Did you make it up?”

Her lips folded in apparent irritation. “You misunderstood me. We didn't make up anything at all. Captain Frakenham—you—are very well off.”

She was so damned prim. His head wound must have muddled him worse than he thought, for he couldn't help but think of ways to shake her from her complacency. Ways involving his mouth on hers, his hands on her trim waist. His body reacted to the startlingly heated idea.

“You intrigue me, Miss Ward.” He slid slightly to one side in his chair so that his knee grazed hers.

She jerked at the touch, nearly upsetting the gravy bowl. “Oh piffle!” she snapped. “Stop that, will you?”

“Harriet!” Mrs. Ward said, blinking in astonishment. “There's no need to be upset. You didn't spill a thing.”

Harriet's cheeks turned scarlet. “Sorry,” she mumbled, shooting a venomous gaze at Chase.

He returned the look innocently enough as he cut the mutton that had been set on his plate.

“Captain Frakenham,” Stephen suddenly said, from where he sat down the table. “It's jolly good to have you back.”

“Thank you.” Chase eyed the boy curiously. Though Stephen had addressed one or two comments his way, he'd hardly been enthusiastic in his welcome.

Now, however, Stephen's smile was almost blinding. “I daresay you'll be glad to see the improvements in the barn since you were last here.” His eyes twinkled. “You remember the
barn
, don't you?”

Chase frowned. “The barn?”

“Oh yes,” Stephen said. “You've always liked the barn.” He gave a significant look at Harriet. “Hasn't he?”

Chase glanced her way and caught the veriest hint of a grin. What was this? Captain Frakenham liked the barn? What were these two up to?

“I don't remember being partial to the barn…Of course, I don't remember much of anything. Did I spend much time there?”

“Oh yes,” Stephen said. “Nearly every day.”

Harriet nodded. “You were quite, quite fond of the barn. We couldn't keep you away from it.”

“And the sheep,” Derrick added smugly, looking up from his plate for the first time.

“All told, Captain, it's a good thing you're here,” Stephen said cheerily, waving his fork in the air. “We could use your help with the shearing, especially since I hurt my leg.”

Chase paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. “I beg your pardon. Did you say ‘shearing'?”

Harriet nodded, her face wreathed in a smug smile. “Sheep. It's what we do here at Garrett Park, we raise sheep, shear them, and sell their wool. And now that you're here, you can help.”

Chase wasn't entirely certain what shearing entailed, but it certainly sounded onerous. A hot, dirty task, he would assume. The Wards had to be mad to think he'd do such a thing—shear sheep indeed. It was one thing to pretend he was a sea captain, another to forget altogether who and what he was. And a St. John would never stoop to sheep shearing. Not this St. John, anyway.

Chase caught Stephen and Harriet exchanging a grin. They both looked as if they'd accomplished some fabulous trick. After a moment's thought, Chase's jaw tightened, and he reluctantly decided that they had indeed accomplished something quite unusual.

If the Wards said Captain Frakenham liked shearing sheep or digging ditches or wearing his cravat tied backwards, who was he to argue? He wasn't supposed to remember anything, blast it. He couldn't even defend himself. Well, he was pretending to be Captain Frakenham, wasn't he? Surely it
wouldn't be too difficult to pretend to enjoy shearing sheep.

Still, such coercion deserved retribution. He set down his fork. Captain Frakenham might not have a memory, but he sure as hell had a brain.

And if there was one thing Chase had learned from his brothers and sister, it was that turnabout was fair play. “It's funny how I have no recollection of shearing, but I do seem to remember the barn. I
was
fond of it, wasn't I?”

Stephen seemed surprised at Chase's acquiescence, but nodded. “Very.”

“I seem to be somewhat unclear on the details.”

“Oh. Well, after dinner, I'll take you there so you can see it again.”

Chase leaned toward Harriet and smiled down into her eyes. “I daresay
we
were fond of the barn, you and I.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“I seem to remember…” He stopped and pressed his fingers to his forehead. “I do remember…a woman. In the hay.”

Stephen, who had begun to take a drink, choked loudly.

“Yes,” Chase said. “The face is blurry. But everything else…” He allowed his gaze to drop from Harriet's face down to her bosom. “Everything else fits perfectly.”

“My goodness!” Mrs. Ward, her face bright red, hurriedly said, “Someone…please pass the butter!”

Sophia, eyes wide, never removed her gaze from Chase and Harriet, as she absently handed her mother the butter.

Harriet's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “How…I can't believe you…What do you mean—Don't!” She held up a hand when he opened his mouth as if to reply. “We will talk about this elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?” Ophelia leaned forward, her brow furrowed. “Why do you need to discuss it elsewhere? All he said was that he remembered the barn.”

Sophia shook her head, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Later, Oph. Not now.”

Ophelia stiffened. “Do not call me that! My name is Ophelia, not Oph.” She turned a resentful gaze on the captain. “I do not mean to complain, but I do wish my parents had spent a little more time considering the burden of having such a name. It was not at all considerate.”

Mrs. Ward grabbed the turn of conversation, smiling brightly. “Dear, I've apologized for that at least a thousand times. It was your father's turn to name the baby, and you know he was sadly addicted to Shakespeare. He happened to be in the middle of reading
Hamlet
when you were born and there was simply no reasoning with him.”

Stephen dusted his fingers with his napkin. “Just thank the stars he didn't name you Cleopatra.”

“Or Puck,” Derrick added around a mouthful of asparagus. “That would be worse.”

Sophia curled her nose. “Ugh! Puck would be a horrid name. Ophelia, if you want another name, I suppose we
could
call you Puck.”

“I like that!” Derrick said. “Pass the mutton, will you, Puck?”

“Just stop!” Ophelia snapped. “You are
all
hor
rid!” She turned to her oldest sister. “Harriet, please make them stop teasing.”

All eyes turned to Harriet. Chase noted that even Mrs. Ward waited expectantly, as if it was not at all unusual that her eldest daughter was being called upon to solve a dispute rather than herself.

Harriet put down her fork, the tines clanging lightly against the edge of the china plate. Chase rather expected her to lambaste her brothers and sisters for their levity, delivering a homily on the necessities of civility. Certainly that is what Marcus would have done.

But instead, Harriet's lips quivered ever so slightly and she said, “Ophelia, as much as I would like to commiserate with you on the ignominy of having a literary name, I cannot. My own lamentably boring name prevents me from doing more than sigh with envy.”

“There is nothing wrong with Harriet,” Ophelia said, her plump chin firm. “I would rather be called Harriet than Ophelia.”

“Yes, well—”

“And anything is better than Oph.”

“Ophelia is your name, and it's all you have, so you had best learn to enjoy it.”

Ophelia's gaze narrowed. “That's not possible. Not when everyone makes fun of it.”

“I'm certain not everyone thinks it humorous. Why, just ask the captain. I daresay he's heard far more unusual names.”

All eyes turned on Chase.

“Well?” Ophelia asked in a rather daunting tone.

“Well what?” he responded lightly, wondering what the chit expected from him.

“What do
you
think of the name Ophelia?” She spoke stiffly now, her chin high, as if she were taking a horrible risk and she knew it, but her pride would not allow else.

Good God, why had she asked him that? Chase picked up his glass and took a sip of water in a lame effort to gain some time. If he said what he thought—that the name was indeed ridiculous—he would be damned. And so would she. He could see it in her eyes.

But if he did more, flattered her that the name was as lovely as she herself was, then he was lying to her, and surely that was an ill choice, too.

Perhaps if he just ate, kept his mouth too full to talk, she'd look elsewhere for reassurance. He resolutely cut a large piece of asparagus into two pieces and stuffed one in his mouth.

Ophelia tossed up her chin, her eyes bright with mischief. “Captain Frakenham,” she said loudly.

Chase paused, the second bite of asparagus already halfway to his mouth. There was no hope for it. He had the impression she'd wait for each and every bite.