Page 30 of The Captain Claims His Temptress

From beside her, Stephen shifted in his seat.

Monsieur Dupont could send Maddie a million flirtatious messages. She was not interested. Even to a woman who loved color, his purple and lime waistcoat was outlandish. Her uncle had introduced them before dinner, gushing about what a loyal friend the Frenchman was. Pierre’s eyes smoldered when he took her hand and kissed her knuckle, his lips lingering too long for her comfort. No, she did not favor Dupont. However, she did not find him as disagreeable as the beautiful blonde at the other end of the table, wrinkling her nose in Maddie’s direction.

“I dare say Arabella Beaumont seems to be staring at you and glaring at me,” she told Stephen.

He perused the long table. Arabella smiled at him. He smiled back. Maddie bristled and he grunted.

Why had she thought she would enjoy all of the parties and socializing? And why had she assumed that she and Stephen shared a special connection?

Maddie stabbed at her pork cutlet. If only it were Arabella Beaumont’s heart beneath her cutlery, and she could slice it into a million pieces.

“Captain Eaton,” Pierre Dupont called across the table, his French accent thick.

Stephen looked up from his own meat massacre.

“You look as though someone has shot your favorite gelding.” Pierre waved his hand and five thick-banded, jeweled rings glistened in the candlelight. “How can that be while sitting beside such ade toute beauté? You should be smiling as if the sun is shining on you. For Mademoiselle Spencer is a sunbeam indeed.”

Since the comment was loud, everyone at their end of the table gawked at her. Maddie held her breath, waiting for Stephen’s response.

“With such delicious food, so many agreeable ladies, and such a delightful hostess”—Stephen lifted his glass to the baroness—“one would be a fool to be anything other than pleased. So, Monsieur, if you mistake my contemplative nature for unhappiness, then you have made a grave error indeed.”

Stephen’s intense glare seemed to be some sort of challenge. Perchance he disliked Pierre as much as she did. How fascinating. The Frenchman no longer sent chills up her spine because he was no match for the man beside her.

Uncle Elias stood and tapped his glass.

Horse feathers. Time for boring business speeches.

“I hope everyone had a delightful day,” Uncle Elias said, “and I hope you are enjoying this delicious dinner Lady Saxton has planned for us. ’Tis a fine menu indeed.”

Aunt Henrietta beamed as the guests showered her with compliments.

“I would like to introduce my first investor, Pierre Dupont,” Sir Saxton said.

The tension in the air was palpable. Including the Frenchman in his plan while animosity after the war still ran deep, was a daring move indeed. Either her uncle was insane, or Pierre was not as deplorable as his eccentricities made him seem.

Pierre stood and took a step back from the table. Long-limbed, with sharp angular features, the man looked as if he had been hung upside down until he was stretched to his breaking point, his nose bearing the brunt of the misshaping. Worse than that, he exuded arrogance.

“Bonne soirée.Do not hold my nationality against me. I am a loyal friendto your crown. Even your secretary of state holds me in high regard.” Pierre’s hawk-like beak lifted high.

Maybe no one else noticed Stephen Eaton’s hard swallow, but Maddie was so close and so in tune with his every movement, that it was not lost on her.

“Let me tell you why Saxton Shipping International is the perfect opportunity forles Américains, les Anglais,andlesto collaborate and why this venture is the first step in friendship between our countries…

Blah, blah, blah…

Maddie tuned out the rest of Pierre’s blabbering as she slid her hand under the table and over Stephen’s thigh.

He hissed, then whispered, “What are you doing?” He attempted to brush her hand away.

Of course, he was too much of a gentleman to allow her to fondle him beneath the table. And although the idea held appeal, she simply wanted to hold his hand. She locked her fingers with his.

He tensed, then relaxed.

Together their hands sat on his thigh, their fingers laced. And, thankfully, listening to Pierre Dupont drone on and on was not as boring as she predicted.

Maddie dreamily strolled to her chamber. If the devils in livery had not shown up, Stephen would have kissed her, and it would have been deep and sensual. Then he had held her hand for most of the dinner, his palm heating her to her core. Now she had precious, delicious secrets.

“Madalene,” Portia called.