My Runaway Heart (2 page)

And now
Corisande
was already
happily married to a man who couldn't be more perfect for her, Lord Donovan.
And, from everything Lindsay had seen and
heard,
one
of the most good and honorable gentlemen she had ever met. He had even found it
within himself to overlook
Corisande's
fearsome
temper, which made Lindsay smile. She had never known anyone more impassioned
than
Corisande
about helping those less fortunate,
her legendary ability to exercise her lungs only rising with the intensity of
her beliefs. And knowing
Corisande
, poor Lord Donovan
must have gotten a splitting earful of that temper, but he had fallen in love
with her all the same.

Lindsay closed her eyes, fresh longing tugging deep at
her heart. How long before she found the man of
her
dreams?

It was already weeks into the Season and still she hadn't
met anyone who came close to the husband she envisioned for herself. The dull,
self-absorbed, heiress-seeking gentlemen Aunt Winifred kept steering her way
were no more valiant adventurers than she was a young woman merely interested
in making a suitable marriage. She wanted more, so much more.

She wanted someone to show her the world, a bold,
daring man who would want an equally adventurous woman by his side. And they
would be so hopelessly, utterly, in love, nothing would be more important to
him than their life together.

"Are you thinking of him?"

Lindsay opened her eyes,
Corisande's
soft question making her smile wistfully. "Always. I'm just beginning to
wonder if he exists at all."

"Exists at all? That doesn't sound like the
indomitable Lindsay Somerset I know."
Corisande
drew her knees up beneath the embroidered counterpane and studied her friend,
even while her skin seemed to grow more heated at the thought of Donovan's
imminent return. "I noticed several agreeable-looking young gentlemen
ogling you at the party tonight—"

"A boring, ridiculous bunch, the whole lot of
them. Olympia has poor Aunt Winnie so cowed she doesn't dare allow any but the
most spineless sort near me—just the sort Olympia would absolutely adore as a
son-in-law. Someone she'd have no trouble tying into an obliging, sniveling,
intimidated knot. Well, I'll have none of my step-mother's plans for me. None
of it!"

"That's good to hear."
Corisande
couldn't help smiling at the indignant look on Lindsay's face—amazing, that
even a frown couldn't mar her friend's flawless beauty—and the defiance
sparking her brilliant blue eyes. "I almost feared your leaving Cornwall
had sapped that adventuresome spirit I recall so well. I'm pleased to see that
I was wrong."

"Sapped it?" Lindsay gave an unladylike
snort. "I feel as if I'm about to burst! I simply can't wait to strike out
on my
own,
I told you that in my letters. There must
be so much more to this city than balls and assemblies and seeing the same
people night after night." Lindsay uncrossed her legs and leaned earnestly
toward
Corisande
, a sudden look of regret in her
eyes. "Not that your party tonight wasn't lovely,
Corie
."

"I'm not offended."

"No, no, it was wonderful, and so very kind of
Lord Donovan's friends to give you both a proper wedding ball. But what would
be even more wonderful is if you could stay in London for just a while longer,
even a few more days, and you and Lord Donovan could chaperone me instead of
Aunt Winnie—"

"Our ship sails in the morning, Lindsay, you know
that,"
Corisande
broke in gently. "Donovan
is so eager to reach Lisbon, to see his daughter,
Paloma
,
again. It's a miracle that the child was found. Donovan spent nearly everything
he had to find her. It's so hard to believe that I'll soon have a little
daughter to care for, to love."

"Oh, dear, how ridiculously selfish of me."
Lindsay sat back on her heels, feeling doubly ashamed. "I'm sorry,
Corie
. I've waited so long to come to London and it is
wonderful being here, but Aunt Winnie is so determined to honor all of Olympia's
wretched demands—where I'm to go, who I'm to meet, what I must wear—"

"And you haven't thought of clever ways to thwart
that old termagant before?"

Lindsay met
Corisande's
gaze,
a gamine's grin spreading over her face. "Oh, I can recall a time or two."

"Like sneaking from your father's manor around
midnight to come and help me land smuggled brandy and lace handkerchiefs? Lord,
if Lady Somerset knew her stepdaughter had a knack for fair trading that any
man in Cornwall could hope to boast of—"

"Or for filching a bit of food from the pantry to
help you feed the
tinners
and their families."

"A
bit
of food? Sacks of grain, buckets of potatoes, loaves of fresh baked bread?"

Lindsay shrugged nonchalantly, her grin widening. "Any
way I could help you, I was glad to do it."

"And you'll be able to help yourself, too; you
just have to keep your eyes open for the right moment. You weren't gifted with
that wild imagination to let it go to waste. You'll soon think of something."

"And so I will, but enough of me, Lady Donovan. I
believe you were going to tell me again how you and your husband met, and only
three days after I left
Porthleven
. Threatened him
with a pitchfork, as I recall?"

"Well, I was waving one around, but it was his family's
agent, Henry Gilbert, I was aiming for and—"

"And I would have thought to find my beautiful
wife asleep at this late hour considering we're to set sail first thing
tomorrow morning."

Lindsay gasped at the sight of Lord Donovan leaning
casually against the door, the man so tall and strapping she was astounded
she
and
Corisande
hadn't heard his
footsteps down the hall. Her face burning, she snatched up the fringed India
shawl she had worn to the guest chamber, whirling it around her shoulders as
she scooted off the bed.

"Oh, dear, it's all my fault," Lindsay
hastened to explain, her eyes darting from Lord Donovan's amused gaze to
Corisande's
face. Her dearest friend was positively
beaming,
Corisande
looked so happy to see her
husband. "We were talking and I kept asking
Corie
so many questions. Truly, she would have been asleep long ago if not for me."

And truly, Lindsay realized with chagrined relief as
she hurried barefoot to the door, her shawl clutched modestly under her chin,
she could have been back in her room already for all the notice Lord Donovan
gave her. Tall and as
swarthily
dark as a Gypsy, he
moved to the bed even as Lindsay darted past him, his near-black eyes settling
warmly upon his wife. Lindsay felt her face grow hotter, her wish thundering
more fervently deep inside her breast that someday soon she might meet a man
who had eyes only for her.

"Good night,
Corie
. Lord
Donovan."

She hadn't expected a response and none came but the
softest exhalation of delight. Lindsay glanced over her shoulder to see Donovan
bend to kiss
Corisande's
smiling mouth. Her heart
aching all the harder, she closed the door quietly behind her and fled to her
room.

Her best friend had progressed beyond her.

***

By the next evening, Lindsay was back in a social mode,
her flustered aunt clutching at her arm.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear, this ballroom is dreadfully
stuffy, such a crush of people. Where's my fan? Matilda! Oh, my, where could
she have gone? Just when I need her most, she disappears—"

"Here's your fan, Aunt Winnie, dangling from your
wrist," Lindsay said with indulgent gentleness. She caught her aunt's
fluttering right hand and popped open the prettily painted silk fan. At once
the plump older woman began to beat vigorously at the air, her dimpled cheeks
crimson with agitation as she searched the huge second-floor room for the lady's
maid who accompanied her everywhere, even to balls.

"But Matilda—"

"I'm sure Matilda will return at any moment. She
told me she wanted to fetch you a glass of lemon punch."

"Oh, my, yes, punch would be very nice. She must
have known just how peaked I was feeling. Such a dear, my Matilda."

"Yes, she is a dear, but how about if we move
closer to that window where you might catch a breath of fresh air?"
Without waiting for a reply, Lindsay carefully steered her beloved aunt through
the thronged room, the Dowager Baroness Penney nodding greetings to
acquaintances even as she turned and whispered with exasperation into Lindsay's
ear.

"I don't understand why Lady Oglethorpe had to
invite the whole of London to this ball! Even three marriageable daughters
shouldn't warrant such a crowd, and not a beauty among them, no, no, not like
you."

"Aunt Winnie . . ."

"It's the truth," the lady protested. "But
with so many guests, why, there'll be little room for dancing and that would be
such a disappointment, not only for yourself, my dear, but for all the nice
young men whom you've met since you came to London. Yes, such a pity."

More a relief, Lindsay thought with a small sigh,
grateful when at last they had reached the window. An impeccably dressed older
gentleman in buff-colored breeches and a stiff white cravat at once vacated a
chair, Lady Penney plopping onto the crimson brocade cushion with an audible
groan. As her aunt continued to fan herself with an energetic vigor that
negated any real cause for concern, Lindsay surveyed the brilliantly lit
ballroom, which was indeed as crowded as any she had seen.

Bejeweled ladies dressed in stylish gowns of every
hue—though lavender seemed to be especially favored tonight—and gentlemen
dapper in formal evening wear milled around the room in an ever-changing
kaleidoscope of colorful confusion, the pitch of conversation sounding to
Lindsay like an agitated swarm of bees. She and Aunt Winifred had only just
arrived at the fashionable assembly and already Lindsay wished they could
return home.

Other than the mad crush of people, it appeared a ball
just like any other she had attended: formal, stuffy,
hopelessly
predictable and with the same faces. And she wasn't feeling very festive, not
since
Corisande
and Donovan had left that morning.

Their ship had to be well into the Channel by now,
forging its way to Lisbon, Portugal. How she wished she were aboard, too. It
would have been so exciting, so much more than enduring night after night of
these interminable balls. She had even packed a bag in the hope that at the
last moment she might persuade Aunt Winifred to allow her to accompany
Corisande
, but she had never carried it from her room. Her
aunt might have succumbed to a swoon that even Matilda's ever-present smelling
salts wouldn't remedy, and Lindsay couldn't do that to the poor dear. Aunt
Winifred was trying so wretchedly hard to accommodate Olympia, damn that
ridiculous woman!

Lindsay spun around to the open window, suddenly
needing fresh air herself. Her face felt hot, her chest constricted. How long
was she to be a prisoner of her stepmother's plans for her?

She could at least be thankful that Olympia's vanity
hadn't allowed her to come to London as well, the woman preferring instead to
stay in
Porthleven
, where she was the high priestess
of society and not just another baronet's wife in a sea of glittering nobility.
Although Lindsay wouldn't have minded at all to have her father here. Instead
he was still with her stepmother . . .

Forcing Olympia from her mind, Lindsay was startled by
a nearby outburst.

"Zounds, I owned stock in that ship! The
Superior
was top of the line from
foremast to keel, only two years at sea. That bloody bastard must be caught and
hanged! No, no, better yet, drawn and quartered!"

Chapter 2

"Oh, Lord." Lindsay rested her forehead on the
cool pane and closed her eyes, finding some comfort in one of
Corisande's
favorite expressions as she willed the
blustering fellow nearby to find another topic of conversation. He didn't. For
the past three days, the talk among the ton had been of little else.

"Damned if that scoundrel didn't make the officers
row to Wight, the poor blokes half drowned and chilled to the marrow by the
time they dragged themselves ashore. Made them row, mind you!"

"Yes, indeed, like common sailors—and one of my
own nephews among them!" piped up another gentleman. "Said the
Superior
was blown to bits and sank like
a stone while that devil's ship disappeared into the night as if swallowed by
hell itself!"

Lindsay shivered, imagining the scene. Crackling
flames, deafening explosions and frightened men crying out in the dark. She
thought of
Corisande
and Donovan sailing at this
moment to Lisbon aboard the brig
Industry
,
and was grateful Donovan had arranged for a sixteen-gun King's cutter to escort
them safely through the Channel. But once it had rounded the northwestern tip
of France, the
Industry
would be left
to its own defenses.

Another man added his voice to the mounting uproar. "The
name Phoenix suits him well enough, I'm deuced to say. Every time the villain
fires a ship, he rises from the ashes to burn again—bloody constant as the sun
and laughing at us all, I'd wager! Forty-two British merchantmen and nine warships
in three years, and our esteemed navy
hasn't
come
close to stopping him. An American privateer, no less, making his home in our
fair waters! It's an outrage! Something must be done!"