The Scoundrel and I: A Novella by Katharine Ashe Page A

“You’re all right with it, then. The ball tomorrow?”
    “I am afraid I will embarrass you. I . . . I don’t know how to dance.”
    His eyes widened.
    “Don’t look at me like that,” she said, twisting her fingers together. “I never learned. I never had the time.” Or the opportunity. For five years after her mother died and her father disappeared—years in which girls like Mineola, Adela, and Esme had attended country fairs and the occasional party at somebody’s home—Elle had scrubbed the floors of her neighbor’s house and fish shop in exchange for a pallet in the corner of the kitchen and food. Five years of raw hands and aching back and fish oil stench that would never wash away, until her grandparents appeared from America and rescued her.
    “I don’t give a damn if you know how to dance or not,” he said.
    “
Whether
I know how to dance. Then why are you gaping at me?”
    “You just used a contraction.
Twice
. Didn’t think it was possible.” He spoke with sincerity, but the slightest crease in one of his cheeks marred the effect.
    She pinched her lips to prevent a smile. “Can you never be serious, Captain?”
    “Life’s too full of misery, Elle,” he said, abruptly sober. “No point in lingering in worries when a man can do something to make it better.” He leaned forward and grasped her hand lightly. “Try not to fret, will you?” he said. “We’ll work this out.”
    It was too much for her—his strong fingers, his wonderful scent, the honest sincerity in his gorgeous eyes. Obviously she was not as immune to scoundrels as she wished. She withdrew her hand and clasped it with her other in her lap.
    “I am afraid I will not impress your uncle and that this all will have been for naught,” she said. “I wish I knew how to go along at a ball. I truly do.”
    He leaned back against the squabs, entirely comfortable while her pulse was racing.
    “Daresay you could simply stand there and look prett—” He straightened and his gaze sharpened.
    “What is it?” she said.
    “An excellent idea’s just occurred to me. Needs refining, though. I’ll have it all worked out tomorrow.” His smile blinded. “Where to now, Miss Flood?”
    “Brittle and Sons, please.”
    “Nearly dark already. I’ll take you home.”
    “No.”
She swallowed over the alarm in her throat. “No. Please, to the shop.”
    “As you wish, ma’am.” His smile dimmed a bit, but he did as she wished.
    ~o0o~
    The young curate from the charity church, Mr. Curtis, was departing when Elle entered her flat. She knew immediately the message in his gentle greeting.
    “She is worse this evening, isn’t she?” she whispered as she untied the ribbons of her bonnet.
    “I am afraid so. I encouraged her to take some broth, but she refused. Perhaps she will do so for you.”
    “I should not have gone out today. With the shop closed, I should have remained at home with her while I am able. Instead I—” She dressed up like a costly doll and blushed like a ninny beneath the gaze of a naval hero. “I wasted the afternoon.”
    “I cannot agree, Miss Flood. You must allow yourself some pleasures, especially now. Your grandmother is happier knowing that you are happy. She informed me with great animation that you have a suitor.”
    “A suitor?”
    “I wish you well in it,” he said with a kind smile, donned his hat, and departed.
    In the bedchamber, her grandmother’s eyes were unusually bright.
    “You are late tonight,” she said in a labored whisper as Elle crossed the room. “Were you . . . with him?”
    Elle’s pulse beat like a little drum. “With whom, Gram?”
    Her grandmother’s lips crinkled into a smile. “Young Sprout told me . . . about your gentleman caller.”
    “The
grocer’s
boy? What on earth—What stories is Sprout inventing now? And why did you tell Mr. Curtis that I have a suitor?”
    “Miss Dawson . . . called this afternoon.”
    “Minnie? She called here? While I was—”
    “With