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The Merchant's Yield

By Lorri Dudley

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London, England, May 1814
Chapter One

“Of course, the islander would come.”
Charlotte Amelia Etheridge stiffened at Mama’s acidic tone. She followed her mother’s gaze to the entrance of the Middleton’s modest ballroom where guests arrived in hordes of navy and formal black jackets bobbing amid a sea of colorful gowns. They filled the ballroom with boisterous chatter and a bouquet of expensive perfumes and colognes.
Mama flicked her fan in sharp increments. “Even dressed in English finery, he appears barbaric and uncivilized.”
Lottie focused on the landing where Nathanial Robert Winthrop bowed to Lord Gibbons and his wife. His large frame and broad shoulders dwarfed Lord Gibbons’s, making the average-height man appear slight in stature. Winthrop’s hand tossed back the coattail of his fitted charcoal jacket and tucked into his right pant pocket. He exuded a relaxed, casual self-assurance that uniquely contrasted with the pretentious lords and ladies of the Quality surrounding him. Their grandiose displays sought approval, a favor they would be hard-pressed to receive from her mother, for Lady Etheredge’s acerbic tongue could elevate or cut down a person with a single remark.
Winthrop nodded at something Gibbons said, and his teeth gleamed the same bright white as his cravat and shirt front.
Mama nodded in the direction of the gentlemen. “I will make certain Lord Gibbons reserves a dance for you. His mother owes me a favor.”
A favor. The jab struck its soft target, but Lottie had numbed to most of her mother’s verbal attacks.
“There she is now.” Mama stepped away to speak with Lady Gibbons.
Lottie plucked at the sides of her skirt and searched for Priscilla, her closest friend. The large mirrors reflected shimmering light from the overhead multi-tiered chandeliers and exposed her abandoned position. A retreat to the retiring rooms to freshen up might be in order.
Captain Anthony Middleton eyed her.
Lottie paused mid-step.
He weaved through the cluster of people to her side.
This was it. Her pulse leapt. How long had she fancied Pricilla’s handsome elder brother and dreamed of this moment?
“If it isn’t Little Lottie Ethridge.” The deep rich tone of Anthony’s voice sent a wave of tingles up her arm.
Lottie fought to subdue a grin she knew would cross the lines of decorum.
The boyishness in his face had disappeared, and he exuded virile sophistication in his navy captain’s jacket and highly polished boots. “It has been an age.”
She longed to say something witty like how she practiced in front of the mirror while he’d been at sea, but all that came to mind was, “Indeed.”
“Green is a lovely color for your complexion.” His gaze swept over her like a soft caress. “It also happens to be my favorite color.”
Of which she was keenly aware. That, and the fact he despised snakes, took four lumps of sugar in his tea, and sang a little off key. Such knowledge was boon of being close friends with his sister.
“Would you like to—” He glanced away and shifted his feet. “Would you care to—”
“Captain Middleton” Mama drew alongside the two of them. “Your mother is looking for you. I believe she said it was urgent.”
Anthony craned his neck toward the entrance. “Perhaps another time.” He stole one last glance at Lottie, bowed, and excused himself.
A whimper sounded deep in Lottie’s throat as she watched him go. The opportunity had been within her grasp.
“You don’t want to dance with the likes of Middleton.” Mama frowned at his retreating form.
She gaped at her mother. “Whyever not?”
“He lacks a spine.”
“For mercy’s sake.” Lottie gritted her teeth. “He commands a ship.”
“I’m saving you from future heartbreak.” Tiny lines framed Mama’s pursed lips. “I have it on the best authority that Middleton dips too deep. I will not abide having a spineless, drunken wastrel as a son-in-law.”
“You find fault in everyone.” Lottie’s fingers curled into tight balls. “Besides, it was only a dance.” One she’d hoped turned into courting, and soon after, marriage, but Mama didn’t need to know that at the moment.
“You shouldn’t be overexerting yourself.” Mama fluttered her fan. “The last thing you need is to have another spell.”
She hadn’t had a fever in over four years. What would it take to prove she was well enough to be like everyone else? If only she could have been able to make her own choice about the dance with Anthony. But once again, her mother had chosen for her. She sucked in a deep breath through her nose to curtail the roiling boil churning inside her.
“You’ll find Lord Gibbons has exquisite dance form.”
She didn’t want to dance with someone instructed to indulge her. She wanted to dance with Anthony.
Mama glanced at Lottie’s coiffure and sighed. “I wish you had used powder.”
Lottie resisted the urge to put a hand to her hair. “Mama, no one has powdered their hair in a decade.”
Her mother’s mouth pursed into a thin line. “I’m well aware of the fashion trends, but the powder tones down your color, making your hair a much-preferred strawberry blonde. I daresay blonde is more fashionable than this”—she circled a finger in the direction of Lottie’s head—“vibrant red.”
Lottie waited for Mama’s next line. She could repeat it verbatim.
“Red hair is for opera singers and ballet dancers. Proof of the tainting of our pure bloodline.”
Lottie’s periphery darkened as the rush of blood filled her ears, blocking out the lively background conversations. She fought to regain a measure of control. Her red hair was a constant reminder she was a disappointment. Not only was she born a girl and not a male heir, but her hair was red. Not a dark Auburn or strawberry blonde, but carrot red. Her mother blamed her father often with a mouthful of venom about the Etheridge line being tainted. Of course, Mama implied that had she known the family’s indiscretions, she never would have infected her pure blood with his. It was rumored Lottie’s great-grandmother on her father’s side had indulged in a fling with an Irishman. In mother’s opinion, Lottie’s red hair was proof that her grandfather was baseborn.
An ember of hope ignited. If her ancestors had risked for love, then maybe—
just maybe—she might have some of their blood running through her veins.
“He thinks he’s one of us.” Mama crossed her arm and raised a haughty brow. “As if he can buy his way into the quality.”
“Who?” Lottie shook her head to clear her negative thoughts and pivoted to find Nathaniel Winthrop scanning the crowd with a hint of resigned amusement. For a stranger, he owned the room with his subtle manner, as if he didn’t care a wit about the pomp and circumstance of the ton or its social rankings.
Priscilla said his father had grown wealthy through the sugar trade. Winthrop contributed to his father’s legacy by becoming a savvy merchant, trading in sugar and other goods. Clearly he was his own man, and she could picture him standing proudly at the helm of his ship, sailing the vast sea with wind ruffling his hair.
Lottie’s eyes drifted closed. What would it be like to hold such freedom? An imaginary breeze pressed against her skin and whipped her undone tresses behind her. Her palms turned out to cup the air.
“Lady Reinhart’s daughter danced with him at the Mayfair ball.”
Lottie’s eyes sprung open, and she dropped her hands to her sides.
“She complained about feeling hardened callouses under his gloves.” Mother shivered and a look of utmost disgust deepened the creases around her lips. “You must give him a wide berth tonight.”
Lottie withered under the constant weight of her mother’s commands. Her lips had parted to offer the expected yes, mama, when the islander’s gaze met hers from across the room. Their eyes held, and she saw the confidence in their depth, the defiance, as if he were proud of being an islander and not one of them. Deep down within her being, buried under layers of insecurities, a spark of rebellion ignited.
Mama issued her a sideways glance and lowered her voice. “Straighten up, dear. Etheridges do not slouch. You are the daughter of a viscount. Hold yourself with poise in accordance with your station. Hunching isn’t going to make you appear less gangly...”
She would never raise herself high enough for her mother’s standards, so why should she bother? It was her life, and past time she lived it. Lottie lifted her chin and pulled back her shoulders, but not because of Mama. She ignored her mother’s droning and drifted in Mr. Winthrop’s direction as if a magnetic force drew her.
“Charlotte Amelia Winthrop?” her mother called.
Lottie weaved through the crowd toward the entrance of the reception hall, her eyes never leaving her target.
He slanted a brow as if to say, have we met?
Lord Gibbons touched Mr. Winthrop’s shoulder and gestured to Lady Reinhart as if offering an introduction.
The spell was broken.
Lottie froze. What had come over her? Curious stares of other guests bored into her skin, leaving her feeling naked. She pretended to wave to an imaginary acquaintance and hastened to the retiring rooms.
After freshening up, she faced herself in the looking glass. “This can’t continue any longer. You are not a puppet. You have your own mind.” Her pale blue eyes darkened. “If you want to dance, then you should dance. You’re not going to collapse dead on the dance floor as Mama believes.” She inhaled a deep breath and, with a curt nod to herself, returned to the ballroom.
Lottie’s brother, Gerald, and Anthony, her would-be dance partner, stood on her right with a crowd of their friends. She sidestepped a particularly tall guest and slid next to her brother. “Pardon my intrusion.” She dipped into a polite curtsy. “Gerald, I was hoping you would be a dear and allow me some reprieve from...” Her gaze flicked in their mother’s direction.
Gerald groaned, and she could practically read his thoughts. If she was here, Mama was bound to follow shortly. “I was about to meet some chaps in the card room.”
“Hmm.” She leaned closer to Gerald and whispered. “I’d hate to have to retire early due to an oncoming headache, which would leave you to escort Mama home.”
Her brother’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Let me introduce you to my friends.” He nodded to Anthony. “Of course, you know Middleton.”
She smiled at Anthony, and he briefly returned it before he flashed a nervous glance in her mother’s direction.
Lottie turned toward the other man and stiffened. Her stomach dove for cover. The guest she’d rudely stepped around had been the islander.
Gerald continued. “Lottie, may I introduce you to Nathaniel Robert Winthrop, of the Leeward Island Winthrops. You know, St. Christopher’s Island, in the Caribbean.”
She winced, for his reference made her appear dimwitted. “I’m conversant with St. Christopher, or St. Kitts, as its natives refer to it.”
Winthrop bowed his head.
“Winthrop,” Gerald gestured in her direction, but his eyes panned the crowd, “this is Lady Charlotte, my sister. We fondly refer to her as… as… Lottie.”
Gerald craned his neck to peer between Anthony’s and Winthrop’s shoulders. She followed his line of sight to where Mama left her dowager friends and searched the room.
Lottie grasped Mr. Winthrop’s sleeve, using his body to shield her from view.
The man’s brows snapped into a V.
“I-I believe, we’ve already met.” She forced her gaze to meet Mr. Winthrop’s assessing one.
“I didn’t know you and Winthrop were acquainted.” Gerald turned to the Kittitian.
Curiosity and a flash of wonder glinted in the depths of Mr. Winthrop’s eyes. He arched a quizzical brow.
“Indeed, I’m sure you remember.” She wracked her brain for a plausible explanation.
Mama spotted Gerald and headed toward them.
“Gerald introduced us at the Leicester dinner party. You requested a dance at our next meeting and”—she pleaded with her eyes—“here we are.”
Her heart thundered as he studied her for a long moment.
Gerald cleared his throat. “I don’t recall attending the Leicester’s… Ah.” He slapped Anthony in the gut. “Was that the night you brought out that bottle of port? If my mother found out…” His voice faded into the background, for she couldn’t tear herself from Winthrop’s intense gaze.
“Er—what do you say we finish this conversation in the card room?” The pitch in Gerald’s voice raised, and he dashed away. Anthony followed, nodding to guests as he went.
“Pleasure to meet you for the second time.” Winthrop bowed slightly.
He moved to pursue Anthony, but she clutched his arm, using his tall frame for cover.
Steely blue eyes locked on her and displayed exactly what he thought of her—a desperate, featherbrained, nitwit who must be nicked in the nob.
“I’m dreadfully sorry. This is very forward of me and completely out of character, but I would love to dance.”
She leaned left to see past his large form, only to find Gerald pointing Mama in her direction. Lottie ducked back behind Mr. Winthrop.
He crossed his arms and glared at her with a sharpness that should have chilled her to her core, but her desperation for refuge overshadowed her embarrassment.
The islander’s jaw clenched. His nostrils flared. She bit her lower lip and implored him with her eyes.
Her anxiety must have struck a chord somewhere deep down in that statuesque physic, for he nodded and held out his hand.
She released a breath and placed her clammy fingers in his. Thank heaven for the satin gloves that hid her perspiration.
His grip was strong and warm as he pulled her onto the dance floor. The orchestra struck up another song, however, this one had a fast cadence. She hesitated. Did islanders dance? “Do you know the quadrille?”
One side of his mouth drew into a crooked smile. “A bit late to be asking now.”
He jerked her into his arms and began to propel her around the ballroom. For a foreigner, he was an expert dancer. He commanded the floor with power, moving with panther-like grace in the waves of rhythm. She held an awareness of Winthrop’s every move as if she were an extension of him. The thrill of being whisked around in the brace of such strong hands set her pulse racing. Funny, but Melinda Reinhart had been correct. She could actually feel the roughness of his calloused skin through the thin material of his gloves. Mama would be justified.
Within the safekeeping of his strong arms, Lottie dared to peer into the crowd. Mama’s pinched expression and lethal gaze foretold of a future tongue-lashing, not merely for avoiding her mother, but for dancing with someone Mama found beneath her. Not yet ready to surrender, she flashed what she hoped was a coquettish smile at Winthrop.
Perhaps, she’d try her hand at flirting.
***
Nathan beheld the titian-haired beauty in his arms. Bright copper curls laced with tiny inset pearls crowned a face with skin as smooth as the cream from the coconuts back home.
She moved as one with him, adjusting to the slightest pressure of his hand. For the first time in a long while, he forgot about sugar, trade agreements, and the Amory’s missing crew, and merely enjoyed dancing with a beautiful woman in his arms.
It was her unguarded openness that drew him. The few women on St. Kitts and at sea were hardened for good reason. To dance with a lady so expressive was refreshing.
She smiled at him, and he bit back his laughter. Miss Etheridge was an innocent, of that he had little doubt, and she had no idea of her allure. He didn’t dare allow his gaze to wander down the white expanse above her gown’s neckline. Instead, he refocused on the most expressive pair of blue eyes he’d ever seen.
Those bewitching eyes had caused him to relent, despite the fact he should be focused on business with Middleton to obtain British naval escorts for his ships. The merchant company he’d built through his own grit, hard-earned labor, and sugar profits had come under attack of privateers. Now the safety of his crews was his primary concern.
Yet, with one flash of those blue eyes, he’d lost his focus. She had held his gaze, pleading for him to accept her challenge. In that long moment when she hadn’t dared to move, and he hadn’t dared to answer, he’d sensed her desperation, and it drew out his protective instincts.
He pivoted them into a turn, and she craned her neck once again toward the crowd.
His jaw tensed. “I’ll not be used as a pawn to inspire jealousy in a suitor.”
“It’s not like that.”
He maneuvered her around an overzealous couple lacking rhythm. “Really? For I’m completely certain we didn’t meet at the Leicester dinner party.” He’d attended, but arrived late and sat at the end of the table next to the Leicester’s governess. When the meal was over, he joined the men for cigars and solidified a merchant deal with Lord Leicester himself. That had been a fruitful, yet unadventurous, evening. He would have remembered being introduced to Miss Etheridge, if not for her eyes, then for her red hair.
“It’s a complicated story.” Her gaze continued to rove about the room until it settled on one place.
“Try me. Or, this dance is over.”
Her eyes widened. “But the song hasn’t ended.”
“It has for me.” He stilled.
“Wait.” Her fingers dug into his sleeve. “I can explain.” Her gaze returned to its previous position.
He followed the direction of her eyes to a dower woman scrutinizing them with flared nostrils and a hostile glare. He felt Miss Etheridge stiffen.
“Mama and I are at odds.”
Those revealing blue eyes gauged his reaction. “I see.” He forced a deadpan expression. “So, you danced with a lowly islander to upset her.”
Her lashes lowered. “I’m sorry.”
To her credit, she was an honest chit.
The last note of the music sounded, and everyone clapped, but Miss Etheridge wouldn’t release his arm. She shifted direction, like a frightened rabbit, uncertain where to hide.
“Shall we take a turn about the room”—he tucked her hand into his arm—“so we may finish our discussion?”
The tension in her fingers relaxed. “A lovely suggestion.”
He turned away from her mother and circled the perimeter of the room. “So your plan is to retaliate?”
“How can I get you to understand?” She sighed. “I walked around with an oversized volume of the History of Scotland on my head for three months to keep myself from growing too tall for Mama’s tastes. She reprimanded my embroidery stitches saying they were too large for her liking. I pricked my fingers trying to please her until the handkerchief stained red with my blood. I have powered my hair, for she despises its color.”
He paused in his stride, and she turned to look at him.
“It’s time I show her that I am my own person.” A servant passed, and she plucked a glass of champagne off his tray. “I can make my own decisions.”
“And you believe you’ll show her by being irresponsible?” He’d once had similar conversations with his younger sister. The familiar pang of sorrow constricted his chest.
“Precisely. No… Well, maybe.”
A low chuckle resonated from his throat. “Spirits heighten your emotions and addle your wits.” He removed the glass of champagne from her gloved fingers. “Unless you want tomorrow filled with regrets, I suggest refraining.” He passed it off to a servant.
Her eyes followed the glass weaving its way through the crowd back to the kitchens. She rounded on him and narrowed her eyes. “I don’t need another person to lecture me.”
She gasped and drew a hand to her lips as if stunned by her own words. A becoming rose color spread across her nose and cheeks. He half-guided, half-pushed her behind a potted hibiscus to keep curious eyes from wandering in their direction.
“You haven’t lived with her.” Miss Etheridge stepped toward him so close her chin tilted up to continue to meet his gaze. “I’m a grown woman, of a marriageable age. Lord willing, I will be running a household soon enough, yet she treats me like a china doll. I’m made of stronger stuff.”
Her fingers dug into the sleeve of his jacket. Tomorrow he’d probably find bruises.“I’m made of stronger stuff.” Her chest heaved against the lace of her gown,
Was Miss Etheridge desperate for an ally? He placed his hand over hers to relax her grip. “I can tell.”
A breathy laugh burst from her lips.
He leaned in close enough for any passersby not to overhear. “Be who you are.” The heady scent of her hair filled his nostrils. Lilac. “You need not be a puppet, nor go to the opposite extreme to prove otherwise. You are beautiful the way you are.”
She drew back. Confusion shrouded her eyes, changing them to the color of an impending storm. Her lips parted in a silent gasp. The temptation to bewilder her further by pressing a kiss on those rosy lips straightened his spine. He was here on business. No time for complications.
He stepped back but continued to hold her gaze. “Pain is unavoidable, but misery is optional.”
An array of emotions chased each other across her face—hope, fear, denial, anger. He wished his meaning would absorb into her heart. They hadn’t known each other long, but he felt a connection with her, a shared desire to be respected. He admired her passion and vulnerability. Their paths may never cross again, but he wished her well.
He searched the room for Anthony Middleton, but to no avail. The man was probably still relieving his pockets of some coin with Gerald Etheridge in the card room. “Would you like me to return you to your…” Lady Etheridge plowed through the crowd from the far side of the room, her gaze intent on reaching her daughter. “…mother?”
“Heavens, no!” The shrill sound of her voice resonated her panic.
He nodded to a set of doors on their right. “Why don’t you convalesce in the retiring room for a spell?”
“Brilliant.” She shouted a bit too loud. “I mean… it would be good to freshen up a bit. It was—er—pleasant meeting you, Mr. Winthrop.” She bobbed a rapid curtsy and escaped to her place of refuge.
He sighed. It seemed his big-brother instincts hadn’t faded over time. Then again, neither had his sorrow.
No more distractions. He’d allowed himself one dance with Miss Charlotte Etheridge. Now back to business. There were too many people counting on him.
He spun on his heel to seek out Capitan Middleton for a meeting, but came face to face with Lady Etheridge instead.
“Who do you think you are?” Her scathing tone afforded no false impressions about how she felt about him. “How dare you dance with my daughter? You haven’t been introduced. You haven’t gone through the proper channels. Do you have no qualms for etiquette?” She didn’t wait for his reply. “Of course not. You’re a foreigner who believes money can buy you ranking and the esteem of your peers.”
Though he stood a head taller than Lady Etheridge, she still endeavored to peer down her nose at him with the amount of disdain only the true British could muster.
And she wasn’t finished. “It is good breeding that gains you respect and admittance to mingle with the aristocracy who are, quite frankly, above your station. It would serve you well to remember that.”
“Yet, here we speak, Lady Etheridge, a lowly Kittitian and a highborn, privileged aristocrat.”
“What flippant speech from someone here to do business within my sphere of influence.”
Nathan’s stomach dropped anchor.
Her lips pressed into a white slash, and her eyes narrowed into slits. “Keep away from my daughter. Am I clear?”
His jaw clenched, and he bit out through tight lips, “Quite.”

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