Page 13 of Losing Wendy

“But that’s not the realm we live in, now is it?”

It’s not a smile that grazes the captain’s full lips, but there’s a softening there. Perhaps seasoned with a hint of surprise.

“I think—Darling—” the captain says, spinning me around with a flourish before catching me at his firm chest, “that you and I might very well be the most pitiful creatures in this room.”

“Then it’s a good thing we found one another,” I respond, trying not to let my mind linger on the smokiness of the teakwood scent wafting off of him, the way his chest ebbs and flows against my cheek, pressing the edge of my mask into my face. It will leave a mark against my sensitive skin later, but I can’t bring myself to readjust. “Imagine the number of people we might have infected with our misery had we been paired off with anyone else.”

“Well, perhaps that old lordling will catch the fever and die before you can accept his proposal.”

My heart stutters. Anticipation wells in my chest as the familiar song on the strings hurries through its bridge, racing much too swiftly to a close.

The captain and I have already danced two songs tonight and other suitors are beginning to crowd. No one is foolish enough to stare. They mostly inch toward us, their feet pointed in my direction, though their conversation is elsewhere, ready to pounce at the last second.

“You think I would accept?” I ask, hating how obvious my silent question is by the way my pitch heightens.

“As I said,” the captain says, bringing us to a stop as the song comes to a close, “I think you’re the type of girl who lets life happen to you.”

My stomach drops, any flicker of connection I felt for this man clearly absent on his end.

Stupid. Stupid to dance with him. Stupid to get my hopes up, if only for the exchange of a few beautiful words.

My throat is closing up with embarrassment, my cheeks heating with mortification, so I step backward, but the captain’s hand lingers in mine, and in a swift motion he pulls me back into him.

And then his hand is on my neck, the rough ridges of his fingerprints staining my memory with his touch. He tucks his fingers into the underside of my braid, slipping his thumb against the crook of my neck, where my pulse is frantically giving me away.

My anger I might not feel until later tonight—but this stranger’s touch? It drowns out the present, lighting me on fire.

“Your paint,” he says, stroking the ridge of my Mating Mark underneath my jaw. “You missed a spot. Had better clean that up if you’re hoping for a proposal from a less aged suitor this eve.”

And then, quick as he pulled me into him, the captain slips away.

I lose sight of him in the crowd, and can’t help but notice the way my fingers trace the ridge that marks where he last touched me.

CHAPTER 6

The next hour is spent in a whirl as I’m passed from the arms of suitor to suitor.

I’m sure some of them are adept at conversation, but my mind is elsewhere, so I make a rather poor conversational partner.

Focus, Wendy, I tell myself, but focus has never been my strong suit. At least not when I have something else rattling in my head, competing for my attention. Like searching over the shoulders of my dance partners for an elusive captain who seems to have disappeared from the ball completely.

Questions I should have asked the captain berate my mind. I could stomp my foot for not thinking to ask them in the moment.

What sort of ship are you captain of?

Where do you sail out?

For which company do you sail?

If not to compete for my hand in marriage, why accept our invitation?

I have a sneaking suspicion the answer to that last question has to do with networking amongst a gathering of nobles. I’m not sure what all goes into being the captain of a ship, but I’m sure brokering deals comes with the territory. It’s clever, really, to attend a ball suchas this one under the pretense of finding a wife, when really the captain is likely hunting for his next business venture.

On the other hand, one would think a dowry substantial enough to purchase five pristine ships would be the most lucrative use of his time.

“Miss Darling?”

The hesitant voice of the suitor I’m currently dancing with breaks me out of my trance. He appears to be about my age, with dark brown skin and kind eyes that glisten through his silver mask. He seemed to have barely summoned up the courage to shuffle over to me when he asked me to dance, and I feel a bit of a prick in my soul for not paying better attention to him.

---