Page 3 of The Scandalous Spinster

Bram.

Of course, Bram.

Captain Bram Thorn. Tall, imposing, practically seething with authority and strength. He would never get himself caught hanging out of a window.

In a plain, unbecoming dress, no less.

She squeezed her eyes shut briefly, then straightened her spine. Metaphorically. Her spine was quite busy at the moment. Holding her up. Mostly.

She would sprout wings before asking him for help.

Bad enough that he was often there when the ton looked through her, or worse, rolled their eyes behind their fans at her approach. She was used to it. It did not mean she wished for Bram of all people to think of her the same way. Small. Plain. Easily overlooked.

Which was ridiculous. Bram didn’t think of her at all. Why would he? He was a decorated navy man.

None of which was particularly helpful at the moment.

Especially as he was meant to be waiting at the carriage. He took her to and from balls and soirees with hardly a word. And now, the one time he had to leave his post to find her, he found her clinging to the bricks like a tree frog.

Perfect.

“Clara, listen to me carefully. Move your left foot outward. Bit more.”

He guided her with that rough, gravelly voice she loved too much. With his ridiculous muscles and his scars and the crease at the corner of his blue eyes from staring into the sun and wind on a battleship, he was distracting at the best of times.

This was not the best of times.

Tell that to the instinctive unfurling of warmth in her belly. At least she wouldn’t freeze to death before plummeting to her death.

“You’re not going to die,” he said sharply. “Pay attention.”

She always paid attention. It was the cornerstone of her reputation: too much paying attention to rules and etiquette and shoulds and should nots.

Her fingers started to cramp.

“You’re almost there. When I give you the word, you let go.”

She laughed once, incredulously. “Bollocks to that, Bram Thorn.”

A short silence below her. She wasn’t supposed to say things like that. There were a lot of things she wasn’t supposed to do.

“Clara.” There was a thread of warning in the way he said her name, when usually he said very little and only very calmly.

“Captain Thorn,” she returned through her teeth.

“I’ve climbed up on the stone railing. I can almost reach you. It’s not as far as you think.”

“I’m not jumping!”

“I’ll catch you.”

Why did that promise turn the warmth to outright heat that threatened to linger in her bones and blood for days, weeks, to come?

“Now, Clara.”

It was the order of a man used to ordering other men to kill or be killed, to face a storm head-on, to take on Napoleon’s army and pirates alike.

Clara let go.