The Major's Faux Fiancee by Erica Ridley Page A

son’s arms.
    Bartholomew’s false leg crumpled, sending both mother and son barreling right over Daphne. All three landed on the floor in a tangled heap of skirts and limbs, with Daphne underneath. The wind rushed out of her lungs.
    As the footman rushed over to pull Mrs. Blackpool from the top of the pile, Bartholomew’s mouth brushed the shell of Daphne’s ear as he whispered, “You needn’t worry about my sense of balance. I know better than to sign my name to any dance cards.”
    She was prevented from shaking him for flippantly undermining his self-worth at a time like this, due to her arms being trapped beneath her body.
    During all of this, the elder Mr. Blackpool hadn’t moved a muscle. He remained in the doorway, neither in nor out, eyes focused on nothing.
    Captain Steele edged around him, entering the room just as the footman was steadying Mrs. Blackpool on her feet. With neither merriment nor any particular hint of surprise in his eyes, the pirate crossed the parlor in two long strides and held a hand out to Bartholomew.
    Bartholomew ignored it.
    He rolled off of Daphne and into a sitting position. He quickly swung both knees up to his chest, falling backward as he did so as if gathering momentum. Then he rocketed forward, his false leg outstretched before him, and sprang upright on the force and strength of his good leg alone.
    Daphne gaped at him in disbelief. She couldn’t rise from the floor that fast using both arms and both legs, much less do so gracefully. She was absolutely going to let the footman help her to her feet.
    Bartholomew held his hand out first. He was neither winded nor perspiring. He looked magnificent.
    If she wouldn’t have seen him crumple like a marionette, if she hadn’t been trapped beneath him and his mother just a few seconds earlier, she might have believed he’d never fallen at all. She, however, was trying to catch her breath.
    He mistook her awe for distrust in his ability to help and lowered his proffered hand. Lips tight, he glanced over his shoulder toward the others. “Footman? If you’d—”
    “No.” She reached up, her arm and gaze steady. After a beat, he took her hand and pulled her smoothly to her feet. Too smoothly. She had to fake a small stumble in order to press against his chest long enough to whisper, “Pure laziness is the only reason you wouldn’t carry me over a threshold.”
    The corner of his lip quirked. “You didn’t see me fall?”
    “I saw you get up .” She stepped back to shake out her skirts, then turned to face his parents. “Pardon my clumsiness. I get lightheaded when I fail to break my fast properly, and I—”
    “She’s scarcely to blame,” Bartholomew interrupted. “My pride prevents me from carrying my walking stick as I ought, and the last thing I expected was…”
    Daphne glanced around as he trailed off. Neither of his parents was listening. His father had retreated back into himself. And his mother was moaning to the room at large about how it was too much, just too much, to have one son dead and the other as helpless as a babe.
    “Twenty-six years old,” she wailed, hurling herself into her husband’s cravat. “We’ll have to hire help to watch over him, like a nanny. He cannot even stand reliably. Whatever will I do?”
    From the flat expression on Bartholomew’s face, the reunion was going about as well as he’d expected. He made no further attempt to hug his mother. She would likely either cosset him like a newborn baby, or throw herself back into his arms and tumble the entire party to the floor all over again.
    “Well, then,” Captain Steele boomed from behind the desk. “Port?”
    Why not? Daphne accepted a glass from the pirate, then handed it directly to Bartholomew.
    He handed the port to the footman and pulled her over to the chaise longue. “Mother. Father. Sit .”
    Mrs. Blackpool pulled her tear-streaked face away from Mr. Blackpool’s cravat and staggered into the wingback chair closest