Surrender the Heart Read online

  “Perhaps you could take up a trade of some sort?” Mama offered. “I hear that Mrs. Pickersgill makes a decent living sewing ensigns.”

  A blast of warm wind stirred the gauzy curtains and cooled the perspiration forming on Marianne’s neck. “Mama you know I have no skills. I’m not like other ladies. The last gown I attempted to sew fell apart. My cooking would drive the hardiest frontiersman back to the woods, and the pianoforte runs when it sees me coming.”

  Mother chuckled. “You exaggerate, dearest.”

  But Marianne could tell by the look in her mother’s eyes that despite the humorous delivery, her words rang true. Though a governess and her mother had strived to teach Marianne the skills every proper lady should acquire, she had found them nothing but tedious. She possessed no useful skills, no talents. As her father had so often declared before his death. Marianne had nothing to offer. If her mother would not agree to fund a privateer, Marianne would have to accept her fate in marriage.

  “I must ensure you and Lizzie are cared for either by this marriage or by some other means.” Mama said with a sigh. “I’m an old woman and will die soon anyway.”

  Marianne’s heart sank at the words. Gathering her skirts, she dashed toward her mother and knelt at her feet. “You must never say such a thing.”

  “Do not soil your beautiful gown.” Her mother smiled and wiped a tear from Marianne’s cheek. “Perhaps we should simply trust God with my health and let His will prevail.”

  Marianne laid her head on her mother’s lap like she used to do as a child. She had trusted her father, she had trusted God.

  And they had both let her down—her and her mother.

  “I will not let you die, Mother. I cannot.” Her eyes burned with tears. “As long as I have my inheritance and a man who is willing to marry me, I promise you will be well cared for. And Lizzie, too. That is all that matters now.” Marianne lifted her gaze to her mother’s, feeling strength surge through her.

  “And mark my words, Mama. Nothing will stand in my way. Especially not Noah Brenin.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Noah Brenin doffed his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow as he made his way down Hanover Street. He adjusted the purple ostrich plume attached to his bicorn. His first mate, Luke Heaton, walked beside him, nodding a greeting to every pretty lady who passed by. Plopping his hat back atop his head, Noah forced his feet to continue. He was late and he should hurry his pace, yet all he wanted to do was turn around and go back to his ship. He had work to do and no time for his father’s absurd commitments. Not to mention he had been dreading the announcement of his engagement to Miss Denton ever since he’d agreed to the match several months ago.

  Now that the night was upon him, he truly wondered what he’d been thinking. Miss Marianne Denton? Had he gone mad?

  “You look more nervous than if we were caught in the sights of a broadside.” Luke chuckled, but Noah offered no response. He found nothing humorous about the situation. They turned down Conway Street, trying to avoid the people and carriages crowding the narrow avenue. A blast of muggy June wind struck him as if an oven had been opened. Sweat slid down his back.

  A man in top hat and coat stood on the corner handing out pamphlets and shouting, “War is coming. Join the militia!”

  Skirting him while holding up a hand to ward off the pamphlet being thrust into his hand, Noah plodded onward.

  “It appears war will indeed be upon us,” Luke said.

  “What is that to me? I don’t care unless it interferes with my trade.”

  “I daresay, where is your patriotism, man?” Luke applied his most pompous tone to a statement devoid of enthusiasm.

  An absence of which, Noah shared. “Where yours is. In the lining of my pockets.” Noah grinned and halted to allow a horse and rider to pass before he crossed the street. A hot breeze wafted the smell of manure his way as if the city were unhappy with his diminutive allegiance. But who could blame him? England had always been good to Noah. His trade with Great Britain had enabled him to keep his father’s merchant business afloat. Why would he wish to go to war against the nation that fed him?

  Noah hesitated before a large brick house. Music and laughter bubbled from the windows, grating over his nerves. He steeled himself against another overwhelming desire to turn and bolt for his ship.

  Luke studied him, a curious look on his face. “Scads, Noah, Miss Denton cannot be all that bad.”

  “Humph, you think not? She is a spoiled, silly girl. Let’s get this over with. I want to set sail tonight.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” Luke grinned as they took the few steps up to a wide front porch and rapped the front door’s brass knocker.

  A servant answered, took their names along with their hats, and escorted them inside to a parlor brimming with people. The smell of myriad perfumes mixed with the scent of wine tickled Noah’s nose. He sneezed then scanned the room, searching for his father so they could proceed as soon as possible. To his left, a large mantel of polished black marble perched proudly against the wall. Around it stood a group of men—none of them his father—involved in a heated argument. From the few words that drifted his way, Noah surmised their conversation centered on the potential war. A serpentine serving table laden with sweet cakes, lemonade, and wine stretched nearly the entire length of the room. Around it hovered several guests, pecking and nibbling at the food like a flock of birds. Walnut wing-backed armchairs, along with two mahogany settees, provided the only seating—all taken by elderly women, their heads leaning together in gossip.

  “Mr. Noah Brenin,” the butler announced. “And Mr. Luke Heaton.”

  All eyes turned to the two men, and some of the women whispered to each other behind fans. How Noah hated being on display.

  “It is about time.” Staring at a pocket watch in his hand, Noah’s father’s portly frame emerged from a crowd on Noah’s right. The scowl on his face made him look much older than his sixty-two years.

  Luke murmured a hasty excuse and headed toward the buffet, leaving Noah to deal with his father’s foul mood alone. “We were delayed with business aboard the ship,” Noah said, hoping to belay the man’s usual rebuke.

  The frown on his father’s face did not falter—a frown Noah had grown accustomed to over the years. His mother sashayed forward, a glass of wine in her hand. “Do not argue please, William. It is our son’s engagement.” The sting of alcohol from his mother’s breath filled the air between them, and Noah cringed, hoping she would not embarrass him tonight.

  Then, as if she saw him for the first time, his mother gasped. “What are you wearing? What of the dark silk suit Matton laid out for you in your chamber?” She eyed him up and down and clucked her tongue. “What will everyone think?”

  “I haven’t a care what they think, Mother.” He glanced down at his tan breeches and black waistcoat and saw nothing wrong with his attire. At least he had donned an overcoat and a clean shirt. “I had no time to return home. I have been working all day, preparing the ship to sail. I must leave forthwith.”

  “Tonight? Why the rush?” His father’s forehead wrinkled.

  “I must sail my cargo to England as soon as possible before our trade is further restricted. Mr. Glover expects me in South Hampton in six weeks’ time or he threatened to purchase his flour, rice, and iron from another merchant.” Noah studied his father, searching for some sign of approval of his plan. “With all this talk of war, I dare not delay another day.”

  “Very well, by all means, leave as soon as you can.” His father straightened his coat. “But I do not think it will come to war. We could never hope to win against a nation as powerful as England again. Madison knows that all too well.”

  “I am not so sure.”

  “Nonsense.” His father chuckled. “What do you know of it, boy?”

  At the word boy—the only endearment with which his father addressed him—Noah felt as though he were shrinking in size. At six and twenty he was hardly a boy anymore. Hadn’t he p
roved that by now?

  His mother sipped her wine and gazed over the crowd as if bored with the conversation.

  “It was the American embargo that caused us the most damage.” Noah shifted his stance as anger boiled within him at yet another circumstance that threatened his success. “Blasted Jefferson. Now with the threat of war, how do they expect us merchants to survive?”

  “Ah, let us not trouble ourselves with it.” His father leaned toward him as if sharing a grand secret. “Soon we will not have to worry overmuch.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Miss Denton’s inheritance will assure our merchant business stays afloat until all this trouble with England has blown over.” He stretched his shoulders back. “That is, if you don’t muck up the opportunity it presents, boy, to make the Brenin name successful and well known. You know your mother and I are depending on you.”

  Yes, Noah knew that all too well—was reminded of it often. “There is not much I can do if war is declared.”

  “War, indeed. Bunch of rubbish, if you ask me.”

  But Noah knew better. He had heard the talk down by the docks. The merchantmen were furious at Britain’s impressments of American sailors into their navy, not to mention the trade restrictions. In fact, he knew several merchants who were already refitting their ships to be privateers. But he held his tongue. He had no time nor interest in another argument with his father.

  Luke joined them, drink in hand and stuffing a piece of cake into his mouth. “You should try one of these. They are excellent.”

  Noah’s mother finished her wine and gave Luke a lift of her nose. “William, please escort me to refill my glass.” She stumbled slightly, and Noah closed his eyes.

  “Very well.” His father sighed, disappointment reflecting in his blues eyes. “We should make the announcement soon.” He gave one last look of disapproval to Noah before he offered his elbow to his wife and led her to the buffet.

  Noah took the opportunity to slip into the corner away from the crowds, his first mate following on his heels.

  “So where is your beloved fiancée?” Luke surveyed the guests. “And why have you not greeted her?”

  Noah gestured with his head toward a cluster of women to the right of the fireplace. “There, in the middle of those three women. And please refrain from calling her my beloved.”

  Luke’s gaze shot in their direction and studied her for a moment. “The brunette? Hmm. Not so bad, Captain. Certainly not extraordinary, but she seems pleasant enough.”

  Noah had never thought of Marianne as pleasant. Spoiled, demanding, obnoxious, but never pleasant.

  Luke blew out a soft whistle. “But the lady beside her is quite remarkable.”

  Noah followed his gaze. Fiery red hair framed the delicate features of a near-perfect face. Her emerald green eyes suddenly shot to his and he looked away. He tugged at his cravat. “The redhead? I suppose.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Miss Cassandra Channing, I believe.”

  “You must introduce me, Captain.”

  “We haven’t time. Besides, word about town is that she is hotheaded and independent.”

  Luke’s blue eyes sparkled. “Ah, but you know how I love a challenge.”

  Noah chuckled, amazed at his friend’s constant infatuation with the weaker gender.

  Luke sipped his wine and lifted a brow toward Noah. “You did not answer my question. Why have you not greeted your intended?”

  Noah stiffened his jaw. “Because, my good man, it is best I keep my distance from Miss Denton as much as possible.” He leaned toward his friend. “For I have every intention of persuading her to break off this absurd engagement.”

  Luke’s eyes widened. “Why would you wish such a thing? Don’t you need her dowry?”

  “Not if things go well on this next voyage. We stand to make a fortune if I can get to England on time.”

  “It seems cruel.” Luke gazed across the room toward the woman.

  Noah shrugged. “Why? Neither of us have affections for the other. I am sure she would welcome a reason to disengage herself from any association with me. And rather than cause her or her reputation any harm, I shall allow her the honor of making the split.”

  “And how do you plan to do that?”

  Noah raised a brow. “Watch and see.”

  “I daresay, he does present a handsome figure, don’t you agree, Marianne?” Cassandra plucked out her fan and fluttered it about her face.

  Rose laughed. “Quit drooling, Cassandra. He is not your fiancé.”

  “Oh, that he were.” Marianne sipped her lemonade and studied the man she would marry. Indeed, he had grown up quite nicely from the skinny jackanapes who used to pull her hair when no one was looking. His broad shoulders and thick chest stretched the fabric of his black coat. His light brown hair, streaked with gold by the sun, was combed back in a fashionable style, and not in the usual windblown disarray she’d grown accustomed to seeing among others of his profession. A recent shave revealed a strong jaw that, coupled with his dark eyebrows, gave him the appearance of a man in control of his destiny and determined to get what he wanted.

  And Marianne was positive it could not be her. “You may have him, Cassandra. It is settled. I will go tell my mother at once.” She took a step forward but Cassandra’s strong grasp pulled her back. “You know you cannot do that. He is the only option you have. You must get used to the arrangement.”

  Marianne stepped back between the two ladies with a sigh and glanced over the gathering of people who were partaking of the cakes, lemonade, and the wine her mother had spent two weeks’ of their food allowance on. Some dear friends, some acquaintances, and some she hardly knew but who had been invited because of their positions in society. Edward Johnson, the mayor, Mr. Wilson, the magistrate, two councilmen, and General Stricker. Her father had been an influential man.

  Then her eyes met Noah’s, and he winced as if he could not bear the sight of her. She lowered her gaze and took a sip of lemonade, wishing she could melt into the cup and disappear. She had not spoken to him in over a year. He was always at sea and when he was in town, he never called on her. Even during the arrangements of their betrothal—a meeting between Marianne’s mother and Noah’s parents in this very parlor—Noah had slipped out before she’d had a chance to speak to him, leaving her wondering how he felt about the match. But now after looking in his eyes, she had no doubt where his feelings lay.

  The chime of silverware on glass filled the parlor, drawing all eyes to Marianne’s mother who stood before the fireplace. She gestured for Marianne to join her.

  Lizzie appeared out of nowhere, her face beaming. “It’s time, Marianne.” Her innocent enthusiasm tore at Marianne’s heart, making her long to be young again, free from the fetters of adult responsibilities. Taking a deep breath, she pressed a hand over her roiling stomach and handed Rose her glass. “That is my cue.”

  Cassandra gave her a little nudge to get her moving as Lizzie tugged on her hand.

  “Noah, Noah! Come here this instant.” Noah’s mother shouted across the room, pointing at Noah with her glass of wine. The dark red fluid sloshed over the rim and slid down the sides. Silence struck all tongues as reproachful glances shot to her and then swept to the corner where Noah stood. His jaw flexed and his face reddened.

  Marianne cringed with embarrassment for him. It must be difficult having a mother who overindulged in drink, even though everyone in town knew of Mrs. Brenin’s little problem

  Noah strode across the room and approached his mother, took the drink from her hand and set it on a table. “Never fear, Mother, I am here.” He took her hand and kissed it before placing it upon his arm for support.

  Marianne smiled at the man’s kindness toward his mother as Lizzie led her to stand beside her own mother on the opposite end of the mantel. She drew a deep breath to quell her trembling nerves. After her mother greeted her guests, making special mention of those with prominent positions in the city, and thanking everyone for
attending, she deferred to Mr. Brenin for the formal announcement.

  The formal announcement of Marianne’s life sentence—for an engagement was as binding as marriage itself.

  Her blood rushed so fast past her ears, she heard little of what Noah’s father said, save for the moment when he proudly announced her betrothal to his son.

  Lizzie giggled and hugged Marianne. The crowd clapped and all eyes darted to her, causing a blush to rise on her face. She tried to smile, but the agony in her throat prevented her lips from moving. Daring a glance at Noah, she wondered why he had not made a move to stand beside her and take her hand. Instead, he stood as cold and emotionless as the marble mantel behind him. As people swarmed forward to congratulate the couple, Noah’s mother pushed her son toward Marianne. “For goodness’ sakes, Noah. She doesn’t bite.” Her shrill laughter blared over the crowd’s murmuring. Noah tugged on his cravat as he inched closer to Marianne as if he, indeed, thought she might chomp on his arm.