“I know, Uncle Reggie, dear.” She laid a hand on the old man’s arm. “You’ve always been most attentive in taking me to whatever amusements I fancied. But you see, Lord Hope asked me to this ball, and I want to go with him.”
St. Aubyn shook off her hand rudely. “Is that your choice, then, girl? Him? Because I tell you right now, there’ll be a choice to be made: him or me. You can’t have it both ways.”
Miss Corning’s hand fell to her side, but her gaze was steady and unwavering on her uncle. For the first time, Reynaud realized that there was a kind of strength there beneath her sweet manner. “Perhaps I will have to make a choice someday. But that is not my wish, truly. Can’t you see that?”
“Your wishes don’t come into it, lass. Remember that.” He shook a finger in her face. “And don’t forget who’s kept a roof over your head these nineteen years. If I’d known how ungrateful you’d be for the care I’ve shown you—”
“Enough.” Reynaud stepped toward the man.
“No.” Miss Corning laid her hand on Reynaud’s arm now, but unlike her uncle, he wasn’t going to hurt her feelings by shaking her off.
St. Aubyn eyed her hand, and his lips twisted. Then he turned abruptly and stomped up the stairs.
“He hasn’t the right to talk to you so,” Reynaud growled softly.
“He has every right.” She turned to look at him, but though her gaze was steady, her gray eyes sparkled with tears. “He’s perfectly correct; he has provided a home—and love—for me for nineteen years. And I’ve hurt his feelings.”
Reynaud took her hand and moved it farther up his arm so that he could escort her to the waiting carriage. “Nonetheless, I don’t want him acting toward you the way he just did. Do you need a wrap?”
“I had my maid put a wrap in the carriage, and don’t try to change the subject. It’s not your duty to defend me from my uncle.”
He stopped beside the carriage steps, forcing her to halt as well. “If I choose to defend you from your uncle—or anyone else—I damned well will with or without your permission, madam.”
“Goodness, how very primitive of you,” she said. “Are you going to help me into the carriage, or will you keep me out here, proclaiming your right to safeguard me until I freeze?”
He frowned down at her, but every reply he could think of made him look an ass, so he simply handed her into the carriage without a word. The door was shut behind him, and in a moment the horses started forward.
He looked across at Miss Corning, who’d pulled a thin wrap about her shoulders. “That gown becomes you.”
She smiled, quick and brilliant. “Why, thank you, my lord.”
He cast about for something else to say but couldn’t think of a thing. He was out of practice in the art of light conversation, after all. Most of his discussion of the last seven years had been filled with the topic of food—where there might be game and if there was enough meat to feed Gaho’s small band for the winter.
Miss Corning was the one who broke the silence. “Are you going to tell me about your experiences in the Indian camp?”
He was silent a moment, reluctant to continue the story. It was all in his past anyway. Wasn’t it better forgotten? To bring up starvation and torture, nights of lying awake far from home and family, fearful that he’d never see England again… surely there was no need to make that all come alive again?
“Please?” she whispered, and he caught the scent of English flowers—her scent.
Why did she demand this of him? She didn’t even seem to know herself. And yet he felt compelled to answer her demand.
Even if it meant tearing open a still-fresh wound.
“Later.” The glow from the carriage lantern illuminated her face and shoulders but left the rest of the lady in darkness, giving her an air of mystery. Reynaud felt a stirring low in his belly at the sight. If telling her his wretched story brought her closer, it was well worth it.
He stretched his legs so that they brushed against the voluminous skirts of her gown. “I’ll tell you all about living in an Indian village, about hunting deer and raccoon, and even about the time I battled a full-grown bear.”
“Oh!” Her lovely gray eyes widened in excitement.
He smiled. “But not tonight. There’s too little time before we arrive at my aunt’s house.”
“Oh.” Her lower lip thrust out just a little in a charming pout. He eyed that lip, full and shining in the carriage light. He wanted to bite it.
“You tease me so, my lord,” she said softly, and her voice seemed to catch.
He looked into her eyes, wide and innocent, but with a feminine spark that wasn’t innocent at all. “Do I? And do you like to be teased, Miss Corning?”
Her eyelashes lowered. “I think… Yes, I do like the teasing. As long as it isn’t too prolonged.”
His smile widened, becoming wolfish. “Is that a challenge?”
She peeked up at him. “Perhaps.”
Reynaud sat forward, reaching across the swaying carriage, and brushed his knuckles against her cheek. So soft. So warm. She sat very still.
He inhaled and sat back again. “I’ve lived a very long time away from civilization. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten the niceties of flirtation. I don’t want to scare you.”
She licked her lips, and his eyes dropped to her mouth. He watched it move, lush and beckoning, as she said, “I… I don’t scare so easily as all that, my lord. And I’ve never been particularly fond of the artifice of flirtation.”
His heartbeat quickened at her whispered words, his muscles tensing to leap on prey. Mine, a part of him far removed from civilization cried. Mine. What he might’ve done next he wasn’t sure, but the carriage shuddered to a halt. He drew in a breath and straightened, easing his bunched shoulders. Glancing outside, he could see they were in front of his aunt’s house.
He turned back to Miss Corning and held out his hand. “Shall we?”
She eyed his hand a split second before taking it.
And he hid a smile. Soon, very soon, he’d take what was his, but right now he had to face the horrors of a London ball.
Chapter Seven
Well, this was a terrible bargain, indeed! But Longsword looked into the Goblin King’s glowing orange eyes and knew that if he were ever to see the sun again, he had no choice. He nodded once. At his assent, a great wind lifted him, whirling and sweeping him high, high, until he was suddenly dumped on hard, dusty earth. Longsword opened his eyes and saw the sun for the first time in seven years. The breeze brushed his cheek. He had just risen and grasped his sword when he heard a roar from behind him.
Longsword turned and beheld the most beautiful lady in the world… in the grasp of a giant dragon….
—from Longsword
Mademoiselle Molyneux had had only a little more than a week to plan the ball in honor of Lord Hope, but in that time she’d created a wonder. Beatrice was hard-pressed not to stare as the viscount ushered her into the great ballroom. Three huge chandeliers hung from the ceiling, sparkling like miniature stars. All along one wall, tall mirrors were draped with garlands of flowers and gold silk, and a great pyramid of flowers hid the musicians in one corner.
“How splendid!” Beatrice exclaimed. “Your aunt must be a magician to have effected such a delightfully decorated room so soon.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Lord Hope muttered. “I’ve always thought Tante Cristelle had powers beyond a mere mortal’s.”
Beatrice glanced up at him in amusement. His body had stiffened beside hers when they’d entered the magnificent ballroom, and heads had turned toward them. People were staring and whispering behind fans. Even so, he seemed to be relaxing a bit, though he fingered the knife at his waist.
“Has she always lived in this town house by herself?” she asked.
“What?” His voice was distracted as he looked across the room, but then he glanced down at her. “No. Actually, this house belongs to my sister—or rather her son.”
“Her son?”
Beatrice laid her hand on his sleeve. “You must miss your sister so.”
“I think of her every day.”
An expression of sudden sorrow crossed his features, sharp and fleeting and all the more breathtaking because he so rarely showed any of the softer emotions. She leaned closer to him, drawn by his emotion despite the crowd surrounding them.
“Hope,” a male voice drawled from behind them.
Beatrice looked up to see Viscount Vale’s turquoise eyes watching her curiously. He had a bluish bruise on his jaw. Beside him was his wife, a tall, thin lady with a calm, slightly amused face.
She felt the muscle of Lord Hope’s arm flex beneath her fingers, but his face revealed nothing. “Vale.”
Lord Vale cocked his head. “Pity you’ve shaved off all those whiskers. They gave you a rather Biblical air.”
Lord Hope’s lips twitched.
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“Not at all,” Lord Vale said carelessly. “I suppose you must don the local costume like the rest of us.”
The lady beside him sighed. “Vale,” she said, “are you going to introduce me, or will you continue to trade insults with Lord Hope for the rest of the night?”
“I do beg your pardon, my lady wife.” Lord Vale turned and held out his hand to the lady, who placed her fingers in his. “May I introduce you to Reynaud St. Aubyn, Viscount Hope and no doubt soon to be the true Earl of Blanchard? Hope, this is my lady wife, Melisande Renshaw, Viscountess Vale.”
The lady made a stately curtsy as Lord Hope bowed over her hand. “An honor, my lady, but we’ve already met, I think. Were you not a dear friend and neighbor of my sister, Emeline?”
Lady Vale’s pale cheeks pinkened delicately. “Indeed, my lord. I spent many a happy afternoon at the Blanchard estate in Suffolk. I know your sister will be very pleased to hear that you are well. The news of your death was a terrible blow to her.”
Lord Hope stiffened, but he only nodded to Lady Vale.
“And this,” continued Lord Vale, “is Hope’s cousin, Miss Corning, whom we met last spring at Mother’s garden party.”
“How do you do, ma’am?” Beatrice murmured as she sank into a curtsy.
When she rose, she saw that the lady and her husband seemed to be exchanging some kind of silent communication.
Lady Vale smiled and turned to Beatrice. “Would you care to stroll with me, Miss Corning, and admire Miss Molyneux’s fine decorations? Vale says we must hold a ball of our own soon, and I would be grateful for your opinion.”
“Of course,” Beatrice said. The gentlemen were outwardly polite, but there was a tension in their stances. Obviously Lord Vale wished to talk with Lord Hope alone.
Lady Vale linked her arm with Beatrice’s, and they began a slow perambulation of the room.
“Do you make your home in London always, Miss Corning?” Lady Vale asked.
“I live with my uncle, ma’am, in Blanchard House.” Beatrice darted a quick look over her shoulder. Lord Vale was talking intently with Lord Hope, but at least they hadn’t come to fisticuffs. She faced forward again. “That is where Lord Hope is staying at the moment as well.”
“Oh. That must be… interesting,” Lady Vale murmured.
“Yes, it certainly is. I believe Lord Hope stays out of pure contrariness.” Beatrice glanced at her companion. “You knew him when he was a boy?”
“He was away at school generally when I visited the Blanchard country estate, but, yes, he was a young boy, not quite a man. I remember that Emeline and I had not yet come out when he bought his commission in the army.”
“What was he like?”
Lady Vale was silent a moment as they made a wide arc. They came to a side hall, and she asked, “Do you mind? I rather dislike crowds.”
“Not at all,” Beatrice replied.
After the brightness of the ballroom, the hallway’s lighting was muted. Tall portraits lined the walls. A few other guests drifted here and there, but they were distant enough not to overhear their conversation.
“You asked about Lord Hope,” Lady Vale began. “I did not see him often when I was young, but I remember being rather in awe of him.”
“Really?”
Lady Vale nodded. “He was so very handsome, even then. But there was more. He was the young heir to the throne, as it were. He almost seemed to have a golden glow about him.”
Beatrice bowed her head, contemplating this information as they walked. What a downfall it must’ve been for a man with a “golden glow” to have been made a slave. How much more humiliating it must’ve been for proud Lord Hope to sink so low. They came to a tall portrait of a man in armor in the style of the last century, and Lady Vale stopped.
She tilted her head, studying the painting. “His hair is quite extravagant, isn’t it?”
Beatrice looked at the painting and smiled. The gentleman had abundant dark curls hanging on either side of his face. “And he’s proud of it, isn’t he?”
“Indeed.”
They were silent for a moment.
Then Beatrice said, “There’s a portrait of Lord Hope that hangs in the sitting room of Blanchard House. It’s always been there, ever since I arrived when I was nineteen. I think it must’ve been painted when he was about the age you speak of. He’s so handsome and looks so lighthearted. I used to think he was hiding a mischievous thought when he was painted. I confess I’ve spent hours staring at that painting. It rather fascinated me.” She felt Lady Vale turn and look at her and knew she was blushing. “You must think me a fool.”
“Not at all,” the other lady said gently. “Merely a romantic.”
“But you see, since Lord Hope’s return . . .” She had to pause and swallow because her throat had tightened. “He was captured and held by Indians. Did you know?”
“No, I did not,” the other woman murmured.
Beatrice nodded, taking a deep breath. “I don’t see anything of that young boy in him anymore—the laughing boy in the painting. The things that happened to him in the Colonies were so very terrible that they changed him. He’s grim now. Intent only on regaining his title. It’s as if he’s forgotten what he was before, as if he’s forgotten how to enjoy life.”
Lady Vale sighed. “My husband was in that war as well. He is quite merry on the outside, but inside there are wounds, believe me.”
Beatrice thought about that. “But Lord Vale seems more free somehow. He is happy, isn’t he?”
“I think so.” Lady Vale smiled a secret smile. “But you comprehend that Lord Vale returned from the Colonies nearly seven years ago, while Lord Hope has only now come home. You must allow him time, I think.”
“I suppose so,” Beatrice said doubtfully. It was true that Lord Hope was still adjusting to his return, but would time truly heal him? Would he become more lighthearted, or had his experience seared him so deeply he was changed forever? She thought of something else. “Does Lord Vale truly think Lord Hope betrayed their regiment?”
“What?”
Beatrice turned to look at Lady Vale. The hallway was dim, but the lady’s eyes seemed puzzled. “Lord Hope said that when your husband came to visit him last week, Lord Vale accused him of being the traitor who betrayed their regiment at Spinner’s Falls.”
“Surely not!”
“I do assure you.”
Lady Vale sighed. “Gentlemen sometimes do not seem able to express themselves properly, and I must admit that my husband, though he loves to talk, is not always effective in communicating. He’s never thought Lord Hope could be the traitor.”
“Really?” Relief swept through her.
“Yes,” Lady Vale said with certainty. “But the problem is, if Lord Hope has gotten the notion that my husband distrusts him, it may be rather hard to dispel the t
hought.”
“Oh, dear,” Beatrice murmured. “Gentlemen can be so boneheaded sometimes, can’t they? What if they can’t work it out?”
The other lady looked grave. “Then I fear it may be the end of their long friendship.”
“And Lord Hope needs a friend very much right now,” Beatrice whispered.
“BEWARE,” REYNAUD GROWLED. “I’ve lived too long away from society. I no longer bother calling out a man who insults me.”
“When have I insulted you?” Vale hissed. “’Twas you who hit me, man!”
They still stood almost in the middle of the damned ballroom, and if they talked too loud, they risked causing a scene. He was already the object of curious scrutiny. If he lost control here, in the midst of his aunt’s ball, it would do irreparable harm to his cause.
Cold sweat slid down his back, but Reynaud still bared his teeth in a parody of a grin. “I struck you because you had the damnable gall to accuse me of betraying our regiment.”
“I did not.”
“You most certainly did.”
“I did—” Vale cut himself off to breathe forcefully through his nostrils. “We sound like lads nearly come to blows over sweetmeats.”
“Huh,” Reynaud grunted, looking away. He felt an unaccountable urge to shuffle his feet.
For a moment, both men stood silent, the chatter of the crowd rising around them.
Vale laughed under his breath. “Remember when we stole those strawberry tarts from the cook at my father’s house?”
Reynaud raised an eyebrow. “I do. We were caught and whipped.”
“Which never would’ve happened had you not decided we should hide in the dovecote.”
“Nonsense.” Reynaud’s lips twitched. “It would’ve been a perfect hiding place had you not laughed and scared all the doves, which gave away our position to those outside.”
“At least we gobbled the tarts before they discovered us.” Vale sighed. “I never meant to accuse you, Reynaud.”
Reynaud nodded once, curtly. “What did you mean to say, then?”
“Walk with me.”
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