“Thought you’d be gone to that damned ball by now,” a male voice said from behind him.
Reynaud whirled, crouching low, his knife already in his right hand. St. Aubyn started back.
“Have a care,” the usurper cried. “Could hurt someone with that knife.”
“Not unless I wished to,” Reynaud said as he straightened. His heart pounded erratically. He slid his knife back inside the sheath he’d had specially made and glanced up the staircase. Miss Corning was late. “And I’m waiting for your niece if you must know.”
“What d’you mean, waiting?” St. Aubyn’s face darkened.
“I mean,” Reynaud enunciated clearly, “that I intend to escort Miss Corning to the ball given by my aunt.”
“Nonsense!” the old man sputtered. “If anyone’s escorting Beatrice, ’twill be me.”
Reynaud arched an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware you were attending the ball.” St. Aubyn had been invited, of course, but from his lack of comment in the last week, Reynaud had rather thought the other man had thrown the invitation away.
Apparently not.
“Of course I’ll be attending. Think I’d let a popinjay such as you chase me away?”
Reynaud took a step closer to the other man so that he loomed over him. “When I’m in possession of my title, I shall take great pleasure in personally throwing you from this house.”
St. Aubyn’s face was nearly apoplectic. “Your title! Your title! You’ll never see it, sir!”
“I’ve already set the date to appeal my case before the parliamentary committee.” Reynaud slowly grinned as he watched all color drain from the older man’s face.
St. Aubyn’s mouth twisted. “They’ll take one look at you and deny you the title. You’re insane, and everyone in London knows it. One only has to see those tattoos and—”
But something had snapped in Reynaud. He surged forward, gripping the older man’s neck and slamming him against the wall. The usurper’s face turned purple, the sour smell of fear rolling off him, and then St. Aubyn’s gooseberry eyes suddenly shifted, looking behind Reynaud.
At the same time, small fists pounded his back.
“Let go of him! Let go of him!” Miss Corning cried.
Reynaud bared his teeth at St. Aubyn and then backed away, freeing the man.
Immediately Miss Corning flew to her uncle. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine—” the old man started.
But she swung on Reynaud like an avenging fury. “How dare you? What could possibly possess you to manhandle him so?”
Reynaud raised his hands in surrender. He knew better than to try to talk his way out of this. But then he really looked at Miss Corning. She wore a blazing bronze gown that made her creamy skin positively glow. The bodice was low and square, and her breasts were pressed into two tempting mounds.
“Ahem.”
His gaze snapped up at her pointed murmur.
Miss Corning’s bosom might be inviting, but her expression was anything but. “You had no right to lay hands on Uncle Reggie. He’s ill—”
“Beatrice!” her uncle protested, looking embarrassed.
“It’s true and he needs to know it.” She stood with arms akimbo and glared at Reynaud. “Uncle Reggie had an attack of apoplexy a little more than a month ago. You could’ve killed him just now. Promise me you’ll never lay hands on him again.”
Reynaud eyed the older man, who wasn’t looking particularly grateful for his niece’s interference.
“Lord Hope.” She stepped closer and laid one gloved hand on his chest, looking up into his face. “Promise me, my lord.”
He took her hand and, holding her gaze, slowly raised it to his lips. “As you wish,” he breathed over her knuckles.
She blushed and snatched back her hand. Reynaud grinned.
But St. Aubyn was not as interested in avoiding discord. “Surely you don’t mean to accompany this… this jackanapes to the ball, Beatrice?”
Miss Corning hesitated, but then she threw back her shoulders and turned to her uncle. “I’m afraid I do.”
“But, m’dear, had I known you wished to go to this ball, I could’ve escorted you.”
“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?”