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?”
“Yes. He’s Lord Eddings—inherited the title from his father. When my sister, Emeline, married again and settled in the Colonies with her new husband, Tante Cristelle agreed to stay here and help manage the estate.”
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.