“Because I need to know,” she said low and rapidly. “I need to know everything that happened to you, everything you experienced in that place. I need to know why you are the man you’ve become.”
“Why?” His black eyes widened with confusion. “Why?”
And all she could whisper was, “I just do.”
Because she couldn’t admit, even to herself, why.
REYNAUD HAD LED men into battle, had faced an Indian gauntlet without flinching, had endured seven years as the slave of his enemy and survived. All this he had done without a breath of fear. Therefore, it was simply impossible that he’d feel missish nerves at the thought of a ball.
Yet, impossible as it seemed, here he was pacing the hallway as he waited for Miss Corning to descend the stairs.
Reynaud halted and took a deep breath. He was the son of an earl. He’d attended innumerable balls before his capture in the Colonies. This creeping feeling he had—that he no longer belonged in London society, that he’d be denounced and repudiated—was ridiculous. He shrugged his shoulders in his new coat, twisting his head about to loosen the muscles of his neck. His new wig was impeccable, he knew—he’d hired a competent valet with the monies lent by his aunt—but it still felt foreign on his head. When he’d lived with the Indians, the only thing he’d covered his head with was a blanket, and then only when the winters were especially cold. He’d worn a long tail of braided hair, and his clothes had been a shirt, breechcloth, leggings, and moccasins—all soft materials, well worn and comfortable. Now he had a scratchy wig on his newly shorn head, a neck cloth half strangling him, and his new dancing slippers felt tight. Why so-called civilized men should choose to wear—
“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.”