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?”
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?