“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.”
ud 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.”