To Desire a Devil
Lottie nodded firmly. “Yes, certainly.”
Beatrice held out her hand, and Lord Hope took it. He glanced at Lottie and said with a crooked smile, “Thank you.”
Then he was leading Beatrice through the crowd, his shoulders wide and strong beside her. They came to the dance floor and paused as the music ended with a flourish. The dancers curtsied and bowed to their partners and then drifted from the dance floor. Beatrice and Lord Hope took their positions, waiting patiently for the music to begin again. She snuck a look at him, standing beside her. He seemed preoccupied.
She cleared her throat. “Did your discussion with Lord Vale go well?”
“Yes.” The music began and the figures of the dance took them away from each other a moment. Lord Hope was frowning fiercely when they drew near again. “Why do you ask?”
“He is your friend,” she replied, and then said, lower, “I worry about you.”
They paced away. A gentleman nearby tripped and jostled against Lord Hope. He froze and glared at the man but then seemed to recover himself.
When they came together again, she whispered, “Are you feeling well?”
“Of course,” he snapped, a little too loud.
Heads turned.
He paced about her as she stood, and even though it was part of the dance, she felt as if a great predator prowled around her.
Then something awful happened.
The same man who had jostled Lord Hope before tripped and bumped into him again, this time much harder, shoving Lord Hope a step. Lord Hope whirled on the man, drawing out his huge knife from under his coat. The dancers nearby stumbled to a halt. A woman screamed.
The man turned white, backing up with his hands raised. “I… I say, I’m dreadfully sorry!”
“What do you mean by it?” Lord Hope demanded. “You deliberately ran into me.”
Beatrice started forward. “My lord—”
But Lord Hope grabbed the other man by the neck. “Answer me!”
Dear God, had he gone mad again? Gentlemen were shoving their ladies behind them, and the crowd was backing away, leaving a wide cleared space in the middle of the dance floor.
“Reynaud,” Beatrice said softly. She touched the arm that held his raised knife. “Reynaud, let the man go.”
He’d paused at the sound of his name on her lips, and now he turned his head, his black eyes blank and frightening.
Beatrice swallowed and whispered, “Reynaud, please.”
Lord Hope let the man go so abruptly he staggered.
“We’re leaving.” With his free hand, Lord Hope grabbed Beatrice’s arm and began towing her through the crowd. He still gripped the bare knife in his other hand.
Fear.
Chapter Eight
Longsword raised his mighty sword. The dragon roared again and blew searing flames at him. But Longsword had lived seven long years in the kingdom of the goblins, and fire was no longer a thing he feared. He jumped through the blast and swung his sword hard, driving it between the dragon’s eyes. The great beast staggered and fell dead, but as it did so, it dropped the most beautiful lady in the world. Longsword saw that the lady would be smashed on the rocks beneath her, and he ran to catch her in his strong arms.
The lady clutched at his broad shoulders and looked at him with eyes the color of the sea. “You have saved my life, kind knight, and for this I give you my gratitude. But if you will save the life of my father the king, I will give you my hand in marriage. . . .”
—from Longsword
Beatrice rose early the next morning, summoning her maid and dressing quickly in a simple blue and white striped gown. She breakfasted by herself—both Uncle Reggie and Lord Hope appeared to be still abed—and then on impulse she asked for the carriage. It was much too early to be making social calls, but she knew that Jeremy often had trouble sleeping, and he liked to have company when he was awake in the morning. And besides, she needed to talk to someone about the events of the night before.
So it was that a half hour later, after arguing her way past the odious Putley, Beatrice was pouring tea for Jeremy and herself.
“What did you wear?” he asked as she carefully placed the teacup in his hands. She’d filled it only partially full—he was sitting against two pillows, but his fingers trembled, and she was worried he might spill the hot tea on himself.
“My bronze,” she replied, stirring rich cream into her cup. “Remember, I showed you the pattern and a swatch of the material last summer before I had it made?”
“The silk that had a kind of iridescence?” At her nod he smiled. “Reminded me of the way brandy sparkles in a glass when you hold it to the light.” He sipped his tea and laid his head back against the pillows, his eyes closed. “You must’ve been beautiful.”
She laughed. “I think I looked quite well.”
He cracked one eye. “As modest as ever. What did Lord Hope think?”
She looked down at her cup, too self-conscious to meet his knowing gaze. “He said the gown became me.”
“Not an overly eloquent man, then,” Jeremy said drily.
“Perhaps not, but I liked the compliment.”
“Ah.”
She set her cup carefully back on the saucer in her lap. “There was a bit of a… a scene at the ball.”
Jeremy straightened. “And?”
Beatrice wrinkled her nose, still looking at her cup of tea. “A gentleman bumped into Lord Hope on the dance floor and he reacted badly.”
“Who was Lord Hope dancing with?”
She huffed out a sigh. “Me, if you must know.”
“Oh, I must,” Jeremy said with delight. “And what exactly do you mean by badly?”
“He took out his knife—he always carries a very long knife with him—and he, um, waved it about, I’m afraid. While holding the other gentleman’s throat.” Beatrice squeezed her eyes shut at the memory.
There was a pause, and then Jeremy said, “Oh, I wish I’d been there.”
Beatrice’s eyes flew open. “Jeremy!”
“Well, I do,” he said without a trace of remorse. “Sounds like a jolly good to-do. And did Lord Hope get thrown out of the ballroom?”
“It was his aunt’s ball,” Beatrice reminded him. “So I don’t think he would’ve actually been ejected from the house, but it doesn’t matter much since we left after that.”
“Ah, he took you with him, did he?”
“He did.” She hesitated, then said in a low voice, “He didn’t speak at all the entire way home. You should have seen the way everyone stared at him, Jeremy. As if Lord Hope was a dangerous beast.”
“Is he?” Jeremy asked quietly. “Dangerous, I mean?”
“No.” She shook her head and then admitted, “Well, not dangerous to me, I think.”
“Are you sure, Bea?”
She bit her lip, looking at Jeremy helplessly. “He wouldn’t hurt me. Truly he wouldn’t.”
“I hope not, Beatrice, dear.” Jeremy laid his head back against his pillow, looking tired. “I would hate for him to hurt you in any way.”
There was a question in Jeremy’s voice. She could feel his eyes on her as she sipped her tea, but she didn’t want to share this, not even with Jeremy. Her emotions were something special, something soft within her, too delicate for the light of day.
She got up and took his empty teacup from his hands, setting it aside when he indicated he wanted no more. When she sat back down again, she said, “Lottie told me last night that she’d left Mr. Graham.”
“Probably a lover’s spat. She’ll be back within the week, mark my words.”
“I don’t think so,” Beatrice said slowly. “She seemed subdued somehow, not at all her usual cheerful self.”
She glanced up to see Jeremy’s eyes closed, his face drawn. She set down her cup to rise, but as if he knew she was looking, he opened his eyes.
He blinked and frowned. “I hadn’t thought Nate Graham such a bad sort. Has he taken a mistress and flaunted her?”
Beatrice hesitated but then decided to play along and pretend she hadn’t seen that moment of weakness. “Lottie didn’t say there was another woman. I don’t think there is one, actually. She said Mr. Graham took her for granted, that any lady would do as well as her for his wife. I confess I’m . . .”
“Disillusioned?” Jeremy asked softly.
She nodded, mute.
“Men can be very disillusioning, I’m afraid,” Jeremy said. “We’re but things of clay, bumbling about, stumbling over the feelings of those dearest to us. That is why we rely so heavily on the compassion of you ladies, for if you ever lost your pity, took offense, and abandoned us en masse, we would be quite lost, you know.”
“Ah, but we both know I am not much like other men, either, dear Bea,” he retorted lightly. Before she could reply, he continued. “Have you discussed the veteran’s bill with Lord Hope?”
“Well, I started to,” she said slowly.
“And?”
She shook her head. “He’s intent on regaining the title and cannot consider other matters at the moment.”
“Ah.” Jeremy looked down at his teacup, frowning.
Beatrice hurried to say, “He did speak highly of his men—the soldiers he led in battle—and that makes me a little optimistic that he might be sympathetic to our cause. The problem is convincing him to act, I think. I still haven’t figured out how exactly to do that.”
“He sounds rather selfish,” Jeremy murmured.
“I don’t think he is,” Beatrice said slowly. “Not truly. It’s just that he’s so focused on regaining what he’s lost, there doesn’t seem to be room for anything else right now.”
“Hmm. I think we all try to get back the life that we’ve left behind when we return home, we old soldiers.” Jeremy’s voice was growing weaker. “The problem is, some things can’t be regained once lost. I wonder if he’s realized that yet?”
“I don’t know.”
“In any case, you should speak to him soon. The bill will come up before parliament within the next month. Our time is growing short—so short.” Jeremy closed his eyes again as he leaned against the pillows.
She bit her lip. “You’re tired. I should go.”
“No, don’t.” He opened his eyes, so blue and clear against the white of his pillow. “I adore your company, you know.”
“Oh, Jeremy,” she said, touched enough that her throat swelled. “I—”
Something thumped loudly in the downstairs hall.
She looked at the bedroom’s shut door. “What—?”
Shouting came from below, advancing closer as a male voice bellowed, “I’ll see her, damn your eyes! Get out of my way!”
It sounded very like Lord Hope. Beatrice half rose from her chair. “I can’t believe he would—”
The voices were rapidly advancing closer. If she didn’t do something, he was going to burst into the room. Beatrice ran out into the hallway, closing Jeremy’s bedroom door firmly behind her. Coming up the stairs, looking like a charging bull, Lord Hope’s face was grim. Putley trailed him, several steps behind, his wig lost, his face frightened as he pleaded with the viscount.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.
“Discovering your lover,” he growled as he strode toward her.
“I don’t have a lover!”