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.
And as they went, the mass of people parted before them, some half falling in their haste to get away from Lord Hope. On every face they passed, Beatrice saw the same expression.
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.”