Beatrice bit her lip, unsure how to convince him to her cause. “If you become the earl, you’ll sit in the House of Lords and—”
“I haven’t the time to think of sitting in the House of Lords right now.” He grimaced and shook his head. “I must focus all of my mind, my time, my energy in obtaining my title. Once that bridge is crossed, then I’ll contemplate the tangled web of politics, not before then.”
Beatrice’s heart sank. By the time he decided to involve himself in politics, it might be too late for Mr. Wheaton’s bill. Too late for Jeremy.
She bit her lip, glancing out the carriage window as they rumbled along. How, then, could she convince Lord Hope that Mr. Wheaton needed his help to pass the bill now? If only she knew why he made the decisions he did—why he was so obsessed with regaining his title. She straightened and turned to him with determination. It was even more important than ever to find out what had happened to him in the last seven years.
What had turned him into the man he was today.
REYNAUD WATCHED MISS Corning from beneath lowered eyelids. She sat primly on the seat across from him, nibbling at her full bottom lip. What was going through her quick little mind? And why had she brought up parliament of all things? Her uncle was a keen politician. Perhaps she merely wanted to know if he’d become interested in politics once he attained the title. Become like her uncle.
He frowned. That wasn’t likely to happen. He might be wearing a proper wig and clothing, but he’d never settle into complacent English life entirely. His time in the Colonies had changed him, warped him. He was no longer the proper English aristocrat who’d left London seven years ago. Perhaps that was what bothered her now. Perhaps she saw through the trappings of civilization to the man he really was. Sometimes he caught her staring at him with a curious uneasiness, like a deer scenting the air, aware of danger but with no knowledge of the wolf hiding in the trees behind her.
He turned his head to gaze blindly out the carriage window. His aunt had counseled him to find an English wife of good family. Well, wasn’t that exactly what Miss Corning was? Above reproach, a maiden of his enemy’s family? She was perfect for the role of wife. He pushed aside that primitive part of himself that exulted at the thought of this particular woman belonging to him. Instead, he began laying plans. A year ago he would’ve simply carried her off in a raid. Now he must court in the English ways, which meant gaining the lady’s favor.
Across from him, she cleared her throat with a delicate little sound.
He looked up at her.
She smiled, determined and beautiful, from beneath a ridiculously wide-brimmed hat. “I believe you made a promise, my lord?”
He inclined his head, though his pulse picked up. Of course she wouldn’t forget their bargain.
And indeed her next words solidified his thought. “I know ’tisn’t any of my business, but could you tell me where you were all these years?”
He looked at her silently, struggling not to bat her down with harsh, dismissive words.
The color rose in her cheeks, but she held his gaze even as she tilted her chin up. “Please.”
Courage would be an asset in the mother of his children.
“It is your business,” he said. “I was in the American Colonies.”
“Yes, I know,” she said gently, “but where? And why? Did you lose your memory? Who you were? I’ve heard strange cases of injured men forgetting who and what they were.”
“No. I always knew who I was.” He looked at her, so sheltered from the world. Would such a tale shock her? Repulse her? But she had asked. “I was captured by Indians.”
“Indeed.” Her gray eyes widened. “But surely you haven’t been with them for seven years?”
“I was.” He hesitated. The subject wasn’t one he ever wanted to visit again in this lifetime, but the expression on Miss Corning’s face was rapt. Had not Othello wooed his Desdemona thus? If telling her his bloody war tales would win her, he’d do it, no matter the pain to himself. Brown eyes stared up through a mask of blood.
Even if it tore his soul in two.
“I had no choice. I was enslaved.”
BEATRICE DREW IN her breath at the word enslaved. The carriage bumped around a corner, jostling her against the side, but she paid little mind, caught up as she was with the thought of proud Lord Hope in slavery. The very thought was an abomination.
“Is that where you got those?” She nodded at the bird tattoos.
He raised a hand to trace them. “Aye.”
“Tell me,” she said simply.
His hand dropped. “You’ve heard about the massacre at Spinner’s Falls.”
It wasn’t a question, but she answered it anyway. “There was an ambush. Most of the regiment were killed.”
He nodded, his face turned toward the window, though she somehow knew he saw nothing of what passed outside. “We were marching through the woods from Quebec to Fort Edward. The trail was narrow, and the men were forced to walk in single file. The regiment became strung out. Too damned strung out.”