Free To Desire a Devil by Elizabeth Hoyt Page B

’andsome gentleman, so I hear.”
    It occurred to Reynaud at this point that although he’d seen Miss Corning every day since his return to England, he didn’t
     actually know much about the woman. Was this Oates—this proper English gentleman—a beau? Or a fiancé? The thought spurred
     a primitive part of him, and he blurted the next question.
    “Is she engaged to him?”
    “Not yet,” the footman replied, winking cheerfully. “But can’t be long, can it, if she visits ’im so often? ’Course, there
     is the matter of ’is—”
    But Reynaud wasn’t listening anymore. He pushed past the ass and started for the stairs.
    “Oy!” the footman called from behind him. “Where’re you goin’?”
    “To meet Miss Corning at the door,” Reynaud growled. His legs were shakier than he’d realized, and it only made him more irritable.
     He gripped the banister with one hand as he descended slowly. He moved like a goddamned old man.
    “I’m not supposed to let you leave your room,” the footman said, suddenly beside him. He took Reynaud’s elbow to help him,
     and so weak was Reynaud that he didn’t even protest the familiarity.
    “Who ordered you to keep me in my room?” Reynaud demanded.
    “Miss Corning. She was worried you might injure yourself.” The footman glanced at him sideways. “Don’t suppose I can get you
     to go back, m’lord?”
    “No,” Reynaud replied shortly. He was panting, dammit. Only a month ago, he’d walked all day without wearying, and now he
     panted descending a damned staircase!
    “Didn’t think so,” the man said matter-of-factly. He didn’t say anything else until they made the entrance hall. “Would you
     like some water, m’lord, while you wait?”
    “Please.” Reynaud leaned against the wall until the man disappeared in the direction of the kitchens. Then he went to the
     front doors and pulled them open.
    The wind caught his breath as he went out on the step. The day was gray and cold, winter spreading her wings on London. There’d
     be snow on the ground north of Lake Michigan now, and the bears would be fat and slow, preparing for their winter sleep. He
     remembered how Gaho had loved to eat bear meat fried in its own fat. She would smile when he brought her a freshly killed
     sow or boar, the wrinkles in her brown cheeks deepening, her eyes nearly disappearing in her happiness. For a moment, his
     former life and his present merged and wavered in front of his eyes, and he forgot where he was. Who he was.
    Then the Blanchard carriage pulled up in front of the town house.
    The footman jumped down and set the step. Reynaud straightened and started for the carriage. The door opened and Miss Corning
     descended the steps.
    Her brows snapped together when she saw him. “What are you doing out of bed?”
    “I’ve come to meet you,” Reynaud said, his voice hard. “Where have you been?”
    She ignored his question. “I can’t believe you’re so silly as to stand outside in the cold. You must go in at once. Arthur”—she
     beckoned to the carriage footman—“please take Lord Hope in—”
    “I’m not going to be taken anywhere,” Reynaud said with deadly calm. The carriage footman took one look at him and found a
     consuming interest in putting away the step. “I’m not a child or half-wit to be taken care of. I repeat, where have you been?”
    “Then you must allow me to help you inside.” Miss Corning dismissed his growing anger with a wave of her hand.
    He gripped her arms, making her end her sentence on a squeak. “Answer me.”
    Something green flared within her eyes, a surprising spark of iron will. “Why should I answer to you?”
    “Because.” His entire vision was filled with her eyes, sparkling gray and meadow green intermixed. The combination was absolutely
     fascinating.
    She stared back at him and said, low, “And, anyway, why do you care where I’ve been?”
    He’d faced capture and torture and the imminent prospect of his own