Page 13 of Barbarous

She shook her head and brushed away her tears with the back of her hand. “I feel fine. I would like to wear the jet tonight, Rowena.”

Her maid frowned before taking the magnificent jet necklace—yet another gift from Thomas—from its box and fastening it around Daphne’s neck.

Daphne nodded at her reflection and stood, allowing Rowena to drape a rather ugly gray shawl over her shoulders before turning to leave.

Her step was light and she realized she was looking forward to dinner in spite of all her worries. After Thomas’s death the evening meal had been an uncertain event as only Daphne and her sister-in-law Amelia remained at Lessing Hall. To say Amelia was absentminded was to do the absentminded a great disservice. Amelia either forgot dinner altogether or misjudged the time and showed up hours late, or even early. When she did manage to arrive on time, her mind was someplace else. And when she was mentally present she could not be heard over the deafening barking of her dozen pugs, which followed her everywhere, including the dining room. Eating with somebody who was physically and mentally present would be a novel experience.

Hugh was already in the dining room when Daphne arrived.

Daphne’s husband had been a big man, but he’d been over seventy when they’d married and his formidable frame had been diminished by time. Hugh Redvers was in his prime and the rough-hewn old hall with its massive wooden furniture and huge cast-iron chandeliers was a perfect backdrop for his powerful presence.

Daphne could imagine Hugh Redvers drinking and carousing with his thanes after a day killing off Norman invaders. Aromatic rushes would cover the floor and dogs and women would circle the periphery of the heavy trestle table as the men plotted over tankards of mead, their eyes fierce with memories of the day’s violence. An entire ox would be turning on a spit in the gargantuan fireplace and—

“Auntie?” Hugh’s handsome face was bent towards hers. “Is aught amiss?”

She blinked rapidly, the image of him in rough leathers and flowing hair dissipating. “No, I am fine.”

His single eye flickered over her unflattering dress, his expression showing nothing of what he made of the hideous garment. He, by contrast, was exquisite, piratical perfection in his evening clothes. His tailcoat of black superfine made his broad shoulders appear positively gargantuan while his simply arranged neckcloth separated his attractive face from a chest as expansive as a cricket pitch.

Black satin breeches molded themselves lovingly to the flexing thews and sinews of his thighs, and thin white stockings sheathed muscular calves to stunning advantage. The only color in his ensemble was his waistcoat, which was a green so dark as to be almost black.

His raiment was civilized, but Hugh Redvers was mischief on legs—gorgeous legs—and his proper attire did nothing to tame him. He emanated power, danger, and a barbarous disregard for social strictures and mores. He was the kind of man who did whatever he wished, not caring whether or not his behavior conformed to the dictates of polite society.

Something about the gleam in his eye made Daphne want to run and hide. She stifled the foolish urge and turned to look at the portrait he had been studying when she entered. It was a full-length painting of his Aunt Eloisa, Thomas Redvers’s first wife. Daphne wondered if he found it odd that a giant portrait of Thomas’s first wife hung in their dining room.

“You don’t mind dining under the imperious scrutiny of your predecessor?” he asked, echoing her thoughts in a way that sent ripples of worry down her spine.

Daphne pushed up her spectacles and moistened her lower lip, which was unaccountably dry. “Do you think she appears imperious? I believe she looks rather sanguine.”

He bent low and leaned close to her, as if to view the portrait from her angle. Heat surged up the right side of Daphne’s body and she inched away, praying he would not notice the evasive move.

“No,” he finally said. “She is definitely imperious and rather judgmental, too. When I was a boy I always felt she was looking down on me in complete agreement with my uncle when it came to my various infractions. Of which there were many.”

“I have no problem believing that.”

His lips pulled into a wicked smile. “You are looking at me with such stern disapproval—very much like a schoolmistress confronted with a naughty boy. I think you would like to discipline me? Perhaps make me write out some improving verse a hundred times?” He held out his huge hands. “Or maybe rap my knuckles with a ruler?”

Daphne knew she was as red as a lobster. “I assure you I was thinking nothing of the sort.”

“Oh? What were you thinking?” She pursed her lips and he chuckled. “Have you been listening to tales about me, Auntie? Has somebody been maligning my character?”

Daphne could not believe he expected an answer to those questions. She looked at the three place settings, wondering how long she should hold dinner for her sister-in-law.

The baron noticed her quick glance. “I see my aunt Amelia is characteristically late.”

“I’m afraid she doesn’t always recall mealtimes these days.”

“Not just these days.” He followed Daphne to the table and waved away the footman, seating her himself. “Aunt Amelia often drifted in, complete with pug army, midway through a meal, after the meal, several hours before a meal. On one memorable occasion she interrupted the gentlemen in the middle of cigars and port.”

Daphne didn’t need to imagine the scene; her absentminded sister-in-law had done the same thing on one of the few occasions she and Thomas had entertained. It had driven Daphne’s normally calm husband to distraction.

“I would have thought your return after nearly two decades would have brought her to the table on time,” Daphne said. Surely not even a woman as scatterbrained as Amelia Redvers could fail to notice her nephew’s return from the dead?

Hugh laughed. “On the contrary, I encountered her in the gallery earlier today and she gave no indication that she had even noticed my absence. I confess it quite took me down several notches.”

“I expect there are still several notches beneath those.”

He gave one of his disconcerting bellows of laughter. “Touché, my dear auntie! I’m flattered you noticed my . . . notches.”