“Not always the silk, believe it or not. They seemed to like green.” He offered a tentative smile.
She held his gaze a moment. She seemed to want to say, or ask, something else.
Then gave a short nod and turned away again.
“Are the Indians truly grumpy, Mr. Cassidy?” Claire wanted to know, shyly.
“Ah. Well. I’m sorry, but I was jesting. And I’m uncertain how much you know about this, Lady Claire, but ‘Indians’ is a word applied by European settlers to the original occupants of the continent. There are, in fact, many tribes with many different names. It’s considered impolite to shoot at them if they don’t shoot at you.” He gave her a little smile; enough to intoxicate but not devastate her. “It was, in fact, an Algonquin friend who taught me about gyrfalcons. I met him through my infamous Uncle Liam, who has been everywhere in the world, and will soon be coming to visit England.”
“I can’t wait!” Delacorte interjected cheerfully. “He sounds a right card.”
“An Algonquin friend!” the countess repeated slowly, in quiet wonderment. “Imagine!”
“But didn’t Indians shoot at Americans during the war?” St. John was stirred to ask.
“Some tribes fought with the British and Canadians. Some fought with the Americans. I was born an American, and I proudly fought for my country.” The issues surrounding the war were complicated and could be viewed from many angles, but the time to explain it wasn’t now.
“Mr. Cassidy’s brother and father lost their lives in the war.” Bolt said this quietly, but in a way that made it clear that more talk of war was discouraged.
Hugh knew why he’d done it, and was grateful.
And that’s when he felt Lillias’s eyes on him.
This time it was he who carefully did not meet her gaze. Another yearning for home swept through him with a sudden visceral violence. For the smells and sounds and sights. Usually he could muster patience and diplomacy. But he was weary. Bridging the gulf between his way of life and that of the blue blood he wanted to ravish was abrading.
“The most useful thing I learned in war is that there’s not much difference between men when they’re naked and dead,” he said shortly. “Indian, American, British, titled, untitled.”
There was a stunned little silence.
“Oh . . . my . . .” The countess swiveled her head. “Ought we . . . that is . . . that word . . . Mr. Durand? Mrs. Hardy? Do you really think that . . .that word . . . is appropriate immediately after dinner?”
“Which one, ‘dead’ or ‘naked’?” Hugh said calmly. His mood had officially shifted to mutinous.
“Good night!” St. John all but bolted from the room.
Lillias was staring at Hugh now. A flush had traveled from her collarbone up to her forehead. He sensed that she was experiencing the sweet hell of picturing him entirely naked.
He fixed her relentlessly in his gaze.
“The... latter word,” the countess said.
“I’ve never quite thought of ‘naked’ in that light,” Delacorte mused, happy to have a problem to mull.
“It does rather conjure a vivid picture,” Lillias reflected, slowly. “The word ‘naked.’”
Her delivery of that last word—slowly, savoringly, her eyes level with his—was a masterpiece of torture.
Hugh almost closed his eyes. He cast about desperately in his mind for an erection queller and hit upon Delacorte breaking wind in the smoking room. It worked.
The countess stood up and sat down then stood up again, turning this way and that in a little panic, as though each “naked” was a spot of fire she might need to stomp out.
“Lillias, stop conjuring,” she said finally. Sitting down.
“Do as your mother said,” the earl echoed.
“It’s difficult to stop once you start,” Lillias said softly.
“Entirely my point,” Hugh ground out evenly. Tautly.
