She’d never had such an immediate reaction like this to any man. Tingles raced from her midsection to her toes, not arousal this time but an urge to run. He was dangerous.
And Thérèse? Clearly he was grossly mistaken. Or foxed.
She stood, then took a deep breath, released it, and raised her brows in a haughty mask. “Pardon me, sir?”
His expression sharpened. He took her arm, harshly. “Don’t toy with me.”
She pulled back and he tightened his grip. His hand was large. His hold stronger than any gentleman she’d known.
He leaned so close she could have brushed her lips against his. “Don’t pretend that you don’t know me!”
His deep, hushed voice sent pleasurable shivers through her but Jeanne pushed the sensation aside. As his hot breath wafted over her, she inhaled deeply but couldn’t detect any odor of spirits. Nor were the pupils of his eyes dilated, as they might be if he were under the influence of some strong drug. Prickles raced over her scalp like a thousand needles.
Perhaps the gentleman wasn’t in full control over his mental faculties. Dear God. Just like Papa. She’d spent her youth caring for her father in his varying stages of insanity. Life with him had become a prison. Since his death, she had lived in fear of the unbalanced. Another series of prickles raced over her scalp.
She met the stranger’s gaze levelly. “What’s your game?”
“Thérèse, don‘t be this way.” His whisper, laced with steel, was so low, that she unwittingly leaned closer. “We needn’t make any dramatics here. We’re going home.”
This near to him, Jeanne noted the glassiness of his eyes. Again, she sniffed. No hint of alcohol. But then again, having experienced all of Papa’s variances of sanity, she had an instinct for spotting others who were likewise afflicted. This man was definitely afflicted in his mind.
This was the exact situation she always dreaded. Since her girlhood, she always watched others, seeking any sign of madness. She’d had to cope with Papa, that had been her duty, but she was always careful to keep others who showed any inkling of mental instability at a safe distance. How stupid of her to have let herself be distracted by this man’s masculine beauty.
Angry at herself, she jerked her arm, trying once again to free herself. His grip remained relentless.
“Thérèse!” Again, the low steely whisper. “Behave yourself.”
How unwise of her. An insane person could react unpredictably. She ought not to provoke him. Yet she knew it was important to present a strong, confident front.
“Sir, I am not your Thérèse and have no wish to be. So please unhand me.” Her heart was hammering at her chest wall so violently, she had trouble keeping her voice even. She lifted her chin and stared at him steadily. “Now.”
“You are deliberately pushing me, Thérèse. I don’t appreciate it.”
Boots sounded on the floorboards. The sound drew her attention to how quiet the public room had become. She glanced around. The other patrons were staring.
“Miss Darling, is everything all right?”
The tall gentleman turned to Paul and regarded him with an icy, haughty stare. “The lady is a friend. Please go back to your counter and mind your business.”
At the velvet over iron tone, the young man’s eyes grew round. He took one step backward and then another, then stood looking uneasy.
“Are you having a spot of trouble here, Miss Darling?”
Jeanne turned to face the shop owner, a large, barrel-chested man.
The stranger exhaled long and loud. A sound of complete exasperation. “As I told the boy, the lady is a rather close friend. I would appreciate a little privacy.”
The shop owner turned to her. “Miss Darling?”
Her heart froze and her chest constricted. She placed a hand to her throat. She didn’t know what to say.
“The gent don’t look right to me.” The owner’s wife squinted at the stranger.
Jeanne glanced at the gentleman’s handsome profile and the proud jut of his jaw. He gazed at her sideways and she caught her breath. There was something about that brief gaze. A lost, disorientated air. Just like Papa when he had been in one of his worst spells and he was trying to hide it by acting arrogantly assertive.
But she had seen. The stranger was truly not in his right mind.
He swayed then braced his large hands on the back of the chair and caught himself. Arrogance fell over his face like a mask.
Jeanne’s throat ached. He was so vulnerable. So alone.
Mrs. Cook motioned to the chair Jeanne had vacated. “Sir, you better sit.”
The gentleman stared at the matron—well, rather he glowered down his nose at her. “If you please, the lady and I have some personal business to attend to.”