by Ingrid Hahn
Trouble was, he never wanted to stop looking at her. The simplicity of her sprig muslin day dress set off her quiet allure, as strong today as when he’d first seen her.
Around her, his composure never failed to flee. If anyone could be said to know what a tree must feel like, it should be him. Being around her made him wooden, and not always in terms that might hope to pass for gentlemanly.
Life was a cruel mistress. It wasn’t like Corbeau was free to remedy the situation, by, say, offering for her. She’d made her feelings for him only too abundantly clear, and he’d sworn to himself he’d always honor them.
He had a single goal: hide how much he wanted to be near her. But trying to conceal his feelings only exacerbated his utter dearth of social graces.
“Well, I daresay we won’t go hungry.” She was smiling at him as she spoke.
His balls tightened. Please, mercy—not now. “We can’t be discovered.”
“You might wish to spend the remainder of your days here, my lord. I reserve the right to want differently.”
“No, you don’t understand. You and I are together in a locked room. Alone.”
The word “alone” was all it took. It conjured images—did things to him. Physical things. Things that might prove useful lurid fodder for when he was by himself in bed tonight.
Whatever effect she might have on him, he did not have on her.
“A room locked from the outside.” She spoke offhandedly, as if stating the obvious. “I hardly think anyone will look askance on a simple mistake.”
He shook his head. “It’s a risk I can’t take.”
Instant regret at the careless words stung him, even before she sobered and drew her book close against her chest. She kept her gaze level, but her voice dropped a notch. “It’s not our fault.”
Hell. Was he a gentleman or a pigheaded blunderer?
“I mean for your sake, of course.”
She seemed to pick up on his meaning. “Oh, I think we all know my reputation is quite safe with you, my lord.”
The unsated male in him roared, insisting upon the satisfaction of proving himself once and for all. Nothing was so provoking to the demands of reason than this madness inside. Corbeau had nothing to prove, not to anyone. Not to her, not to the world, not to himself.
He kept in his current place next to the door. Internally, however, he found himself losing footing, the last remnants of the steadiness for which he prided himself slipping away. “Safe enough with me?” His tenor had sunk to a steely low.
Her brows crossed. “I implied no challenge by what I said.”
“Didn’t you?”
“Really, my lord, you’re being quite—quite…”
“Quite what?”
“Quite not yourself.”
“And what am I?”
She halted a moment, thinking as she gave him a puzzled look. “Not this, my lord, certainly.”
Corbeau lifted his chin to stare down at her. “What if I were after a kiss? What then?”
Her lips parted and her eyes widened. “Would you dare steal one?”
“Steal one? No, Lady Grace, indeed I would not.” Her quiet allure was growing louder by the second as all the things he’d ever imagined doing to her replayed in his mind. “I would only take what was generously proffered.”
She frowned. “I always knew you had a high opinion of yourself. I never believed it would manifest in such a way as this, though.”
“A high opinion of myself? Is that what you think of me?”
“What am I to think of you but what I am left to construct for myself? It’s not as if you ever deign to speak to me.”
“Do you want me to speak to you?”
It was the wrong question. The answer didn’t matter. He couldn’t speak to her. He couldn’t be near her. If he knew what was good for him, he’d flee to the continent. If it weren’t for his sister Hetty, he would.
Dash it all, why hadn’t some other man had the decency to do the right thing by Lady Grace and bring her to the altar? Married, she’d be no temptation to him.
The voices at the back of his mind mocked him for the rank lie. This woman would tempt him no matter what her state. Thank goodness she wasn’t married, saving him the dishonor—the horror—of lusting after another man’s wife.
But Corbeau would consider the rational side of things later. Much later. Because for now, her color went high—and yes, the woman’s reaction made his pride flare. She did want him to speak to her. If that was all he could have, by God, he’d take it.
One hand still clutching her book, she used the other to brush her skirts. She looked slightly nervous, but spoke with arch playfulness. “It might raise my estimation of your manners if you suffered through the attempt. I’m not asking for much, no more than once a year. I wouldn’t want to put you through too much trouble.”
“So I suppose this will count as my yearly attempt, then?”
“Oh, certainly.” Lady Grace nodded with false earnestness in step with their banter. “And once we’re free of the storeroom, you needn’t trouble yourself again until November next. That will give you ample time to ponder which subject you might wish to broach with me.”
“I have to broach a whole subject, do I? Here I thought we might make do with pleasantries.” Taking a moment to pretend to consider, he inhaled deeply. “This is going to be a challenge.”
“Don’t strain to think on the matter quite yet, my lord. We couldn’t have it if you inflicted harm upon yourself now, could we?”
“If it’s in the name of making the lady happy, I can hardly complain.”
“Put the task aside and let it rest a while.” She gave a sage nod. “Perhaps you’ll surprise yourself with a burst of inspiration. I always have my best ideas when I least expect them. And, after all, you have the whole year.”
“That leaves but a single question.”
Her brows rose. “That is?”
“Will it be enough time?”
When she smiled, he smiled.
It was odd, this—the ease that had grown between them in the space of so short a time. It could never have been possible in a drawing room. A ballroom was out of the question.
He should have done this a long time ago. Talked to her.
The door rattled. A female voice came through the other side. “Can anyone be in there?”
He froze, staring at the wooden paneling. It might as well have been hiding a demon waiting to take him to hell.
A second voice answered. “I daresay not.”
The first spoke again. “I distinctly heard voices. A man’s voice and a woman’s.”
“No. Unthinkable. You’re imagining things.”
“I am not. Your hearing must be going.”
A third chimed in. “That’s precisely it, though, isn’t it? Young people of today don’t think, do they? They’re frivolous as anything.”
The second levied a sharp retort. “I recall you doing a frivolous thing or two in your youth.”
By way of reply came a sour mutter. Something unintelligible followed by a grumbling, “…mind yourself, Lavinia.”
Lavinia?
Oh, no.
Corbeau went cold. Only one person in all of his extended acquaintance whose Christian name was Lavinia, and she was unfortunately a guest of Max’s this week as well. Lavinia was none other than the Lady Rushworth herself.
Before he could tell Lady Grace to hide—that he’d come back for her later—the door swung open.
There they were, all three of them, their mouths agape at the sight they beheld. Not young ladies, either, but well-established older ladies. Married ladies. With Lady Rushworth were Lady Maxfeld, the hostess, and Lady Bennington, Grace’s mother. All of them sported a variation on a matron’s cap that covered hair ranging from pure white to peppery gray. They were supposed to be looking out for the younger, unmarried members of their sex crawling through the manor house this week.
There was no question about what was rac
ing through their minds.
Lady Maxfeld, Max’s mother, covered her open mouth with her hand, head shaking as if not believing this could be happening, and under her roof.
They were well and truly caught, Corbeau and Lady Grace…caught together. So many years of avoiding even the faintest hint of anything that might resemble scandalous behavior, all gone. He’d been trapped.
The scene was so bad, it could almost have been staged for a comic play.
Only there was nothing comic about what was happening to them.
They looked from him to Lady Grace, the conclusions they drew illustrated with an artist’s precision on their faces. Not one of them were giving them the benefit of the doubt.
The reality of the situation closed like a noose circling his throat.
This wasn’t just bad. This was the worst it could be.
“It’s not what you think.” Lady Grace’s voice wavered.
A stern look of disapproval hardened over Lady Rushworth’s features, disdain ripe in the expression. Her brows arched, as if nothing Grace could do or say would convince her that Grace wasn’t a fallen woman. “Is it not?”
The woman turned to Lady Bennington. “Not a respectable bone in any of your girls’ bodies, is there?” Her venomous gaze slid back to Lady Grace. “I knew I didn’t want the likes of the Landon girls mingling with good society.”
Indignity stabbed Corbeau like a red-hot blade. They could think whatever they pleased about him, he didn’t give a hang. But Lady Grace, no. Absolutely not. They couldn’t think vile things about her, not if he could help it. No woman would be stained by having been caught alone with him.
If he didn’t have his honor, he had nothing.
“It’s all right, my lady.” Corbeau spoke back over his shoulder to Lady Grace. He had never been more inwardly steady in his life. He was going to face them down and emerge on the other side of this hellish moment undefeated. “We should tell them.”
Lady Maxfeld’s breath caught audibly, her hand flying to her mouth, excitement in her eyes. The other two simply scowled.
He looked over his shoulder to find Lady Grace pallid and wide-eyed. This was apparently far worse than she’d expected. “Tell them?”
“Ladies.” He bowed to the matrons. “I am pleased you will be the first to know.”
The other two caught up with Lady Maxwell, lighting with anticipation, although in very different ways. Lady Rushworth’s mouth fell open in disbelief. Lady Bennington clutched at her bosom.
He would have wagered a hundred pounds none of them were breathing.
Corbeau motioned for Lady Grace to step forward. Wordlessly, she obeyed. The faint fragrance of her was discernible—and distracting.
He threaded her arm through his, her hand on his forearm making him all too aware of himself as a man.
Could he do this? It’d get him what he wanted—Grace—but it seemed a dirty cheat. Moreover, he wasn’t what she wanted.
It was too late for scruples. The damage was done. Rightly or wrongly, he was the responsible party, and he was going to make everything right again.
“I am proud to announce that Lady Grace has just agreed to be my bride.”
Chapter Three
The Jacobean manor had only just come into view around the final turn when something went amiss with the wheel.
Grace stood in the narrow road next to the carriage with her mother and two of her three sisters, Jane and Phoebe, her gaze lingering on the house. Frigid air transformed her breath into blurred white veils. The stone-faced structure rested among towering trees, their branches bare but for frozen water droplets. Come spring when the flat brown turned every imaginable shade of green, there would be few rivals for advantage in picturesque beauty. This was the place where she was supposed to be mistress?
Not if she could help it.
The earl had done her very little good forcing the engagement upon her and leaving in all haste.
Had he thought he was helping her? It was the question that had been plaguing Grace for the full measure of the last three weeks.
One thing he had done before leaving Lord Maxfeld’s estate was issue an invitation to the celebrated Corbeau Christmas fête. Even as close to Hetty as she was, Grace had never before received an invitation to join the party in all ten years of the acquaintance, never mind entertained the notion that her mother and sisters might also be made welcome.
The coachman’s knees cracked as he eased himself up from a crouch with an ungainly grunt. A man in the employ of the finest families, he was not. His cuffs were frayed, his jacket the sort of muddy color that came from a cheap dye and a hundred launderings too many.
His appearance was nothing to Grace. They were lucky to have use of the coach at all. They hadn’t been able to afford the keeping of a carriage since Grace had been a girl of nine or ten.
One of the grays made a sound of impatience as only a horse can produce.
Lady Bennington, Grace’s mother, frowned. “Are we set to resume for the final stretch?”
The coachman made a clicking noise and shook his head. “Nope. No good, my lady.” With his foot, he indicated the rut in the road that had jostled them so terribly. “Going to have to walk the rest of the way, I should think.”
Phoebe rested a hand upon their mother’s shoulder. “It isn’t far, Mama. We’ll be all right.”
While Lady Bennington didn’t look overjoyed, she made no argument. “And what about our trunks?”
The hired man gave her a nod of deference. “They’ll get there, my lady. I’ll see to it m’self.”
The air smelled of snow. For good reason. Tiny flakes started falling, slow and gentle.
Corbeau Park was farther north than she had ever been, and quite a ways inland.
Grace’s eyes hadn’t left the manor during the exchange. She’d heard tell of the splendor of the estate. Indeed, who had not? So many had presumed that, being Hetty’s particular friend, she must be on familiar terms with the place, and had asked her if it were all it was said to be.
It was more. She couldn’t have expected a place could impress her so. It was better than anything she could ever have hoped to gain in marriage.
But…it wasn’t to be. She must find a way to extricate herself. Somehow.
She narrowed her eyes to look more carefully into the distance. The flakes were a thick barrage of tiny white dots. She blinked when a drop of snow tangled in her lashes.
No mistake. There were figures emerging from the house. “I think they’ve seen us. Help seems to be on the way.”
“Footmen I assume?” Lady Bennington squinted, her mouth pinched. Then she drew up, surprised, drawing a hand against her bosom. “Oh, my dear, is that who I think it is?”
Grace looked again, heating from head to foot. If her mother was speaking of whom she thought she was speaking…
“Grace, you’ve turned quite rosy, my dear girl.”
“I have not.”
Phoebe chimed in, her voice at its most authoritative. “Oh, I rather think you have.” She covered her mouth to hide a giggle, ignoring Jane’s disapproving look.
Grace cupped her cheeks. If only one outgrew the blushing stage. In the past several weeks—beginning with the awkwardness in the storeroom, come to think on it—her face had flamed more than it had in all the rest of her life. “It’s nothing. The—” She caught herself just in time from exposing herself to further mortification. She’d been about to blame the wind for her reddened state.
There was no wind.
Odd. Reputedly, a perpetual wind cut through these northern climes.
But the snow fell softly, no single flake with a care in the world. “It’s the cold is all.”
Her mother let out a merry laugh. “The cold? Yes, indeed, it must be that, I have no doubt. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fine figure of the man approaching.”
“Is he among them?” Grace’s voice was strained. There might have been four approaching, but even at so gre
at a distance, there was no mistaking Lord Corbeau among them. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Lady Bennington put her arm around Grace. “I’ve known you for a full twenty-seven years, my girl. You can’t put anything past me.”
Very well. But couldn’t they at least pretend Grace could put something past her mother, just for the sake of compassionately avoiding acute mortification? At times like these, she felt half her age.
Grace took in a heavy breath. “Mother, I think we should reconsider—”
“Don’t worry, my dear girl. It shall all be all right, you shall see.”
“There is always the other option we discussed.”
Her mother ignored her. “Now, when we get to the house, I will devise a way for you and the earl to be alone together—”
“Mother, please. Hasn’t enough damage already been done?”
“Damage?” The older woman looked affronted. “I daresay there’s been nothing of the sort. You’re the daughter of an earl and you will be marrying an earl. What could possibly be more natural?”
“I want you to reconsider what we talked about.” The letter containing Grace’s offer rested within the reticule dangling from her wrist.
“Grace, I forbade you from speaking on the subject, so I won’t have another word. I won’t. Bennington girls aren’t born to be governesses. Why should you lower yourself when you can be the wife of an earl?” She gave a firm nod. “Besides, it’s already settled.”
If Grace had any sense, she’d have disobeyed her mother years ago and sought a favorable position in a respectable house. There would never have been a forced engagement, and she wouldn’t have to disappoint them all now when she broke with Corbeau.
Her reputation wasn’t in such sterling shape, thanks to the little incident in the storeroom, and after she cried off, what little remained would be in tatters. Her mother would rail and cry and say she’d never forgive her—this time, very probably in truth.
It couldn’t be helped. Grace couldn’t become a wife under such terms as these. She’d been trapped in the most disgraceful way. The whole business was absurd. The degradation of being forced into marriage could not be borne.
