To Win a Lady's Heart (The Landon Sisters)

by Ingrid Hahn

  “Corbeau Park, you said?”

  “With all possible haste, if you please.”

  He flicked the reins.

  As per her request, he deposited her back behind the stables.

  She was descending when Mr. Miller caught her by the wrist, his twisted yellow teeth gleaming as he snarled at her. “Going to cost you a bit more if you think I’m going to keep my mouth shut about bringing you up here. I know what the likes of you are about, and I don’t mind who knows about it.”

  Grace jerked free, struggling to maintain more poise than it would take to tell the man to go hang. “You don’t mind who knows about it, do you? Well, that’s convenient, because neither do I.”

  …

  The door to the stables clattered, and Grace jumped back from where she’d been caressing the silky nose of a patient spotted mare. She pulled back deeper into the shadows. The horse snuffed. The gray tomcat had come to demand its fair share of her attention. He walked farther down the ledge of the stall and butted his head against the hand she rested there. Idly, she stroked the cobby body.

  There was the sound of flame bursting to life. Instinctively, her eyes squeezed shut.

  The room went silent. Even the cat suspended his purring.

  A large figure at the far end lifted the lantern up above his head. “Is someone there?”

  A barrage of fluttering assaulted her insides.

  It was him.

  She’d been right—he had one more morning in the stables.

  “Hallo?”

  The timber of his voice turned her flesh to marble. Her lungs ceased their function, compressing around themselves as if wound by strangling vines.

  But what if the earl didn’t want to see her? What if it was too late?

  If it was too late, it was too late. There wasn’t a single thing left to lose. Attempting to exert a measure of control over the blood pounding through her veins, Grace inhaled a deep breath.

  Numb to feeling, she forced the dead weight of her heavy leg forward a step. Then another. Then, shielding her eyes from the intensity of the glare, she stepped into the ring of lantern light.

  “Lady Grace?”

  “Would you mind lowering that thing?”

  First he put something down that clinked. A tin cup full of a hot beverage, no doubt. Then there was the metallic sound of lantern doors being adjusted, and the light went from being shone directly in her eyes to a soft glow.

  She lowered her arm, the tips of her fingers working over one another in desperate need for occupation.

  The gray cat leaped down, landed on the clean-swept planks of the stable floors with a thud, and swirled around her ankles. He sat to look up at her, tail thrashing back and forth. The cat made a little noise that, instead of the standard expected meow, might have more properly been termed a chirp. And, Lord help her, but it sounded for all the world like a demand.

  The earl kept an awkward distance. “You came back?”

  “’Tisn’t far.” Her voice was thick with all the emotion she held in check—but only just. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Nor could I.”

  The rich aroma of coffee mingled with the smells of sweet hay and horse.

  She brushed a hand back over her hair. It’d been left straight and pulled back in a simple twist. He’d seen it in a more shocking state and hadn’t seemed to think the worse of her, so she tried not to feel insecure about it now.

  But she was. And so instead of speaking to what hovered waiting, shy and hopeful, in the corners of her heart, she reached back to the ledge where the book he’d loaned her rested. “I had to return this. I found it packed away in my trunks.”

  He took it from her outstretched hand. “The post too dear to send it back?”

  In his tone was challenge.

  Seems he wasn’t going to make this easy. Very well. Corbeau deserved as good as she could give—so as good as she could give he would have.

  A bold charge crackled through her veins, spurring her onward.

  “It’s not the only thing I came back for, my lord.” She took the lantern from him and strode to the other end of the stables. Corbeau followed, book tucked under his arm.

  She found the goat in the same place she’d discovered him the other morning. He had twisting horns that culminated in sharp points, and the hircine smell about him was unmistakable. “The old boy is still here, I see.”

  Sebastian bleated at them, noise bouncing from the walls.

  “Until I know what else to do with him, there he’ll stay.”

  “It’s not fair that he should have a name and the cat shouldn’t.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “Osiris.”

  Silence.

  More silence.

  Yet more silence.

  If Grace didn’t know better, she might venture to say he was weary from the efforts of advanced cogitation.

  “What?”

  “That’s the cat’s name, of course. I did manage to read some of the book, you know, and from what I can tell, the cat has the blood of dead Egyptian princes in his veins. At first I didn’t understand why you might be interested in an underworld god. Reading on, though, I realized he’s also the god of rebirth. And renewal. That’s what I want, you see. A renewal—a new hope.”

  “Perhaps…” He spoke carefully. “Perhaps you’d better explain.”

  From the floor there came a chirp. “You see?” Grace glanced up. “He approves of the name. I knew he would.”

  “Grace—”

  “Yes, I know. I’m going to explain, really I am.” She hung the lantern on a nearby post and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. “Remember this?”

  He looked unsure of what was happening. “I’ll still honor it, if you wish. I stand by my word.”

  “I think it’s better suited to this fellow here.” She unfolded the leaf and held it out to the creature.

  The earl looked baffled. “What do you—?”

  Corbeau stared as Sebastian reached out his neck and chomped the page. Soon it’d vanished completely—nothing left but an old billy looking up at them for more. He bleated again, harsher this time.

  The earl shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “I can’t live my whole life with my father’s treachery fettering my soul.”

  He looked guarded. “I’m still not following.”

  From the other end, a horse whinnied and kicked against the wood of his stall.

  Corbeau sent the impatient gelding a glower. “Hush. You’ll have your fill soon enough, I daresay.”

  He looked back to Grace, eyes full of wary expectation.

  She swallowed. “What I mean is, I can’t allow one man’s ghost to stand between myself and happiness.”

  “I don’t think—what?”

  She held up her hands to stop him. “You’ll have to give me time, my lord. I can’t change overnight. But time, I think, we have.”

  His brows crossed. “Have we?”

  “Have we what?”

  “Time?”

  “Oh, I do think so.” She drew upon every last reserve deep in her most hidden crevices. If she said this, there would be no going back. He could pull back and dismiss her. He’d do so with kind gentleness, but it would be the end of all hope—forever. “That special license you procured shouldn’t go to waste. We’ll put it to use, and then we’ll have all the time in the world.”

  Her heart had never battered harder in all her life.

  “We’re no longer engaged, my lady.”

  “Ah, yes, that’s right. But remember when you told me I had the power to demand what is right? Well, now I am demanding what is right.”

  “And what demand, exactly, might you be making of me, my lady?”

  “I don’t have much to offer but what stands before you.” She held out her hand. “Well, my lord? Will you have me?”

  This was it. It would either be the beginning of everything or the destruction of her very being.

  Th
e way he looked at her—she couldn’t read in his eyes which it would be.

  The whole world spun as if on the end of a pin.

  Corbeau slipped his hand into hers and drew her close.

  Her heart took flight.

  He was warm and solid and she was in his arms, where she belonged. She reached up to press a flat hand against him—just in case he wasn’t real.

  He was.

  He stroked her hair. “Why did you come back?”

  She looked up at him. “You want to hear me say it?”

  “I must.”

  “I rather liked what we did in bed together, and I should like to do it again. Many times over, if possible.”

  Little lines crinkled on the edges of his eyes as he smiled. “I can see the attraction to that part of the equation.”

  She put a finger over his lips. “I’ve lived in the cold shadow of my father’s doings for far too long. It’s time to let the past go and begin anew…with you, my lord. The only thing that matters is that I love you.”

  “You—are you sure?”

  “Never have I been more so in my life.”

  “About loving me—are you sure? Because, my dearest one—” Wrapping his hand in hers, he drew her hands up to press a kiss into her knuckles. “I need you to be sure. I thought once that you made me a stranger to myself, when in fact with you I have never known myself more completely. I couldn’t survive having that taken away.”

  “This is where I belong, my lord. With you—wouldn’t matter if you were prince or pauper, just so long as we were together. My heart is and ever shall be…irrevocably yours.”

  Her throat constricted, and hot tears burned her eyes. She blinked at them furiously lest they fall, biting hard into a trembling lip. It’d been years since she’d cried. She wasn’t about to start now.

  “What’s the matter?” He stroked her face, his own lit with concern.

  “Children—we might have children someday. Yours and mine. Can you imagine?” She tried to smile against her wobbling chin. “I hope they’re just like you.”

  Corbeau’s head bent and his mouth parted. Grace arched to meet him.

  At last. At last. At last.

  Their lips brushed softly together.

  It was only the beginning.

  Did you love this Scandalous novel from Entangled? Check out more of our historical titles here!

  Acknowledgments

  One of the best things a writer can do is surround herself with other writers who are smarter than she is. I have succeeded in spades. Critique group members past and present, whose sharp eyes, encouragements, and relentless dedication to excellence have pushed me, challenged me, and forced me to grow. Janet, Nancy, Marianne, Ann, Margaret, Leslye, Katrina, Toni, Renee, Meghan, Lina, and Jill—all talented writers in their own rights. From these women I will never stop learning.

  A very special thanks to Laurel Wanrow and Marta Bliese.

  Heather Howland, who told me to rewrite the short version of this story into a full-length book.

  Erin Molta, who shaped, encouraged, offered thoughtful comments and feedback during the editing process, and patiently fixed more mistakes than I will publically own.

  And, because this is my first published book, and while I’m restraining my impulse to thank every last person who has ever touched my life in a positive manner, I certainly can’t overlook two of my finest high school English teachers. Though it’s been many, many moons, Kelli Christensen and Margaret Newcomb, you are remembered fondly.

  I can’t mention them without mentioning the incredible Language Arts 4 Honors teacher from my senior year, one of the best teachers to ever rock a classroom, Mr. G.—who also happens to be my father. I’m sorry I forgot everything you taught us about Macbeth and Chaucer, but I remember a lot about King Lear and Dante.

  Which brings me to my mother (still a far better writer, speller, and grammarian than I), who, long before the days of Language Arts 4 Honors, sat with me for endless hours and helped me revise my essays sentence by sentence.

  Thank you all.

  About the Author

  Ingrid Hahn is a failed administrative assistant with a B.A. in Art History. Her love of reading has turned her mortgage payment into a book storage fee, which makes her the friend who you never want to ask you for help moving. Though originally from Seattle, she now lives in the metropolitan DC area with her ship-nerd husband, small son, and four opinionated cats. When she’s not reading or writing, she loves knitting, theater, nature walks, travel, history, and is a hopelessly devoted fan of Jane Austen. Please connect with her on social media! Find her on Twitter as @Ingrid_Writer. Find her on Facebook as Ingrid Hahn.

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