In contrast to her husband, Lady Bossley wasn’t interesting at all. She was a good fifteen years younger than her lord and was as plump and pretty as they come. Her passion was rings, and she sported one on every finger whether her hands were gloved or not. Of course she’d been a grand heiress at the time of her debut into Society. Rumor had it Bossley had scooped her up into marriage before anyone had known his name.
As the ranking guests of honor, Corinne’s parents had places at the head of the dining table beside Lord and Lady Bossley. Corinne was supposed to sit on her father’s left, with Freddie on her mother’s right.
Taking advantage of the confusion of settling twenty guests—including the chaos of what seemed to be a footman to service each individual—Corinne switched her place with that of the local squire’s wife, Mrs. Rhys-Morton. It wasn’t polite, and it was incredibly nervy of her, but Corinne felt she had to have space between Freddie, her parents, and herself.
Mrs. Rhys-Morton was beside herself to realize her dinner companion was a duke and that once the guests sat, it would be awkward to make a change. Corinne knew Lord Bossley had noticed what she’d done. He smiled. She smiled back. She sensed he was not pleased.
Freddie, who’d already polished off one bottle of wine while they’d been in the receiving room, was more interested in having his glass filled than where his betrothed was sitting. He was angry with her and apparently was showing her that anger by diving headfirst into his cups. The thought wandered through Corinne’s mind that perhaps he was afraid that her father or even she herself might say something to his father about the maid.
She rejected the idea. Lord Bossley, dressed in elegant evening attire, didn’t give the impression he cared overmuch about servants, and he certainly doted on his son. This was his heir apparent. He didn’t see Freddie the way she did. He was indulgent, even when Freddie burped.
The dinner table setting was spectacular. Her parents were known for their entertainments, but they did not possess the means to display the wealth shown by Lord Bossley. The glasses were crystal, the plates were trimmed in gold, and the silverware was heavy and solid. And everything, from the serving dishes to the braid on the footmen’s livery, sparkled in the light of hundreds of candles.
Lord Bossley was in complete control of the evening. Whenever he had a story to tell, conversation stopped. Men and women would lean over their plates to hear what he had to say. Well, everyone save for Aunt Minerva, who’d nodded off over her soup.
Both Aunt Minerva and Dame Janet were seated at the low end of the table. It was apparent that Dame Janet had been placed there so that she could talk all she wished and not disturb anyone important. However, she fought that edict by sending very loud salvos of opinion up the table.
The chair between the two women, the one at the very end, was empty, and perhaps, given Dame Janet’s talkativeness and Aunt Minerva’s snores, that was a good thing.
The charming Lord Landsdowne sat on Corinne’s right, while a very handsome—truly very handsome—gentleman in a red military jacket covered with badges and medals sat to her left. He had the look of a young war god. Corinne was not surprised that Freddie had overlooked introducing her to him earlier.
“I’m Major John Ashcroft, commander of the local militia,” he said in way of introduction.
“Lady Corinne,” she said, finding herself suddenly shy. He had the most amazing blue eyes. They went well with the dimple in his chin and his curling black hair.
Corinne wasn’t one to have her head turned by a gentleman—except if the gentleman’s looks were exceptional . . . and Major Ashcroft fell into that category. She was also pleased to tweak Freddie’s arrogant pride in any way she could.
So she turned flirtatious, and Major Ashcroft kept the conversation flowing between her and the other women seated around him. He didn’t have much competition. Lord Landsdowne was involved in the political conversation going on between the duke and Lord Bossley, and, across from Corinne, Squire Rhys-Morton was busy shoveling his supper into his mouth. His wife chided him a time or two, but, given his girth, the man obviously had a robust appetite.
The squire’s wife leaned around Lord Landsdowne to say to Corinne, “You are so lucky, my lady, to have snagged Lord Sherwin. He is very much the catch. Tell me, how did the two of you first meet?”
That question.
Everyone romantic asked it. Usually, Corinne breezily answered they’d met through their parents. After all, she’d known of Freddie a long, long time. At least as far back as when she’d been thirteen and Abigail had been so mad for him.
But before she could speak, Freddie boozily jumped in. “Allow me to tell.”
“I prefer to answer,” Corinne argued. “She directed the question at me—”
“They called her the Unattainable,” Freddie declared as if she hadn’t spoken. With an opening like that one, even Dame Janet went silent. “But I knew that with enough charm, her defenses could be breached. She was just waiting for the right man.”
Corinne gained a new respect for Freddie’s drinking ability. He might have been in his cups, but his mind was shrewder than it was when he was sober. She gripped the handle of her fork. He spoke rubbish, but she could smile because she was picturing how he would yelp if she jabbed his nose with the tines.
“And what charms did you use?” Mrs. Rhys-Morton demanded with excited anticipation.
Freddie continued with some nonsense about wooing and buying flowers and being gallant. He left out his father’s visit to her father and what she was certain had been a discussion of money. For whatever reason, Lord Bossley had insisted he wanted her for his son and was willing to pay for the honor.
Her papa might claim he was doing his duty toward her, but he hadn’t been anxious to rid his hands of her until Freddie’s offer.
And if Freddie had ever purchased one posy for her, she was at a loss to remember it.
She wondered what the table would say if she told the story of his bedding her maid and how incredibly white his backside was?
Corinne pushed her uneaten lobster around her plate. Was it too much to ask for a husband she could respect and admire? For a man who thought of something else besides his own leisure? His own interests? His own pleasure?
“Is the dinner not to your liking, my lady?” Major Ashcroft asked.
“The dinner is lovely, Major, thank you,” she murmured and tried to take a bite.
“Don’t force yourself,” he responded, and she had the urge to throw herself into his noble arms with her tale of woe. Why couldn’t she have been marrying him? Why Freddie?
Major Ashcroft was the sort Corinne felt she could respect. After all, he had medals to prove his courage and his loyalty. He was the sort of man who would rescue damsels in distress and slay Freddie-dragons.
And then his gaze dropped to the decollete of her gown. It was a bold perusal . . . much like the sort of look Freddie gave her when he thought she wasn’t looking.
Did men think women wanted to be ogled?
She tucked her napkin into her bodice and he looked away, aware that she had caught his leer—
“And that,” Freddie said on a note of victory, “is why Lady Corinne is called the Ice Maiden.”
Everyone at the table turned to look at Corinne to see what Freddie was talking about. He’d noticed what had been happening and had used her action against Major Ashcroft’s roving eyes to his advantage. Heat rushed up her neck, staining her cheeks. Major Ashcroft had the good grace to be equally uncomfortable.
Before any more could be said, the dining room door opened. Without introduction or preamble, a tall man, close to Freddie in age, entered the room. He was dressed in black but not evening wear. The toes of his shoes were scuffed, and his thick, dark hair was in need of a barber.
“So good of you to finally join us, Will,” Lord Bossley said in greeting, his annoy
ance clear.
“Sorry. So sorry I’m late.” Will went straight for the chair at the foot of the table between the evening’s two most undesirable guests, Dame Janet and Aunt Minerva. He had a lean, wiry frame with broad shoulders that hunched a bit, as if he tried not to attract attention. Dark brows gave him a distracted, earnest air, and the shadow of his beard emphasized his jaw. Corinne wondered if he’d been too busy to shave or if he had simply forgotten.
He wasn’t an unattractive man in spite of being rumpled, and there was an air of intelligence about him.
“Your Graces,” Lord Bossley said with an air of long-suffering, “may I introduce you to my foster son, the Reverend Mr. William Norwich.”
Reverend? Foster son? Corinne caught herself staring in surprise. The man didn’t look any kin to Lord Bossley or particularly reverent.
“Will,” Lord Bossley said, “your preaching bands?” He tapped the place on his chest beneath his throat to show what he meant. “If you won’t dress for the evening, at least dress properly.”
Reverend Norwich reached up to his neck as if surprised the symbol of his calling wasn’t there. “They blow every which way,” Reverend Norwich said as his fingers found the string that tied them and turned it around so that the two rectangles of white material that served in place of a neck cloth—and as the brand of his service to the Church—could be seen.
“You’d forget your head if it wasn’t attached, Will,” Freddie said as he lifted his wine goblet to his mouth.
“I fear you are right,” Reverend Norwich answered with perfect pleasantness in Freddie’s direction. A footman placed his dinner before him. He nodded his appreciation and said, “I missed grace. I’m so sorry. One moment, please.” He bowed his head.
No one had said grace before the group had eaten. Corinne wondered if this was a mild rebuke or an earnest belief. She’d met more than her share of posturing pastors. The Church was as political as anything else in England. Of course, all those men shaved.
After a silent moment, Reverend Norwich picked up his fork and tucked in as if he hadn’t eaten in a week.
“Foster son?” The duke of Banfield asked the question Corinne had wondered. For some reason, Reverend Norwich tickled her memory. Had they met before? She was certain she hadn’t known Freddie had a foster brother. Or had she?
“I brought Will home from Barbados,” Lord Bossley said. He’d finished his dinner and now sat back in his chair, at ease to entertain. “I found him living on the streets, no more than nigh high and begging for any crust of bread he could find. I couldn’t leave him there. He was all of three. Big eyes and big belly. You know how they are when they are starving. ’Course, by the way he is gobbling his dinner, he’s still starving.”
Corinne noticed Mr. Norwich slowed his eating.
“How good-hearted of you,” the duchess was saying.
“A white child on the streets of that island would have been prey for so many evils,” Lord Bossley declared, accepting her praise. “I did what I felt I was obligated to do for my fellow men. Over the years, I’ve paid for Will’s education, gave him the curacy at Holy Name Church right here in Ferris. And he is thankful I have, aren’t you, Will?”
The Reverend Norwich had been busy buttering his bread, as if he’d been trying to ignore being the topic of conversation. However now, as if on cue, he looked up. “Yes, my lord,” he answered, his tone soft, dutiful. He knew what was expected of him and did it . . . and then his gaze met Corinne’s.
For a second, he stared as if shocked to see her. His butter knife stopped moving.
“Do you remember her, Will?” Freddie asked as if he’d been anticipating the moment the two of them met.
He did. Anger appeared in Mr. Norwich’s eyes, censure—and she didn’t understand why.
If they had met before, she had no recollection. Disconcerted, Corinne picked up her fork. She’d been staring at the clergyman as hard as he’d been looking at her. “Remember me, my lord?” she said, directing the comment to Freddie. “I don’t remember you talking about a foster brother or being introduced to him. When would we have met?”
“His name hasn’t come up in conversation,” Freddie answered blithely. “Will and I live two very different lives. However,” he added as if warming to the topic, “you did meet. Years ago at one of Lady Mayhew’s routs,” he explained to the table at large. “Will asked Lady Corinne to dance.”
Lady Mayhew’s parties had been for the younger set, those who had not yet been introduced to Society, to teach them the social graces. Corinne had to have been fifteen, perhaps sixteen. She slid a glance in Reverend Norwich’s direction. He focused on his eating.
“Still don’t remember him, do you?” Freddie said in a teasing whisper.
“It’s unimportant, Lord Sherwin,” Mr. Norwich said from his end of the table.
“Oh, come, Will. You can’t still have your nose out of joint after all these years,” Freddie commented. “That would be silly. And you won’t mind my sharing the tale?” Without waiting permission, he launched into it. “It all happened back in our days at Oxford. I was a first-year student. Will, of course, is four years older, but when we were out and about, he caught sight of the Ice Maiden—”
There he was, using that name again. If Corinne had harbored any doubts about her determination not to marry Freddie, he’d dispelled them over dinner.
“—and he was smitten,” Freddie finished.
Everyone made oohing sounds. Corinne studied the food left on her plate, once again uncomfortable with Freddie’s making her the topic of conversation.
“So,” Freddie continued, “my friends and I heard Lady Corinne would be at Lady Mayhew’s affair, and since they always need gentlemen for those events, we volunteered ourselves and Will. Will who rarely went out. Who preferred books to women.”
“What happened?” Lady Landsdowne asked . . . a question Corinne wondered as well.
“He asked her to dance,” Freddie said. “Do you remember?” He directed the question to Corinne.
She looked up, glanced at Reverend Norwich, and shook her head. “I fear not.”
“Well, you were shy, and the other girls whispered because Will is—was,” Freddie corrected himself, “nothing more than a seminary student and without title. Your face was brilliant red as he led you to the dance floor.”
Suddenly Corinne remembered. It was an incident she’d wanted to forget. “That was seven years ago,” she murmured, embarrassed by his observation that she had been reluctant to accept the invitation to dance.
“Yes, about that time,” Freddie agreed. “Anyway, Will tripped. He has big feet,” he informed his audience. “And as he went down, he pulled both Lady Corinne and a maid carrying full punch cups to the reception table. What a mess. And the laughter? I can still here it now. Can’t you, Will?”
The memory of the afternoon returned to Corinne. It had been one of the most embarrassing moments of her youth. She’d been infatuated with the Marquis of Dinsmore’s son and had been forced to leave the party, her dress ruined. She’d hated being the center of attention, the mark of laughter for the mean-spirited and small-minded. She’d learned a lesson that day and consequently kept her distance when out and about. Hence the name the Ice Maiden.
But she’d forgotten the identity of the young man who had started this chain of events. She’d barely remembered what he looked like.
She did remember how he had not apologized for his clumsiness. He’d risen from the floor, helped her up, and had then walked right out the door without speaking two words, leaving her to stand alone in her ruined dress.
“We were young, Lord Sherwin,” Corinne told Freddie. “We’d laugh those things off now.”
“Will doesn’t,” Freddie said. Corinne couldn’t stop herself from sliding a glance in the clergyman’s direction. He was eating his meal with the air of a man a
t peace—but he wasn’t. She could feel the tension, and it was directed toward her.
He did not like her.
His attitude made her angry. How silly of him to bear a grudge against her for what had happened years ago. What sort of prig was he?
“I can understand why he wouldn’t,” Major Ashcroft said. “I would be furious with myself for having missed the opportunity to dance with one as lovely as Lady Corinne.”
For his gallantry, Corinne gifted him with her most dazzling smile, and she noticed that both Freddie and the reverend frowned a response.
They were both prigs.
“I say, is anyone else traveling home this evening besides the squire and I?” Mrs. Rhys-Morton asked.
Several people nodded that they were. “Be careful,” she warned.
“Careful of what?” the duke of Banfield asked.
“Nothing really,” Lord Bossley was quick to answer.
“Nothing?” Dame Janet shouted out. “What of our highwayman, the Thorn?”
“The Thorn?” the duke of Banfield repeated, turning to his host.
Lord Bossley laughed dismissively. “We have a highwayman lurking around these parts. He’s more of a pest. Major Ashcroft and his men will capture him soon, won’t you, Major?”
“Absolutely, my lord. My men have the roads well guarded, especially this evening.”
“Does he also rob by day?” Lady Landsdowne asked. “My husband and I are staying the night, but we don’t know when we shall leave on the morrow.”
“Don’t worry, coz,” Freddie said, ending the sentence with another of his small burps, which he obviously thought no one would notice, for he never excused himself. “The man is a buffoon. He hasn’t been seen in weeks.”
“What is the story?” Lord Landsdowne pressed.
Lord Bossley released his breath with exasperation. “He’s the usual. ‘Stand and deliver’ and all that. However, Ashcroft has done an excellent job of chasing him off.”
The Seduction of Scandal (Scandals and Seductions 5) Page 3
