As You Are (5 page)

Corbin stepped from his desk, forcing a swallow and a breath.
Good day, Mrs. Bentford. How do you do?

She stepped inside.

Corbin took a breath and looked over at her. The breath caught in his throat. How was it possible for a woman to become more beautiful with each encounter? He ought to be growing more immune to her presence, feeling the impact less forcefully. Instead, he found himself dissolving into a helpless heap faster with each meeting.

Good day, Mrs. Bentford. Good day, Mrs. Bentford.
“Good—um—good day.”

“And to you, Mr. Jonquil.”

After a bow and a curtsy, they stood in complete silence. Corbin did his utmost to not look at her without appearing to be not looking at her. He knew that the moment his eyes met her startlingly green ones, he would freeze, unable to look away or form a coherent sentence.
How do you do?
Except she would probably return the inquiry, and he’d have to answer her.
I am well, thank you.

“Forgive me, Mr. Jonquil.” Mrs. Bentford broke the awkward silence between them. “I know it is not customary for a lady, alone, to call on a gentleman, but I assure you I have come to discuss a matter of business.”

“Business?”

“In regard to my Edmund,” she added.

“Edmund?” He had begun to sound like a poorly trained parrot.

“Edmund is a quiet boy, given to sedate pursuits. He spends his days indoors, engrossed in books and such.”

Corbin had never before seen her appear uncertain. The sight tugged at his heart in much the same way her smile had so many weeks before. There was undeniable bravery in her posture and in her willingness to meet with a relatively unfamiliar gentleman over a matter of business.

“While I approve of his efforts to improve his mind,” she continued, “I cannot help feeling he is in desperate need of exercise and activity as well.”

Corbin had no idea what she was getting at but found himself entranced just the same. She had a very calm, soothing tone even in her obvious discomfort.

“Edmund has, for years now, shown an interest in horses.”

“Horses?” Could he manage nothing beyond mindlessly repeating what she said?
I like horses too.
That sounded childish.
Does he have a horse?
No, he didn’t recall seeing a stable at Ivy Cottage.
Does he ride?
“Does he ride?”

“No.” Something of an embarrassed flush spread through her cheeks at the quiet admission. “Mr. Bentford did not keep any animals suitable for a child. I haven’t any horses myself now.”

“You wish to purchase a pony? For Edmund?” Was that the business she’d referred to?

Her color intensified, but she raised her chin and spoke with almost palpable dignity. “I haven’t the means to purchase nor keep a horse or a pony.” She looked him in the eye as if daring him to pity or look down on her for her relative poverty. “I hope, instead, to negotiate something of a trade.”

A trade? That was unexpected. Corbin couldn’t even think of a response.

The look of uncertainty Mrs. Bentford had worn during her earlier recitation passed once more through her eyes. Corbin had a very strong feeling that this transaction was costing her a great deal of pride. Few people enjoyed admitting to their limited finances or inability to make a purchase others took quite for granted. “Please sit, Mrs. Bentford,” Corbin abruptly offered, speaking the moment the thought passed through his mind. He really ought to have made the offer earlier.

“Thank you.” Mrs. Bentford took a seat on the other side of Corbin’s desk.

It would be awkward sitting across the desk from her. Corbin opted, instead, for a seat nearer hers. He sat, heart pounding, thoughts spinning.

What precisely is this trade?
He could probably manage to say that. “Explain this trade,” he said. “Please.” It was close, at least. But, then, so was she. Other than church on Sundays, he’d never sat so near her. He forced himself not to look into her eyes.

“I had hoped you might have a job or two, something a seven-year-old might reasonably be taught to perform.” She looked away from him as she spoke. That made the conversation easier for him. The feel of her gaze on him was a tremendous barrier to his concentration. “Something in the stables, with the horses. Brushing them or mucking—”

“Mucking is hard work for a seven-year-old,” Corbin said, knowing how difficult that dirtiest of stable jobs was. Had that come out as a complete sentence? Corbin sat in momentary shock.

“Perhaps not mucking, then.” Mrs. Bentford looked evermore uncomfortable. She glanced up at him quite unexpectedly, and Corbin was captured. “Surely a young boy could be useful in the stables.”

Corbin had spent most of his boyhood in the stables. He nodded.

Mrs. Bentford’s mouth slowly turned up in an answering smile.

Corbin couldn’t decide which was more mesmerizing, her emerald eyes or her smiling lips. He managed to look away only by rising and moving across the room.
I could certainly find chores enough to occupy him.
Maybe,
There are plenty of chores a young child can perform.
“There are plenty—plenty of chores a young child can do,” he said from the window.

“I realize you have a more than adequate staff.”

Corbin disliked the apprehension he heard in her voice. He wished her to be comfortable with him despite the fact that he felt monumentally uncomfortable with her.

“I had hoped Edmund might be permitted to perform a few chores in trade, sir,” Mrs. Bentford said. “I hoped he might trade his labor for a chance to ride.”

“Edmund wishes to ride?”

“It is the only thing he has ever asked of me.” There was a catch in her voice.

Corbin turned to look at her. He’d never before seen a slump in her shoulders. Mrs. Bentford always carried herself with an air of determination and control. But sitting there in his library, she seemed weighed down, burdened.

He wanted to say something but couldn’t decide what. His father’s words swam through his mind the way they always did when he anxiously debated what to say. “Words cannot be unsaid,” Father had told him. Corbin had never forgotten that caution.

What could he say?
Edmund seems happy, even if he doesn’t ride.
Or,
Is there anything I can do for
you
, Mrs. Bentford?
No, that would be too presumptuous.

Mrs. Bentford spoke before Corbin had a chance to decide what, if anything, he ought to say to her. “He does not know how to ride,” she said. “I do not wish to take time from your stable hands. I had hoped if he did a few chores, it might allow someone time to teach him.”

“I will teach him,” Corbin offered on the spot. Again he’d managed a complete sentence and without a great deal of prior thought.

“Oh, I couldn’t.” Mrs. Bentford stood instantly, shaking her head. “Your time, sir, must be extremely valuable. You have this estate to run and oversee.”

“But if . . . if he—” Corbin took a breath, telling himself firmly not to be an idiot.
If he is willing to work, I will see to it that he learns to ride.
He repeated that a couple times. “If he is willing to come . . . come and work, then I will see to it that he learns. To ride.”

“I hadn’t intended to disrupt your personal schedule, Mr. Jonquil.” She had begun pacing, continuing to shake her head. “Edmund is unused to physical exertion, and while I assure you he will put himself into his chores completely, I doubt he will produce results worthy of anything beyond a few words of advice from a stable hand. Certainly not enough to justify your taking time with him.”

“It—I wouldn’t—”
Think, Corbin.
I would enjoy teaching the boy to ride.

“I have no desire to be indebted,” Mrs. Bentford insisted. She looked back at him.

Those eyes
. Corbin once again found breathing and thinking difficult. He shook his head, hoping she understood he was negating her objection. No words were forming, no thoughts registering.

“If he came, could someone take time with him?” Mrs. Bentford asked.

Corbin nodded immediately, emphatically. He himself would take time with the boy.

“He does his lessons in the mornings,” Mrs. Bentford said. “I do not wish to interrupt his studies.”

Edmund can come after he has his lunch.
All that came out was, “Afternoon?”

“And he will be retrieved before dinner.”

Corbin nodded.

“And if the trade proves too disproportional, you will tell me,” Mrs. Bentford insisted. “I have no desire to place a burden on you. This is your livelihood.”

He nodded once more.

Then Mrs. Bentford smiled at him, and every lucid thought fled from his mind. He’d lost his heart to Mrs. Bentford over that smile.

“Thank you, Mr. Jonquil.” She crossed toward the door but turned back before exiting. “Thank you so very much.” Her green eyes danced and sparkled.

He couldn’t even respond, skewered as he was.

“Thank you,” she said once more, and then she left.

A moment or two passed before Corbin recovered enough to even turn back to face the window. He watched Mrs. Bentford walk swiftly from the front door of Havenworth and down the path that led back to the road that would take her to Ivy Cottage. He watched until the trees along the road blocked her from view.

A smile crept across his face. She hadn’t even mentioned his ridiculous appearance on Sunday last. And though he hadn’t exactly been articulate, he’d held up his end of the conversation to an extent. It was an accomplishment most gentlemen would not even notice.

Perhaps he had redeemed himself at least a little.

“Am I doing this right?” young Edmund asked, running the stiff-bristled brush along Happy Helper’s side.

“A little more force,” Corbin replied.

Edmund nodded and furrowed his brows in concentration.

“Very good.” Corbin watched the boy a moment longer. Edmund reminded him so much of himself as a lad—anxious to do every little thing correctly, eager to learn, and exceptionally quiet.

“He is a very small horse.” Edmund continued his rhythmic brushing.

“
She
,” Corbin corrected.

“Oh.” No offense seemed taken, no injured pride.

“And Happy Helper is a pony, not a horse,” Corbin added.

“Isn’t a pony just a baby horse?” Edmund paused in his work to look up at him. He didn’t have Mrs. Bentford’s green eyes, but something in his countenance reminded Corbin of her.

“No,” Corbin answered. “Ponies are small. But they don’t grow big.” He joined Edmund at Happy Helper’s side, stroking the pony’s neck. “And a pony’s legs are shorter. They have smaller heads.”

“So Happy Helper will never grow up?” Edmund asked.

“She
is
grown up,” Corbin corrected.

“Like how Suzie is grown up, but she is smaller than Aunt Clara?” Edmund asked, the hand holding his brush hanging forgotten at his side.

Corbin nodded, wondering who Suzie was and if Edmund’s Aunt Clara was related to Mrs. Bentford or was from his father’s side of the family.

Edmund began brushing again. He had proven himself a hard worker. He was anxious over the animals Corbin had placed, even momentarily, in his care. One could tell a lot about a person by watching how they treated those in their care, be they human or animal.

Edmund’s strokes slowed, his eyes wandering toward the paddock. Corbin looked as well and smiled, knowing exactly what had drawn the boy’s attention.

“That’s Devil’s Advocate,” he said. The night-black gelding was showing off quite shamelessly. He was Philip’s horse through and through.

“He’s beautiful,” the boy said in obvious awe.

The stable hands were running Devil’s Advocate—the gelding was too high-spirited to be cooped up in a stall. The animal had good carriage and was well proportioned and spirited into the bargain.

“Johnny,” Corbin quietly called to one of the stable hands nearby. “Finish brushing Happy Helper?”

Johnny grinned at the awestruck boy and nodded. The entire staff had taken to Edmund almost on sight. He seemed to worship every person connected to the Havenworth stables.

Corbin led Edmund out to the fence. The boy stood beside him, watching the display. Corbin held back an amused chuckle. He must have looked precisely like that as a child watching the horses in the Lampton Park stables.

Devil’s Advocate kicked halfheartedly at a groom approaching him from behind.

“That man shouldn’t sneak up on him,” Edmund said, his brow furrowed quite seriously.

“Why not?” Corbin knew perfectly well that Edmund was correct but wondered if the boy understood.

“The black horse only kicks at him to tell him not to be impertinent,” was the authoritative reply.

The boy obviously had a sense when it came to horses, something of a natural understanding.

“Absolutely right.” Corbin shook his head in amazement. “Devil’s Advocate has a very fiery temperament. Don’t approach him. A single kick from a horse that size could . . . could break one of your bones or worse.”

“My arm was broken once.” The experience had clearly been an unpleasant one for Edmund. “I don’t want to have any more broken bones.”

“Then we’ll leave the care of the black horse to the stable hands,” Corbin said.

Edmund gave him a grateful glance. “Your horse is red,” he said. “Whose horse is the black one?”

“My brother’s.”

“Does your brother have a fiery tempera–temmerem–tempermin?” Edmund asked.

“No. But Philip—that’s my brother—knows how to handle Devil’s Advocate.”

Corbin watched Jim, his right-hand man at the stables, calling out to Devil’s Advocate.
From Diablo Negro out of Night Wanderer
. He knew the pedigree of every horse foaled at Havenworth, but Devil’s Advocate he would never forget.

Philip had somehow arranged for Diablo Negro, the most sought-after stud stallion in all of Britain, to come to Havenworth in the early days of Corbin’s enterprise. His first five foals had come from that miracle of a negotiation. He’d sold all five for astounding prices, but Devil’s Advocate had been the prize. If not for the small slash of white across the horse’s nose, it would have been pure black, and Corbin might have asked twice as much. As it was, Philip had paid more than Corbin had asked.