My Lady, My Lord (15 page)

Corinna’s mouth went dry. She stared at him, then at herself in the image of him. For a moment, a sliver of time, she could not say for certain which body she inhabited. Their shoulders nearly touched.

He frowned and turned away.

Footsteps sounded on the steps behind her. “I dare say this is the last fine day we’ll see till spring,” Gregory called from the terrace. “Fine idea dining out here. Simmons’s notion, no doubt.”

Corinna turned from her lone reflection, her knees like jelly. The moment had passed so swiftly, but it lingered beneath her skin and in her chest, beyond disturbing in too many ways. From Ian’s distracted greeting to his brother, it seemed that he was likewise bemused.

“Hello, Gregory,” she managed. “What brings you here today?”

Gregory filled a plate with cold meats, a mouthful already settled in his cheek. “Came to tell you news.”

Ian stood by the trellis, making no move to approach. Corinna didn’t blame him. Food was the farthest thing from her desires.

“I made an appointment with Peel, as you suggested, Ian. We met yesterday, and he says I have great potential in the Home Office. He’s willing to take me on to work on the gaols project. I daresay that isn’t my ideal, but it’s a start.”

Corinna welcomed the relief from her tangled thoughts that Gregory’s news provided. She went to him and clasped his hand. “Congratulations. You deserve it and I expect you will excel in whatever area you find yourself.”

Gregory’s pleased gaze flickered to Ian.

“I am happy for you, Gregory,” he said.

Or, perhaps, furious that she had intervened. Corinna could not allow it to disturb her. If she were fated to live as the Earl of Chance, she would do everything she could to make it worthwhile.

“Greg,” she said, taking up a plate, “why don’t you stay awhile after lunch?” Ian was right. It would be best not to be seen together in public, and most certainly not to
be
together alone.

“Don’t tell me you need more help with the library. You already have an expert here, Ian. Lady Corinna’s the man for the job.” He shot a grin across the terrace.

“Lady Corinna has just told me that she would like some instruction in the game of piquet.”

“Really? Planning on setting up tables at your next salon, Lady Cora?” Gregory lifted a playful brow.

“Stay for a hand or two with me,” Corinna said, “and perhaps we can together show her some of the more useful tricks one employs when playing against an expert.”

Gregory nodded. “But you don’t need me for that, Ian. You’re by far the master in that arena.” His dark eyes glinted with pride. Corinna nodded awkwardly. Ian said nothing.

C
ORINNA TOSSED ABOUT IN IAN’S BIG BED
. She could not erase from behind her eyelids the image reflected in the garden pool of them side by side, the powerful sense that her life was thoroughly entwined with his yet still entirely disconnected. They were intimates and yet perfect strangers, like on that horrible night of his father’s funeral.

For more than an hour after luncheon she’d played cards with Gregory, and Ian watched, asking leading questions that she put into practice and studying her face and hands with careful attention. With Gregory present, she played a game within a game, and enjoyed the challenge. Gregory seemed to find no fault with her playing, but Ian left before his brother did, still pensive, without indicating whether he thought she was ready for the contest with Mr. Sparks.

Perhaps he was not angry, as she imagined. Perhaps he just had a great deal to think about, as she did.

After he departed, as bidden Corinna rode to Lady Upton’s house and met Lady Chance for tea. Gregory accompanied her. No other visitors were present, and the countess seemed mildly irritated to see her younger son. Since Corinna knew her great fondness for Gregory, she could only assume that she hoped for a private interview with Ian. Corinna left with the feeling that she had escaped the guillotine.

Now her tumultuous thoughts would not allow her to sleep.

She rubbed at her eyes. The hands of the clock on the mantel crept towards ten. It was foolish to have tried to sleep so early. Ian’s body was not accustomed to it. Neither was hers, for that matter. If she remembered correctly, right now she should be at a private supper party with her father enjoying excellent company and fine food. Had Ian gone?

She’d no idea how he was getting along with her father, and didn’t particularly wish to ask. It was the single area of this fantastical charade that truly hurt to dwell upon. Her father had never particularly liked the old earl, and the opinion extended to his son, seemingly cut from the same cloth.

She climbed out of bed and went to the dressing room. Pulling clothing from the press, she dressed in pantaloons and shirt, but the skin-tight coat and cravat proved too challenging. Relenting, she pulled the rope for Andrews.

Three quarters of an hour later she entered Brooks’s and found a table in a corner away from the thickest clouds of cheroot smoke and largest groups of gentlemen. She ordered a beefsteak and a glass of wine, then took up the journal lying upon the table. It was already folded to the sporting page, and Corinna scanned the results of the Beaufort Hunt before shifting to the article beside it. Ian’s name leapt from the type.

She read, and gaped. In the days since she had worn his body, Lord Chance had concluded a transaction to purchase an Arabian filly from a Portuguese prince. The horse, the article indicated, was the offspring of two of the prince’s prized racers, and represented a daring experiment on the part of the earl. If the stock could be successfully bred into English thoroughbred blood, the result might produce faster, lighter horses with the advantage of stamina. The prince had been reluctant to sell a potential winner, but accepted Lord Chance’s offer after lengthy negotiations. The filly would be delivered before the winter made ship travel unreliable.

Corinna continued scanning the journal, but took in nothing. During the preceding sennight, she had lived Ian’s life barely considering how his days might usually pass. She believed she knew, and because she found it lacking she had, with supreme arrogance, imposed upon him her notion of what his life should be.

“Evening, Chance.” Marquess Drake hovered into Corinna’s vision. She set down the
Times
and motioned to the opposite chair. With a heavy exhalation and creaking stays he lowered himself into it. “Playing later?”

Corinna shook her head.

“Right.” He offered her a sideways look and accepted a glass of spirits from a waiter. “Saw that mention of you today in the paper.” He gestured toward the folded journal.

“About the filly? Yes.”

“Oh, right, congratulations on that. Best of luck, of course.” His brow lowered. “Talking about that gossip piece, you and Lady Corinna Mowbray at the park and all.”

Corinna took a slow sip of wine. How was she to respond? Ian didn’t seem to care about gossip concerning him, except as it might negatively affect her. She still didn’t quite believe him. It was too thorough a turnabout.

“Thought you didn’t care for the chit,” the marquess mumbled.

“Our families are well known to each other. It was merely a drive in the park.”

“And a thrashing for Abernathy.” Then he said in an airy tone, “Only wondering. Haven’t been quite yourself lately. What with giving the Widow Weston her
congé
so abruptly like that, I assumed you might set up with another bird right away. That you had someone particular in mind.”

A metallic flavor filled Corinna’s mouth, perhaps from her teeth lodged in the side of her tongue.

“It has been only a sennight,” she managed.

“A sennight may as well be a year,” the marquess said with a sage nod. He cleared his throat. “Not thinking about giving Lady Corinna a slip on the shoulder, are you old friend?”

Corinna’s stomach turned over.

“She is a lady, Drake.”

“That’s another thing. You haven’t called me Drake since I don’t know when. Have I set your back up about something? It’s not that matter I told you about Ivakina, because I trust you—”

“No, Stoopie.” Corinna nearly cringed at the foolish name, but the marquess looked truly distraught. “I’m holding no grudge against you.”

“Then what the devil is it? I can’t like you shallying about with that starched spinster if you don’t have plans to set her up as your next mistress. That sort of thing can ruin a man.”

“I have no intention of coming to ruin. Nor do I intend to take Lady Corinna as my mistress, now or ever.” The notion revolted. The trouble was, it revolted for only one reason, and that reason was
not
among the plethora of reasons she would have had a fortnight ago. Her thoughts and emotions were a hopeless tangle.

“Have to say I’m deuced relieved, old man.” The marquess snorted. “Would’ve thought you lost a barrel in there. Not the woman for you. Like oil and water, daresay. Not a thing in common ‘cept the borders of your estate, and it’s her pater’s land, after all, not hers. Though I suppose she’s a pretty thing to look at. But, that mouth! A fellow can’t take all that blathering.” He shuddered and took up his glass with renewed vigor. “Now, that Eliza Avery is a sweet little bundle. A real diamond. Just lost her husband to the French pox, poor fellow, but word is he never touched her. Lived like hermits since they tied the knot, him in town, her in the country. She wouldn’t go near him. Fifty years older than she, of course. Suspect she’d be more than happy to hear from you. In fact, told me so herself just the other night.”

Corinna swallowed down nausea and wished to heaven she could turn off her ears. When her dinner arrived, she choked down a few bites solely for show and hastily excused herself from the marquess’s company. She drove home in a daze, no doubt caused by breathing all that cheroot smoke, but perhaps by something much more alarming, though her mind skittered away from it.

She ascended the stairs to Ian’s house, stepping across the threshold into the foyer. The irony bit at her afresh. After what he’d said to her the night he buried his father, for her to be living here in his home... And yet neither of them had spoken of it, as though the reality of their present situation was too awful to bear given their past.

She went to Ian’s bedchamber, removed Ian’s clothes, and climbed into Ian’s bed, alone. It did not occur to her until just before she slipped into fitful sleep to wonder that she even noticed her solitude.

~o0o~

Ian lifted another spoonful of
soupe de homard
with
huile de truffe
and sipped sparingly. He didn’t mind the food, though he usually preferred simpler fare. But he had little appetite.

The guests that had gathered for a late supper were regular sorts, pleasant enough and not a particularly snobbish group—nothing like the gathering at the Countess of March’s tea the previous week. Probably for the best. Ian lacked the will to make an effort, either to impress his dinner partners or to repel them. Anyway, he’d lost enjoyment in the latter days ago.

Across the table Lady Patterson caught his eye. She had pale eyes and lips, and once might have been pretty. Now her face sagged with the disappointments of life.

“Lady Corinna,” she said in incongruously sweet tones, “I understand you are assisting the Earl of Chance with a library project?”

Damn and blast. He set down his spoon. The corset torture device offered no more space for further dining anyway.

“He acquired a collection of books and wished assistance in sorting through them. But Lord Chance has little to do with it, in fact. His secretary is overseeing the project.” She had employed Morris to acquire the books, after all, and she would need to work more closely with his secretary eventually. Now that he wouldn’t be visiting his own house again, Corinna must be apprised of certain aspects of the business of his estates and stable so she could manage them when necessary.

A hollow sensation settled in his gut. She might be full of pretty apologies lately, but he wouldn’t put it past her to sell his stable. If she did, he knew a buyer. Society would be shocked when Lady Corinna Mowbray suddenly decided she would rather breed thoroughbreds than host salons. Though he supposed the
ton
wouldn’t be any less astounded when the Earl of Chance starting spending his days arguing bills in Lords.

“Our families, of course, have known each other for years,” Mowbray interjected. “But Lord Chance absents himself from the house when my daughter is there. He has other business to attend to during the days.”

“I daresay,” Lady Patterson said with partially drooped lids. “How did he acquire the books, Lady Corinna? He is not known for being interested in that sort of pursuit.”

“I believe they came as a bequest from a distant relative,” Ian replied.

“P’raps he swindled them from some unsuspecting university student,” George Patterson slurred. His bleary gaze swung to Ian. Drunk as an emperor. Ian had no respect for a man who couldn’t keep ahead of his cups in polite company. Some things were not to be tolerated. But as Corinna, his options were now limited.

“Lord Patterson,” he said, “I believe the earl intends to make the books available to his brother, just two years up from university himself and intending a career in government.”

Patterson’s ruddy face went red. “The Chance family be hanged,” he muttered beneath his breath. “Whelp’s just as bad as his brother, luring innocent young lads into indiscretion. Branches cut from the same tree, don’t you know.”

Ian suspected the greater indiscretion lay with Patterson himself. Corinna said that Gregory lost Bucephalus in a last-ditch effort to pull Thomas Patterson out of dun territory. George Patterson was fortunate Ian wasn’t wearing his own skin tonight.

“Perhaps,” Lady Patterson said with a sharp glance at her husband, “Lord Chance should refocus his attentions where they will do others the least harm,” adding sotto voice, “The Baroness of Weston would no doubt be gratified.”

Patterson cut her a glare.

“Good thing Chance ain’t here, and that he ain’t the sort who likes pistols at dawn,” another gentleman said cheerfully, “or you’d be wearing an undertaker’s measuring stick tomorrow, Patterson.” He laughed as though it were all a great joke. Patterson grunted and sank again into gloomy contemplation of his soup. Their hostess chirped anxiously and called for the next remove.

Ian turned his attention away. It mattered nothing to him that Patterson had apparently already made a bid for Amabel, or that she’d refused him and it failed to inspire sympathy from his wife. But he didn’t like being called a cheat by anyone.

The evening continued interminably. The party wasn’t large enough for Ian to avoid Lady Patterson’s pinched face or her husband’s surly conversation, continual reminders that after a decade he had not yet lived down his father’s scandal. Close to midnight, he climbed into Mowbray’s carriage in the ill temper he usually reserved for Corinna.

Except today in the garden. And before that in his study. Except more and more often with her lately.

“Cora,” Mowbray said. “I’m interested to hear you speak of Ian Chance so civilly these days.”

“Have I spoken of him?”

“Tonight.”

Ian barely recalled what he’d said. The nightmare seemed eternal. And despite Corinna’s hopes, he had few delusions it would ever end.

“Patterson and his wife were indiscreet,” Mowbray said, “but I admit I was surprised to hear you defend Chance after so often telling me of your dislike of him.”

“Often?”

“Occasionally, but virulently.”

Ian shrugged, but his shoulders felt tight. “It must be as you said. We’ve been neighbors for all these years. There is a familiarity, I suppose.”

“Charlotte—Lady Chance, that is—always hoped the two of you would someday become friends.”

Like the night of his father’s funeral, when Ian had disappeared from the gathering of false mourners, escaping to the stables. As though they were still children, his mother had asked Corinna to find him and bring him back. And Corinna had found him.

“We have little in common. Our temperaments are unsuited to each other.”

“Yes, as I told Lady Chance only the other day.”

Ian turned from the dark London street to the Earl of Mowbray. He couldn’t hide his surprise. “Why would you speak of that to her?”

“She is concerned for you. She wishes she could speak with you about it, but knows she hasn’t the privilege of anything but a friend.”

Ian’s spine went stiff. “She needn’t be concerned. He has no intention of doing me harm.” Not any longer. He wished it were otherwise. It had been much easier to go along when he didn’t give a damn about her blasted reputation. Or her sensibilities.

“You have considerable knowledge of certain subjects, Cora,” Mowbray said with a crease in his brow. “But in some matters you must trust to my greater experience. You are a lovely woman, and Chance is a man of particular tastes. There is a history of dishonesty among the men of his family, of course,” he added. “Certain aspects of character are difficult to shake off.”