My Lady, My Lord (19 page)

Had the entire world gone mad? His friends cautioned him on his dealings with ladies, and his sister thought to discuss his mistress with him? He schooled his features to hide his perturbation.

“Don’t pretend innocence,” Calista said. “She is astoundingly pretty, I’ll allow you that. But you need a woman with more in her head than feathers and furbelows.”

Ian left his sister’s house bemused. He set off along the sidewalk and before he knew it, he was climbing the steps to his own residence. Inside, Simmons took his greatcoat and hat.

“Why are you up so late, Simmons?”

“It is merely eleven o’clock, my lord.”

Eleven o’clock. Except for the days he’d spent living Corinna’s life, he hadn’t returned home this early in years.

“My lord, there is a lady waiting in the withdrawing room to see you.”

Foot upon the lowest step, he halted and turned a disbelieving stare on his butler. “A lady?”

The old fellow nodded. “Alone, my lord.”

“At this hour? In the withdrawing room?”

“I thought it best, as the windows let onto the garden rather than the street.”

“Of course.” Ian’s heart sped. He could imagine only one woman who might treat his house as though she could come and go as she pleased at any hour. Because for a short time, she had.

He strode swiftly to the withdrawing room and opened the door. The figure within twirled around in a sea of ivory and gold fabric. Her bright eyes shone with pleasure.

“Amabel.”

Of course. If it had been Corinna, Simmons probably would have escorted her home rather than allow her inside at night.

“Chance.” The baroness beamed, moving toward him with a waft of lily-scented
eau de toilette,
her hand outstretched. He made no move to take it.

“Why are you here, Amabel?”

She retracted her arm, placing her fingers aside of her mouth. “What a horrid greeting, darling.” Her thick gold lashes fluttered.

“I find it difficult to believe you imagined I would greet you otherwise.”

“I cannot think what I did to deserve this treatment from you.” She stepped toward the window embrasure, trailing her fingertips along the sill, then to the table beside it. “After your wretched words at the Pattersons’ ball, you did not reply to any of my notes.”

Good lord
, Corinna had received notes from Amabel?

“Then you left so abruptly that night after you won the card game.” She drew a slim, leather-bound volume from the tabletop and caressed its cover with her white hands. “I was ready to forgive you, but now I don’t know if I shall.” She set the edge of the binding to her mouth, bringing attention to her generous lips.

Ian strode forward and took the book from her. “This is a book, Amabel. Not a fan. One does not gnaw on it.”

She grasped his lapel. “Then give me something else to gnaw on, darling.” She pressed her breasts against his chest.

He uncurled her fingers from his coat and stepped back. “I would like you to leave.”

She smiled slowly and shrugged, a sensuous shift of shoulders bared by her gown. “I cannot. I sent my carriage home. What will you do with me now, darling?” She tilted her chin aside, her short gold locks glistening in the lamplight.

“Send you home in mine.” He turned toward the door. She grabbed his sleeve.

“Chance—”

“Amabel.” He looked down into her stunning face. “I apologize for the manner in which I ended our relationship. I was not myself that evening, and I don’t honestly know what I said to you.”

“You were foxed?” Her gentian eyes sparked with hope.

“Something like that. But I don’t wish you to take the wrong message from that. I no longer wish to continue our liaison.”

“That’s what you called it that night.
Liaison
. But I thought we had something
lasting,
darling.”

“I cannot fathom how. I never gave you the slightest suggestion of it. Rather, I believe I made the opposite clear from the beginning.”

“Men say all sorts of things they don’t mean.” She curled a hand up his chest and over his shoulder. “A lady must look to their actions, instead.”

He drew her hand away yet again. “Amabel, please.”

“Please what, darling? Don’t I appeal to you
now
? I wore this gown just for you this evening.” She draped her fingertips over her deep décolletage.

He scanned the tempting expanse of her bosom. He would probably come to regret this, but his sister was correct. He needed more. A great deal more.

“You are an undeniably beautiful woman, Amabel. I’m flattered you sought me out after your year of mourning, and I enjoyed our time together. But I must insist that you leave now.”

Her eyes flashed. “Have you taken up with someone else already?”

“I haven’t. But even if I had, I cannot see how that would be any of your business.”

He opened the door. His butler stood close by in the foyer.

“Simmons, have the coach prepared to convey Lady Weston home.”

“The closed carriage, Chance?” Amabel sulked. “Are you ashamed of me?”

“I have taken the liberty of having it brought around already, my lord,” Simmons said.

“Impertinent,” Amabel murmured.

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Ian took her arm loosely and drew her toward the door.

“Is that what you’ve done, Chance, judged me and found me wanting?” She batted her lashes again, the tip of her talented pink tongue sliding along her upper lip.

“No, Amabel.” He paused beside the carriage. “I’m simply no longer interested in such an arrangement.”
With her
. The words clutched at Ian’s throat. He should specify
with her
. There were plenty of other tempting widows of the
ton
with at least as much thought as hair, after all. His usual diversions should suit him well for some time.

But he did not specify.

He took her hand to help her into the chaise. She moved up the step, then turned, grasped his coat lapels and pressed her soft, fragrant form against him.

“Darling, I can be any arrangement you wish,” she purred, and put her mouth on his. For a moment his body responded to the familiar, alluring texture of feminine lips. His hands went to her waist, appreciating the curve of a woman’s shape, the light silken fabric of her gown.

Gently, he pressed her away from him.

Her eyes shadowed, but her sensuous mouth curled up.

“Remember that. Any arrangement you wish. Anything you want.” She kissed her fingertips and pressed them to his mouth, then climbed into the carriage. He closed the door and gestured for the coachman to go ahead. The vehicle clattered to the corner. He watched, bemused once again, then looked around.

Four houses down the street, Corinna’s light carriage pulled from the curb. She stood at the base of the steps leading to her door, watching him.

He could speak. The distance between them would barely even require him to raise his voice.

She ducked her head and went up the stairs. The door shut behind her.

Ian entered his house, bade Simmons good night, and went to his study. Several unopened crates of books littered the space, another few partially emptied. He stared at the half-finished project.

He moved to his desk, pulled out a sheet of paper, and wrote a note to his secretary. He was not quite as bereft of intelligence as she always insisted, but he wasn’t a fool either. Some projects were better left unfinished.

C
ORINNA STUDIED
the array of brightly colored dresses draped about her dressing chamber, blues, pinks, greens, and yellows sparkling in the morning sunshine spilling through the window. Her maid stood in a corner, grinning to both ears. Madame Jacqueline’s assistant floated from round gown to ball gown, petting and adjusting, cooing and humming. A hint of rose perfume hovered over everything.

“We’ll go to the shops for shoes and gloves and whatnots to match, milady,” her maid said with a giggle.

“I daresay.” Corinna turned to the assistant. “Thank you. These will do splendidly.” Her heart beat fast. She’d no idea why it should. It hadn’t been so many years since she last wore so many bright colors. Eight or so.

Nine
.

Long enough.

“Milady, you will put all the other ladies to the blush in these,” her maid said. “Have you told his lordship yet?”

Corinna’s heart performed a little tumble, then righted itself. Of course the maid meant her father.

“Has my daughter told me what yet?” he said from the open doorway. Dressed for Parliament, he held a thin leather satchel beneath his arm undoubtedly stuffed with half-argued bills and other government business.

“Hello, Papa. Off to Lords?”

“I am.” He gestured to the chaos of garments. “I see you have been occupied.”

“I have decided to improve my wardrobe a bit.”

“I wondered if you would ever use your mother’s dowry money on something she would applaud.” He smiled, then: “I saw Chance at Westminster yesterday.”

“The Palace of Westminster?” Belatedly, Corinna snapped her gaping mouth shut.

“Yes. Interesting, isn’t it?”

“Well, I’m sure it’s very nice for him to play his role in government every now and again.” Her voice sounded thin. “But I don’t know why you should mention it to me.”

“I thought you might be interested. Given the influence you’ve had on Gregory lately, it seemed to me your good example might be having an effect on more than one man of that family.”

“I had very little to do with Gregory’s new post.”

“Lady Chance mentioned that Gregory credits you with turning his brother’s mind on the matter.” He lowered his voice. “It was good of you, Cora. I know how you dislike Chance’s company, but you persisted to Gregory’s advantage. Lady Chance is grateful.”

“Oh, dear.” Corinna put a peculiarly unsteady hand to her brow. “These new gowns have my head all in a muddle. I nearly forgot that Lady Chance will soon arrive for our weekly ride to Green Park. I must change my clothes. Enjoy the Lords, Papa.”

A quarter hour later Corinna descended to the foyer with the tight knot in her stomach that her father’s words had put there. She did not wish to feel this horrid twist of confusion in her belly. She wished to recall how three nights earlier Amabel Weston had clung to the Earl of Chance like the wife of a soldier returning from war, and how he remained silent while she stared, her breaths short and painful. She wished to believe what she always had of him, not that he was now seeing to his responsibilities as a peer. Simple and clear, her old notion of him was far easier to understand. Far easier to bear.

Lady Chance arrived promptly. The footman showed her and her elder daughter into the parlor.

“Corinna, how beautiful you are.” Calista squeezed her hands fondly. “Is this a new habit? It suits the color of your eyes.” Only two years Corinna’s junior, Calista had been her playmate during their childhood until she went away to school when Lord Chance insisted.

“Are you riding with us today? What a treat for me.” Corinna took in the marchioness’s habit, a brilliant light blue to match eyes so like her elder brother’s. As always, they sparkled with mischief.

“I wouldn’t miss it. At Evelina’s party the other night, Mother told me that she enjoys your rides to—” She broke off. “But why weren’t you there, Cora? Evie must have invited you.”

“I did intend to go, but I’ve lately been involved in a time-consuming project.” A project she hadn’t yet allowed herself to think through entirely. But she must do
something
to erase Ian Chance from her insides. Perhaps, tricked out in pretty gowns and parasols, she might attract the attention of gentlemen who would help her do that—gentlemen who might be tempted to steal a passionate kiss and not revile her afterward. “I sent my apologies, but I’m sorry to have missed it.”

“It was delightful, of course. Evie’s parties always are. And, you wouldn’t believe it, but Ian was there! I’ve never been so shocked, or so diverted to see him trying to be at ease. Poor thing, he simply couldn’t. Could he, Mother? He’s far too accustomed to his scandalous pursuits.” She laughed.

Lady Chance shook her head. “I’ve told you both before; you are too hard on him.”

“Nonsense, Mother.” Calista laughed. “Ian is a wonderful brother, the very best. But he’s a thorough scoundrel and Corinna and I both know it.”

Corinna forced herself to smile, but her heart beat irregularly again. First the House of Lords, then his sister’s party? Had his body been taken over by someone
other
than she now?

“Oh, dear,” Calista exclaimed, looking down. “I have torn my hem.” She twitched the fabric. “Corinna, may I borrow needle and thread? I cannot go out like this.”

“Of course.” Corinna led her friends to her dressing chamber and called for the housekeeper to assist Lady Dare.

The butler appeared. “My lady, a gentleman is in the hall wishing to speak with you.”

“I’ll return in a trice,” she said to her friends, and descended. It was far too early in the day for callers, but Lord Fitzhugh had been attentive of late.

Ian’s secretary stood in the foyer, spectacled and neat in a pinstriped coat and knotted neck cloth. A large, square package wrapped in brown paper and secured with twine sat on the floor by his feet

“How do you do, my lady. My name is Morris. I am secretary to the Earl of Chance.” A very good one, from what Corinna had been able to judge by her two encounters with him in person and the work he piled on Ian’s desk daily. Filing through those neat, well-organized stacks, she had learned a great deal about both men.

“How may I help you, Mr. Morris?”

“Lord Chance instructed me to convey this to you.” He took up the parcel. “It is quite valuable. I hope you don’t mind my presumption in insisting on delivering it to you in person, but I thought given your work on the earl’s library, you would agree.” He extended the package.

Corinna went forward, took it from him, and set it heavily on the foyer table.

“Thank you, Mr. Morris.”

“My great pleasure.” He bowed. “Good day.”

Corinna watched the footman close the door behind him. She returned to the table, took up the letter opener, and cut through the twine. The paper fell open, revealing a stack of books, some well worn, others in pristine condition. She turned the first to its edge and read the title on the binding.

Her throat went dry. Then her heart pounded.

Ovid’s
Amores
.

She shuffled through the other books, thirteen more volumes and an additional trio of plays by William Shakespeare. From the books she had bought for him, Ian had sent to her those that she’d chosen for Lord Pelley’s examination.

The voices of his mother and sister sounded in the corridor. Corinna turned to them, her unsteady hand atop the stack of books as though attached by an unseen force.

“I’m ready now,” Calista said, smiling. “No longer in danger of losing my gown on the path. What are those, Corinna?”

“Oh, books, I suppose.” She felt light in her head, as though she were floating.

Calista plucked an ivory card off the floor at their feet. “Why, this is Ian’s card. Are those
Ian’s
books?”

“I thought he wished to give all those away,” Lady Chance said. “His secretary contacted me a day or two ago to tell me that Ian hoped to donate them to a worthy cause. He wished to know if I could recommend a suitable charity.”

“How diverting, Ian donating
books
to charity.” Calista clapped her gloved hands. “Who would have thought it? But my brother never ceases to amaze...
everyone,
I daresay.” She smiled with affection. “It is good of him to send some to Lord Mowbray before giving away the rest. These must be particular favorites of your father’s. Are they, Corinna?”

Corinna nodded, but she could barely breathe. She looked at the volumes and a wave of heat rose from the soles of her feet into her chest. Emotion, powerful and vital, shivered outward from beneath her ribs, weakening her with longing, at once heady and exhilarating. She stared at Ian’s gift, a sign of what he had done for her and who he truly was, a decent, generous man, and she fell in love. Deeply, hard, and completely. Lightheaded, shallow-breathed, and trembling, she let herself slide into sweet, sharp chaos, and could do nothing for it.

Then she remembered how it felt when he had touched her, and she fell harder.

Dimly, as though from a distance, reason insisted that she should not be surprised. She had resisted for days already, possibly weeks.
Years
. But her cool intellect was no proof against the thunderous beating of her heart.

Her reckless, heedless heart.

She followed Calista and Lady Chance to the horses, mounted, and rode to the park, barely aware of the conversation, whether it rained or shone, the grass or path or street, or the people they met along the way.

She was lost.

She loved him.

Finally, after years of Ian insisting that she was constitutionally cold in body and heart, she burned for him. The single most inappropriate man for her. Now, the only man.

~o0o~

Ian was determined to avoid the area of the card room altogether. Unlike many with whom he played, he was far from addicted to gambling. But the attractions of the table seemed overwhelming tonight when compared to the superb tedium of his present occupation. He lifted a glass of tepid champagne and glanced about the drawing room.

Dozens of the ton’s most respectable members were clustered about the room, conversing, posturing, looking each other over. Gentlemen with gray hair and overly erect postures spoke in small groups. Matrons, with peacock feathers drooping from taffeta caps, chatted at great volume. Girls barely out of the schoolroom, the softness of childhood still clinging to arms and cheeks, giggled in groups. Young blades dragged to the event by their parents leaned against walls, not yet having perfected the art of looking bored without appearing sullen.

Earlier their host and hostess had gifted them all with the modest talents of a choir of French schoolchildren, a harpist, and an Italian soprano. Now the chief entertainment seemed to be conversation, largely gossip. It needed only an impromptu game of charades to irrevocably sink the evening into Ian’s personal version of hell.

He had come for Corinna. Not to see her. He’d no idea whether she would attend this particular party. He had come to test himself.

The test was proceeding poorly.

“You should go home, Chance,” his sister’s husband commented. “Or to one of your clubs.”

“They are not my clubs exclusively, Mallory. At one time you frequented several of them as well.”

“Days past.” The viscount’s gaze rested on his wife across the chamber. “Evelina is increasing,” he said quietly. No pride lit his eyes, nor pleasure, only pensive watchfulness.

“My compliments.” His sister’s marriage to Peyton, Viscount Mallory, three years earlier had been a love match; he would not have allowed it otherwise. He’d had no idea all was not well in that quarter. Of course, he’d been distracted. “Everything as it should be, Peyton?” he said, fully aware that after his threat to Jag at Dashbourne he was now proving himself a thorough hypocrite. But Evelina was his sister.

Mallory met his eye squarely. “I believe she’s happy, Ian. But...” His thick brows met. Born of one of the highest families in Britain, Mallory had never revealed an emotion as lowbrow as confusion to Ian—or to anybody else, he suspected.

“I had thought...” Mallory shook his head, befuddlement on his face. “I suppose it’s possible to not really know a person after three years. Women are a mystery.”

Ian understood. It was possible to know a woman a lifetime and not understand her.

“Not to worry, though, Ian,” Mallory said. “Your sister is my first concern. I’ll make it right.”

“I trust you will.” He did. Mallory was a good man. But a peculiar heat swirled in his stomach that had nothing to do with his sister and her husband. His gaze shifted to the exit.

He must see Corinna, but he would not call upon her at home. He had the impression he wouldn’t be welcome. But he didn’t know if he could endure this sort of evening many more times, not even to determine whether she was right about him, that he was only happy in the company of rogues and reprobates.

Grace wasn’t anything of the sort, of course, at least not typically. But the rest were. Even the man beside him, whom he had long counted as a friend, had caroused until he’d met Evelina. And his unmarried friends hadn’t the excuse for sobriety or propriety that Mallory now had. At this moment Stoopie was undoubtedly enjoying the pleasures of the redheaded Ophelia and any number of other beauties of lax morals at an exclusive hotel dinner. Ian imagined the lavish offerings—rich food, strong drink, scantily clad women, deep play—and nearly salivated.

Good lord, Corinna was correct. He was a hedonist.

But not about the women. He was far too preoccupied with his fantasies of one particular woman to spare interest in any others.

He ran a finger beneath his tight collar and tried to draw a full breath. He set down his glass.

“Off to brighter prospects?” Mallory said with a narrowed eye.

“To the card room, at the very least.” He bowed and went.

Within the parlor dedicated to cards, gentlemen and ladies played at several tables, some dilettantes, others serious players he’d won money from in the past. He scanned the group, determining his best odds for partners. But no anticipation stirred in him.

Frederick Pelley, damn him, sat in the midst of it. The night of the Alverstons’ ball, Pelley had praised Corinna’s business sense and literary knowledge. Then he concluded with the statement that she was nevertheless incapable of managing a publishing venture by dint of her sex.