My Lady, My Lord (23 page)

He seemed to stiffen. “It is not to your advantage now, Corinna, to pick a quarrel with me,” he said, his voice abruptly tight.

She nearly sagged in relief. This was familiar. This disagreeable banter was easy and so much less painful. This was her. Him.
Them
.

“Oh, goodness,” she said and it sounded brittle. “I am all atremble with alarm over such a threat.”

“I have felt you tremble, Corrie dear, and it was not from alarm.” His eyes were hard; his jaw taut. She stared at the signs of his anger and her throat closed. He moved across the room toward his mother. A footman entered behind Lady Chance, bearing a tray of glasses and a bottle.

Corinna took a glass as expected, and lifted it when the others did. Toasts were made, and congratulations offered again.

“Have you set a date?” Calista asked.

“The wedding will take place in a fortnight,” Lady Chance replied. “It will be a small gathering, only the family and a few friends.”

“Shall we have a breakfast?” Calista’s eyes sparkled. “The fashion for them hasn’t quite run through, and I know a chef who makes the tastiest lobster patties.”

“Good grief, Callie,” Gregory groaned, “lobster patties at breakfast?”

“What do you know about fine food?” his sister scoffed.

“A lot more than you, apparently.”

“It’s fortunate that Marcus has heard you squabbling since you were infants,” Lady Chance laughed, “or after this display of filial bliss there might not be a breakfast or a wedding to precede it.”

“Brothers and sisters will quarrel, Charlotte,” her father said with a smile, then turned an affectionate eye upon Corinna. Her heart clenched for her father’s sake, and for the disappointment she knew she would cause him.

She deserved the guilt now. Ian had offered her the opportunity to reestablish their footing upon unexceptionable grounds, and she failed to meet the challenge. Worse, she underestimated him, as she always had before, taunting him foolishly and suffering for it in return. She could practically feel herself back in that icy ditch, sobbing in pain and humiliation, yet determined to have her own back again.

But she didn’t want her own back now. Looking at her father’s hopeful face and Ian’s rigid shoulders, for the first time in her life she didn’t wish to face the challenge. This time she wished to flee.

C
ORINNA REMAINED AT HOME
for several days after the meeting at Lady Upton’s house, not receiving visitors, avoiding reading the post or the
Times,
and taking only brief walks with her maid in the opposite direction of the Earl of Chance’s house. To her father she claimed exhaustion from her salon. He seemed to believe her. His humor had changed overnight, from quietly pensive to openly cheerful. When Lady Chance came to meet her for their regular weekly ride to Green Park, Corinna hid in her bedchamber with an invented megrim.

After nearly a week of her newly eremitical lifestyle, her father finally took notice.

“You haven’t left the house since we announced the wedding, Cora,” he said over breakfast. “Should I conclude that you are unhappy about it, after all?”

“Oh, no, Papa. I am truly glad for you, merely a bit preoccupied these days.” It wasn’t a lie.

“Your thoughts are already bent upon your next salon
,
no doubt?”

“Yes, that’s it.” She hadn’t thought of it in days, only of Ian’s anger and her foolish tongue. A thousand successful salons could not retract her flippant comment, or erase from her memory the moment when his gaze went from open to hateful. If he wanted careless, friendly discourse, she would accept that rather than his displeasure. She suspected, however, that she had no choice in the matter now.

Solely to placate her father, in the afternoon she paid calls upon the friends who had left cards during the week. The outing lifted her spirits. She’d gotten maudlin, and that mustn’t be. She told herself that she had lived many years with Ian Chance’s scorn, and she could do so again if required.

She returned home to find the Viscount of Fitzhugh’s card on the foyer table atop the pile of post.

“My lady,” the butler said, “my lord desired to await your return. He is in the parlor.”

“Thank you.” She took up the post and went to the parlor, gesturing for the footman to leave the door open. “Lord Fitzhugh, what a lovely surprise.” She crossed to him. He reached for her hand, bowed, and pressed a kiss upon her gloved knuckles.

“Not as lovely as the lady who inspired it,” he replied, his eyes warm.

She removed her gloves and bonnet. “Thank you, Giles. You are always very kind.”

“I wish to be more than kind, Cora.” His features, regular and attractive, were set in earnest sobriety. “Corinna, recently I made clear to you my intentions concerning us. In the intervening weeks I had hoped to espy some indication from you of whether I would meet with success were I to declare those intentions more directly. I have not, so I find I must take courage and simply state my hopes.”

He took the post from her hands and set it on a table, then grasped her fingers lightly.

“I admire you greatly, so much so that other women pale in comparison. None can compare to you. You are intelligent, sensible, forthright yet diplomatic in the expression of your opinions, an exceptional hostess and beautiful as well. I flatter myself to believe that we share common interests. I applaud your desire to manage a publishing venture and would support you in founding your own should you chose to do so, as well as your travels should you wish to take them up again. I believe we would suit well, and that together we might guide England’s elite in culture and government.” He paused. “Cora, I ask again after these long nine years in the hopes that your heart will have altered on the matter. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

During the course of his speech, her insides seemed to hollow out. She squeezed his fingers and withdrew from his grasp.

“Thank you, my lord.”

He smiled, but it seemed uncertain. “Is this all the response I am to receive? I hope not.”

“You will think me very foolish, I daresay. But I did not expect this and frankly haven’t an idea what to reply.”

“I could never think you foolish, but I admit to being somewhat surprised, given our conversation last month.”

Good heavens, what had he said to Ian? She had entirely forgotten.

“Yes, well...”

“My pardon, Cora. I have no right claiming past conversations upon this topic as precedent. But now that I have asked you directly, today, will you give me an answer?”

She looked into his kind, intelligent eyes. If her heedless, unwise heart shaped a refusal upon her tongue now, she would come to regret it. But the notion of accepting one man when she was in love with another was deplorable. Giles Fitzhugh suited her perfectly. With him her mind stayed engaged and her emotions remained at ease, comfortable. Wasn’t that what a good marriage should be? She could not ask for better.

But even now as he proposed marriage to her, Lord Fitzhugh did not make her heart race. He didn’t drive her mad with longing, anger, frustration, and insatiable need. He didn’t make her feel.

The man who did those things, however, was not interested in a bluestocking-wife with a quarrelsome tongue. That man disliked her.

“My lord, may I beg the privilege of a few days’ time to consider your offer?”

His brows lifted. “I suppose I must prefer this response to an outright refusal.”

She couldn’t help but smile. His even temper at such a moment was admirable. “You are gracious, Giles.”

“And you are a woman that a man would be foolish not to wait upon, if need be.” He bowed. “Good day, Corinna. I hope to hear from you soon.” He went to the door and out.

She looked after him, the hollowness still echoing in her belly. If only she could love him, or love no one at all. But then she would never have experienced the sensation of being truly, entirely alive—the sensation she felt even now despite everything.

Lord Fitzhugh was wrong. She was not intelligent enough to save her heart for a man who could love her, not sufficiently sensible to stop loving the wrong man when she had the opportunity to be with the right one, and Lord knew she hadn’t the discretion to hold her tongue when Ian Chance stood before her. Viscount Fitzhugh didn’t know her at all, in truth.

She glanced down at the post distractedly, taking up an envelope and opening it. An invitation to a masquerade ball winked up at her like a message from the gods.

She carried the invitation to her escritoire and penned an acceptance. A masquerade seemed precisely the thing for her now. For one night, a precious moment, she could pretend to be someone she was not, voluntarily rather than as a penance. A woman this time. Perhaps that woman would know what to do with her life.

~o0o~

The auctioneer’s measured tones rose above the discreet murmur of conversation throughout the building. The Duke of Candover had made some poor investments and was obliged to sell his hunters and carriage horses. Patrons packed Tattersall’s today. The scents of horseflesh and gold teased the air.

The animals passing by upon the dais were impressive, but Ian didn’t have any need for them. He’d come solely for the diversion, and because Gregory hoped to find a new saddle horse.

“That ebony mare is a flashy bit,” Gregory said. “I’ll wager Abernathy goes for her.”

“I don’t accept wagers I’m certain to lose, Greg.”

The cowardly marquess had barely met Ian’s gaze when he passed him earlier. Corinna must have hit him hard. Ian’s lips curved up at one edge, then flattened.

Thinking about her in any manner was singularly unprofitable. His wretched dreams were enough to drive him insane, occurring every night with stunning regularity, waking him before dawn with her scent in his nostrils and his body ready to take her. He hadn’t slept a restful night in nearly a fortnight.

“That reminds me,” Gregory said, hesitation in his voice. “I’d like to speak with you about a particular matter—”

“Chance, old man! Are you here to pronounce upon Candover’s equine tastes?” The Marquess of Drake dropped onto the bench beside Ian.

“You know he’s got nothing to say about other men’s decisions regarding horses,” Grace said, taking his own seat. “Afternoon, gentlemen.”

“No sir, he lets them make their own foolish mistakes,” Stoopie said cheerfully. “Like that pair of loose-hips I bought from Patterson last year. Good Lord, they were rough goers. It was a crime he asked so much for them.”

“An even greater crime that you fell for his enticements,” Jag murmured.

Ian caught a worried flash of his brother’s gaze, but the auctioneer announced the black mare’s sale to Abernathy and applause filtered through the chamber. When it faded and the handler led the duke’s prized pair of white high-steppers onto the dais, the rumbling conversations of the crowd grew louder.

“Well, gents, it seems that Lady Featherby will hold her annual masquerade ball after all,” Stoopie said with a grin.

“Despite last year’s scandal?” Jag lifted a brow. “She’s still confident of the event’s appeal, it seems.”

“It wasn’t nothing but a silly girl too young to be there in the first place. Nobody knew how that nasty fellow gained entrance, though Lady Featherby swears her footmen will be more discerning this year. In any case, the fellow only frightened the drawers off the chit, don’t you know.”

“Oh, is that how she lost them?”

“Well, I’m all for it. Have a mind to go as Henry VIII. Suits my consequence, don’t you know.”

Jag laughed. “Will you attend, Chance?”

“Didn’t you make the acquaintance of Eliza Avery there last year, old boy?” Stoopie cast him an interested glance. “She mentioned you to me again just two nights ago. Still interested, like I told you before.”

Before?
Dear God, another conversation Ian wished Corinna hadn’t had with his friends.

“I’ve no plans to attend,” he said, “Lady Avery notwithstanding.” Corinna wasn’t likely to be at such an event. She held up her nose at base entertainments—her perfect, sweet nose that he knew along with every other curve of her lovely face and every inch of her exquisite body.

He fixed his attention on the horses and tried to stay the arousal rising in his body at the mere thought of her. He’d wanted her so badly that night, for the first time in years he hadn’t thought to take precautions, needing to release inside her as though it would rid him of her presence in him once and for all. It hadn’t worked, of course. He wanted her now more than ever.

Good lord, he was hopeless. She still disdained him; her words at his aunt’s house made that clear. He must find some relief from this. A new mistress, perhaps. Eliza Avery was a pretty thing with a lush figure, and not nearly as deficient of rational thought as Amabel Weston. Perhaps he should attend the masquerade.

The idea held no appeal for him. None whatsoever. It was the same with cards and dice lately. He’d gone to his clubs each night since the night he spent with Corinna, tried to engage in the games, and hadn’t been able to summon the slightest interest. If not for his horses, his life as he’d known it might as well be over.

He stood. “I take my leave of you, gentlemen. I’ve business matters concerning my own cattle to see to today.”

“Won’t you stay and help me decide on that roan gelding, Ian?” Gregory asked, something unsteady behind his gaze.

“As Drake said, Gregory, I don’t stand in the way of other men making mistakes.” He smiled. His brother returned the smile uncertainly, and Ian tipped his hat to his friends and departed.

No, he didn’t interfere with other men’s decisions, even if they inevitably led to blunders. He had plenty of success making his own these days.

C
ORINNA PREPARED HER COSTUME
for the masquerade carefully. In the past, Lady Featherby’s ball had won criticism from the highest sticklers for the light licentiousness that often attended it. But Corinna no longer had a moral high ground upon which to stand. She was a fallen woman. She could hold her own at such a fête.

Ian would probably be there. It was precisely the sort of event she criticized him for attending. She could wait to see him at their parents’ wedding the following week, but she didn’t want to. She must test her feelings for him once more before giving Lord Fitzhugh a reply. Also, her costume beckoned.

Her maid laced her into the gauzy white gown of the thinnest silk that indecently caressed her hips and legs. The bodice crisscrossed with gold piping between and below her breasts, with thin gold straps over her shoulders that crossed her bare back. She felt practically naked until she affixed the sheer white veil shimmering with gold thread atop her hair. It fell between her shoulder blades, covering some of her back at least.

She struck a pose before the mirror and giggled like a girl. She looked as much like the Aphrodite statue at the museum as a live woman could. She hoped the goddess would consider it flattery. At least no one else would recognize her. A white satin half-mask obscured only the upper half of her face. But bluestocking Corinna Mowbray would never be seen at such an event, and certainly not in such scandalous raiment. In comparison, the red gown she wore the night Ian made love to her was downright staid.

She waited until her father went out for the night to call for her carriage. Then she wrapped herself in a concealing cloak and hurried outside. She arrived at the ball late by her usual standards, and it was already a mad crush. The footman studied her invitation carefully, although no butler announced names as guests entered the ballroom.

The house was enormous: an elegant, Cavendish Square complex of large chambers and smaller retiring rooms all attached in a labyrinthine arrangement. Satin swags of dark, jeweled hues sparkling with silver and gold draped across doorways and between supporting columns, providing shadowy niches in which guests could hide. Candles seemed to be at a premium, and lamps nonexistent, casting the whole in a dim glow of mystery. Two sets of open terrace doors let onto a garden from the ballroom proper, providing cool wafts of air that made the candles flicker and sputter dramatically and scented the air with winter jasmine.

Dancing seemed to be taking place throughout the house, with an orchestra and several other clusters of musicians situated here and there. Corinna moved through the press of guests, squeezing her eyes to see better through the dimness, and discovered that some of the pairs did not, in fact, seem to be dancing after all. Nearby, Cleopatra stood bare-thigh-to-bare-thigh with Julius Caesar, stroking his bronze breastplate with one fingertip. Partially obscured by a potted palm, a buccaneer held Eleanor of Aquitaine decidedly closer than proper. And to their left a nereid seemed to be allowing a cavalier to fondle her shell.

Good heavens, no wonder the high sticklers gossiped.

Corinna dragged her attention to the dance floor. At least there the couples seemed to be engaged in actual dancing. Ducking back against a column draped with velvet fabric, she watched the pairs, slowly realizing as the sets ended and began again, that every set was a waltz.

Of course.

She chuckled, enjoying the ripple of amusement in her throat, the first in days. She’d never before realized how unexceptional human passion could be. So many of the ancient authors she read said as much, but she hadn’t believed them. It needed a personal lesson in passion to strip the scales of judgment from her eyes and mind. She didn’t particularly like it that a married man could easily dally with another man’s wife at an event like this. But dalliance in itself could not be wrong, not when she still longed for it with one particularly talented dallier.

She wished she longed for the man who had offered marriage to her. If she even felt part of the desire for Giles Fitzhugh that she felt for Ian, she might say yes to his proposal.

Lord Fitzhugh did not seem to be present tonight. Masks concealed most guests’ identities and she recognized very few people, but the viscount wouldn’t be likely to attend an event like this. He was responsible, respectable, and interested in the life of the mind and government above all else. The idea of his dressing up as a medieval knight or pirate was absurd.

She did recognize one person. Lord Pelley made no attempt to mask his face. Garbed in a senatorial toga, with an olive wreath around his head, he looked positively risible. She could not approach him tonight, of course. But she would meet him again soon enough. Pelley might have denied Ian her request to purchase his company, but she hadn’t yet entirely given up hope. With the right argument, she would succeed, especially if no other buyers came forward with offers.

“Taunting the goddess again, Corinna?”

Her heart turned over. Ian’s voice at her shoulder was quiet but light. She looked up at him. He wore a black coat, sparkling white linen, and a black satin half-mask that revealed his clear blue eyes.

“Your costume.” He gestured, the corner of his mouth tilting up.

Corinna gathered her courage. “I mean to flatter her by emulation. But what about you? What are you supposed to be?”

“Comfortable.” He grinned. Clearly he was not angry now. She might not deserve this unexpected olive branch, but she would take it if it meant being with him as they had been before, when they shared the most astounding adventure. Oddly, like friends.

“You look very mysterious.” And utterly handsome. “I would not have known you.” She would know him with her eyes closed.

He bowed, his grin widening into a smile. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“And yet you knew me. I’m disappointed. I hoped not to be recognized.”

“Your mouth is particularly familiar to me.” He placed a fingertip at the corner of her lips. A flock of butterflies took flight in her stomach. Rather, birds. But a spike of unease snipped at their wings. She must know if he had come with a woman.

“What brings you here tonight, Ian?”

“The pressing desire to dance with a goddess, it seems.”

“You wish to dance with
me
?”

“I do.”

“But, I—”

“You may feel free to accept.”

Words—Corinna’s salt and butter—deserted her. Finally she managed to croak, “I may?”

“I depend upon it.”

“I meant, did you arrive with your friends this evening?” she said, feeling cowardly as she did.

“I suspect they’re hereabouts somewhere. I haven’t seen them.”

“This is an interesting gathering. But it’s not the Grand Mastif, after all.”

“It suffices.” His eyes glimmered. “I don’t eschew all society functions. Only those that are unredeemable.”

“I don’t think there is a card room here tonight.”

“Then I will have to make do with dancing with a goddess.” He extended his arm.

She took it, willing her voice to remain steady even as her heart sped. “Or Cleopatra, or a sea nymph, or Marie Antoinette.” She gestured to the crowd.

He took her waist in hand and grasped her fingers with his other hand. The warmth of his hold, his scent and body so close all stole her wits. She tried to breathe, to remember what it was like to be him, anything to distract from the desire pulling at her. But all she could summon up was the sensation of his skin against hers, his lips on her breasts, her thighs about his hips, and confusion consumed her.

The music swelled through the chamber, mingling with voices raised in conversation and increasing hilarity. Champagne-filled crystal glittered in the candlelight, costumes sparkled, the breeze blew heady with jasmine, and Ian’s gaze remained on her.

Corinna struggled for words.

“In your estimation,” she finally said, “what are the redeeming qualities of this society function?”

“Masks. Dark corners. As you might expect. I am tediously predictable.”

He was roasting her. She slanted him a suspicious look. “Forgive me for wariness after our last disagreeable conversation, my lord, but from where has this good humor come?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Masks. Dark corners.”

Her stomach sank. “Already?”

“I have been here upward of ten minutes, madam.”

And he’d spent them all with her. He had not come with a woman, or at least he hadn’t been with another woman yet this evening. It was foolishness, but her heart sang.

“Ian, I beg your pardon for what I said at Lady Upton’s house.”

He quirked a brow. “Do you?”

With some effort, she banked her temper. “I expected you would make this difficult for me.”

“Ah, still having trouble with apologies, are we?”

“We are when we must apologize to you. But I truly am sorry. It was uncalled for.”

“Not precisely. But I will allow you your charming groveling.”

“I am not groveling.”

“Forgive my mistake, then.” The dimple showed.

Her pattering heart tangled her thoughts. This thing—this
feeling
so acutely was new to her. She hadn’t yet become adept at managing it. “Papa said he saw you at Westminster some days ago.”

“My prospective stepfather did not misspeak.”

She looked up through her lashes, afraid to ask, but she must. “How did you find it?”

“Excruciatingly dull. Torture, in point of fact.”

Her pulse jumped. “Torture?”

“Not quite as onerous as upon another occasion.” His lips curved into a dashing grin, but it faded almost immediately. “I am not cut out for politics, Corinna. I will do what I must to serve my purpose there, but I don’t like it and suspect I never will.”

“Not everyone can,” she replied, wishing they were still making suggestive comments about torture and not discussing matters that could only emphasize the differences between them, and between him and Giles Fitzhugh. “But you have other talents,” she added.

He grinned wickedly.

“H—Horses,” she stammered.

“Ah, of course.”

Foolishness
. Friendship with him would be much easier if she weren’t such a thorough ninny. She tried to regain her bearings. “Gregory is certainly suited to government. He seems happy at the Home Office.”

“Yes, you were on the mark there,” he conceded, but he seemed distracted now. He looked away from her and she followed his attention. At the edge of the dance floor, a satyr and King Louis with a thick red band about his neck flirted with an Amazon, thankfully not bare-breasted. But Corinna didn’t recognize anyone in particular, or anything especially untoward occurring.

Ian’s hold on her hand tightened. He released her waist and drew her toward the terrace doors.

“Ian? Where are we going?”

“Elsewhere.”

“Why now? We are in the middle of the set.”

“Because I wish to kiss you, and despite your conviction that I am an unrepentant scoundrel, I cannot do so on a dance floor.”

She didn’t argue or resist. He led her onto the terrace and down the steps. She thought he might take her farther into the garden where shadowy niches abounded, but he pulled her behind a column twined with ivy, drew off his mask, and covered her mouth with his.

It felt like coming home, but different from before, his touch surprisingly gentle and unhurried. He slipped an arm around her waist and drew her to him, cupping her chin in his hand and kissing her as though it was their first embrace.

She gripped his arms and went onto her tiptoes to meet him more fully. He tasted her, his tongue stealing between her lips, and she welcomed it, the feeling of him inside her, teasing, making her ache for more. Perhaps he would give her more again, if she asked.

With supreme effort, she pressed her palms against his chest and held him off. “What are you doing?”

He brushed his lips to hers again. “Kissing a beautiful woman.”

“It was to be only that one night. You don’t want to do this.”

“Corinna.” His voice was low. “You cannot put your body in a gown like that and then tell me I don’t want to do this. It’s ludicrous.”

“It
is
a scandalous gown.” Her pulse raced. “This is a scandalous ball.”

“Then let us continue our scandalous behavior, shall we, and make it game, set, and match.”

She laughed and he caught her mouth again. He kissed her tenderly and beautifully, and she forgot about the ball, their differences, and the man awaiting a response to his proposal. She adored
this
man beyond anything she had ever imagined. He made her laugh and cry and scream and want him with every fiber of her body.

But the longing in her that wanted even more than what he had given her that night expanded with each caress of his lips on hers, the touch of his hands on her skin.

She drew away. Ian released her without hesitation.

“I think I should leave.” She passed the back of her hand across her lips that were sensitive from his kiss. He watched her do so.

“As you wish. May I see to calling your carriage?”

She nodded.

He gestured for her to precede him into the house, following her without donning his mask. But of course he wouldn’t bother. No one would remark upon the Earl of Chance’s presence at such an event. Several women gave him speaking looks as they moved through the press of guests. Corinna didn’t glance back to see how he responded. He would no doubt put prim little Corrie into her carriage and return to the more adventuresome ladies, those who were not afraid of losing their souls in sinful pursuits.

He left her in the crowded foyer to command her carriage from the footmen outside. She glanced about. All the magic seemed stripped from the gathering. Costumes looked wrinkled and stained, faces drawn with dissipation and thick rouge, the air heavy, laughter shrill, and the music cacophonous.

Lord Pelley stood alone by a crimson drape, a glass of wine in hand. He noticed her stare and moved toward her with a swagger.

“Good evening, fair Venus,” he said upon a slur. An odor of strong spirits attended him. “For that is who you must be, goddess of love. Would you be my goddess of love tonight?”