My Lady, My Lord (6 page)

C
ORINNA REFUSED TO CRY
. The dratted thing would not go away, but she could not let it best her. As a person of reason and sense, she would conquer the beast. Man’s animal nature must perforce be sublimated to moral right and intellectual strength. Hadn’t the Roman moralist Seneca said something like that?

The trouble was, the more she thought about it, the larger it seemed to grow. She stared at her lap, the fine linen nightshirt tenting at her hips, and groaned in frustration.

Men were disgusting brutes, and Ian Chance was the worst of the lot. She wished she could convince herself he’d planned this. But that was ridiculous.

Probably.

He was capable of the worst sort of unpleasantness, after all.

But she knew enough about human anatomy to have some idea of what was going on. She only wished she understood why it was going on at this particular moment, with no woman in sight. And she wished she knew how to stop it.

A discreet knock sounded at the door. Corinna threw herself onto her side and bunched the bed linens around her waist.

“Come in.”

“A message just arrived for you, my lord,” the valet said, placing a calling card dish on the bed table and withdrawing to the dressing room. The interruption seemed to have deflated her problem slightly, and she shimmied to the edge of the mattress and reached for the envelope.

Her own writing paper stared up at her. She tore the envelope open.

West end of the Serpentine. 9:00 A.M.

“Barbarian.” He could have at least written please. And in full sentences. If he knew how.

“Ah, um,” she called toward the dressing room. “Excuse me?” The day before she should have thought to ask Ian the names of his servants. It was excessively inconvenient addressing them as “you” all the time, though of course she knew Simmons, the butler.

The valet came from behind the door. “My lord?” He was a neat little man dressed in impeccable clothing, with calm, wise gray eyes. At least Ian hired respectable servants, even if his friends and mistresses were despicable.

“I should like to get dressed, and to have my barouche brought around.”

“The barouche, my lord? Are you traveling a great distance this morning? If so, I shall instruct the cook to pack a picnic for you.”

“No. I am only going to the park.”

“Then may I suggest your phaeton, my lord? Mr. Wigsby has just had it repainted and it looks splendid.”

Corinna was a perfectly good horsewoman, but she could not drive a phaeton if her life depended on it. And, although she’d ridden astride a several times in private, she didn’t know that she trusted herself on one of Ian’s saddle horses, not after that incident all those Christmases ago.

“The barouche will do well enough for me today.”

The valet looked skeptical. She gestured him away to the dressing room. Impertinent servant, probably much smarter than Ian and accustomed to pushing his master around.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and sighed in relief. An uncomfortable tightness lingered in her groin, but the swelling had decreased. Perhaps if she distracted herself with some other activity it would go away completely.

But she could not resist the temptation to experiment. A person interested in science never could.

She closed her eyes and imagined Amabel Weston the last time she’d seen her at a ball, her half-naked bosom spilling out of the tiny bodice of her nearly translucent gown.

Nothing. No reaction from below.

Corinna opened her eyes and looked down. The thing was almost entirely flat now beneath the nightshirt. Fascinating. Here was clear evidence for the situational disassociation of mind and flesh, just as the ancient physician Galen had suggested, in conversation with Aristotle’s even older tract on human anatomy. It was unfortunate that no scientist currently alive could duplicate the experiment, except of course upon Ian at the present moment. But Corinna didn’t know precisely how that could be tested given the anatomical characteristics of the female body.

Her lips twisted. Ian would probably have an idea of how to test it. The libertine.

Warmth stirred in her foreign appendage. It twitched.

Her eyes shot wide and she leaped from the bed. When the valet returned with shaving gear and garments, her face was buried in a basin of freezing water.

“My lord?”

Corinna stood, allowing the frigid water to trickle down her neck and over her shoulders. She shook her head, clearing it of all thoughts of Ian Chance. That, however, was somewhat difficult to accomplish while staring at his image in the mirror.

“I should like to have my hair cut this morning,” she stated firmly.

“If you recall, we only cut it last week, my lord,” the neat little man said, not as though he were speaking to an imbecile, though somewhat like he didn’t expect the earl to remember such an insignificant detail.

She met his gaze in the glass. “It is far too long. Unfashionable. I would like it shorter now.” She looked at herself again, at the wavy strands of black satin dripping onto the sodden nightshirt. Corinna had once heard a pair of giggling girls at a ball compare the Earl of Chance’s long hair to a prize stallion’s mane.

She crossed her arms. “Much shorter.”

~o0o~

Few people visited the park at such an early hour, no doubt the reason Ian wanted to meet her now. Without the assistance of her driver, she climbed from the carriage and set out on the winding walking path around the central lake, delighted to be able to stroll without a maid or groom.

She folded her hands behind her and thanked heaven none of the other walkers or riders seemed interested in speaking with her. She’d no idea whom Ian counted as friends in society, except fellow reprobates and rogues, of course, but she didn’t know if she could discern those simply by appearance. The people currently enjoying the park seemed like a tame crowd, elderly ladies and their maids, mature gentlemen, and young mothers or nurses with tiny children. A thoroughly unfashionable lot, thank goodness.

A pair of riders approached on the path. For the second time, the sensation of vertigo seized her to see herself at a distance.

He rode her little gray mare with a surprisingly fine seat given the sidesaddle. Ian Chance might be a scoundrel and a cad, but no one could find fault with his knowledge of horses. The one time Corinna had tried, she paid dearly. As a permanent reminder of her childish pride, she still had the scar on her ankle from the bone mending improperly and needing to be reset.

Rather,
he
now had the scar.

She hoped it rained soon.

At least he’d had the decency to think to bring a groom. He came forward to help his mistress dismount. Ian didn’t even bother shaking out the skirts of Corinna’s new velvet riding habit, moving directly toward her in long, masculine strides, his gaze hard.

“Sleep didn’t work,” she said as soon as he stood before her.

He scowled. “Excellent deduction. Now I understand why all your stuffy friends admire your intellect so greatly.”

“You needn’t insult me. Oh, wait, I forgot. You insult me from habit.”

He frowned, then peered at her closely. “You cut my hair.”

She fingered the short locks curling around the edge of her hat. “It is much more respectable this way.”

“You don’t care about respectability. You host a salon, for God’s sake.”

“A respectable salon.”

“My hair was fine.”

“It was too long.”

“I liked it.”

“Well, you don’t have to wear it any longer. I am stuck with it.”

“You could be stuck with much worse,” he growled, fussing with the heavy skirts tangled about his legs. The fellow was a libertine, spent the lion’s share of his time outside of gaming hells with women of loose morals, but he clearly did not know the first thing about what to do with the train of a riding habit.

“Don’t do that,” she said. “You will damage the fabric.”

Corinna had read it upon the page, but she’d never actually seen someone look daggers. Now she had. Interesting. And strangely unsettling. Unaccountably, her heart raced.

“Did I win yesterday?” he asked.

“That was a non sequitur. Why is it that you cannot speak rationally?”

A muscle flexed in his soft cheek, giving the impression that he was grounding his teeth.
Her
teeth. “Did I win?”

“Yes, I believe so.
Stoopie
collected the purse. Ridiculous name for a grown man,” she muttered. “How much did you bet?”

“A thousand pounds.”

She gaped. “You don’t even look relieved to hear the good news.”

“I would have won it back at the tables if necessary. And don’t go giving me your high-and-mighty speeches about the evils of gambling and the wages of sin.”

“I never give speeches, especially not about the wages of sin.”

“Probably because you’ve never actually committed one.” He made it sound like a bad thing.

“I have so.” She sounded like a child. She sounded like a
foolish child
. This could not get worse.

“Oh, I must have misunderstood,” he said with patently false sincerity. “Though I find it difficult to believe you could have, given the present company you’re keeping. That Giles Fitzhugh is a blast dullard.”

Corinna’s cheeks filled with heat. “I don’t know what you are talking about. As usual.”

“What is he doing sniffing around you like a dog after a bone?”

“Was Viscount Fitzhugh at the opera last night? Oh, I so looked forward to going.” She frowned. “You insulted him, didn’t you?”

He lifted a brow. “Would it distress you if I had?”

“Of course it would.”

“Then let us say I did, shall we?”

Ian watched her fists clench. He couldn’t recall if he’d ever made that gesture, but it looked foolish in broad daylight in the middle of the park, like he was preparing to have a tantrum.

“You are evil,” she stated.

“Yes, you tell me that at least every time we meet,” he drawled, but it sounded peculiar in her voice. Too tight and intentional. “Occasionally twice.”

Her eyes flashed with anxiety, then she said far too casually, “Will you do me the favor of writing a note to Lady March and telling her I am indisposed and cannot attend her gathering this afternoon, after all?”

Ian allowed himself to smile. He considered the travesty of his hair and the words formed easily on his tongue. “Whatever for? I have every intention of going.”

“No, you don’t. It is a political meeting.” Her brow creased. “Don’t you dare.”

“Ah, yes. That sounds more like the dear Corrie I know so well. Why bother with requests when you can order a man around?”

“I did request, and you chose to reply rudely. And you don’t know me at all.”

“I do, indeed. All your worst failings. I simply said I intend to go.”

“And talk about
what
while you’re there, the latest winners at Goodwood?” she asked with a disdainful curl of the lip.

“Why not?” He sounded far too defensive, even for her voice. Why was he letting her ruffle his composure? He had the upper hand, after all.

“Then I am going too.” She put his hands on his hips, a thoroughly feminine gesture that had him squirming inside his air-tight corset and looking about the park to assure none of his acquaintances were abroad. But he’d chosen the God-awfully early hour to avoid just that.

“Be my guest,” he said distractedly.

“All right, then, you may pick me up at three o’clock.”

His gaze snapped back to her. She was worrying her lower lips between her teeth. Dear God, if he had to watch himself look so absolutely asinine for much longer, he might go insane.

“No,” he ground out. “I will not be seen at a political meeting.”

“But you just said—”

“Woman, do not disobey me.”

“Ian Chance,” she said in a hard voice he didn’t recognize, a glint flashing in her eyes. “You have no say over anything I choose to do or not. And if I have decided to attend an event that I have been looking forward to for weeks, I will certainly do it whether you say I may, and whether I have to do it in this hateful body or not.” She turned upon the heel of his best pair of boots and marched away in little mincing strides.

Ian ground his teeth and headed back to his horse.

H
E DIDN’T EVEN TRY
.

No, that wasn’t true. He did try. He tried to make her sound as idiotic as possible. He tried to say the most inappropriate things he could. He tried at every opportunity to turn the otherwise elevated conversation to inane, inconsequential matters—the weather, Lady March’s gown, the rug, draperies, even the teacakes. He tried to make her look thoroughly foolish in the eyes of the two-dozen handpicked guests present at the countess’s exclusive political tea.

Handpicked except for the Earl of Chance, of course. Corinna had ridden the most placid mount in his stable to Lady March’s street, then waited for her own carriage to turn the corner and approach the house. He looked surprised to see her, then sly as he took her extended arm and went in with her, stomping up the steps like a dairymaid.

He made a superficial excuse for bringing the Earl of Chance along, but Lady March was unfailingly gracious, seemingly delighted to see the earl. Others recognized her, casting her curious glances but too polite to remark upon Lord Chance’s odd presence at such a gathering.

Then the horror began.

Corinna really believed he made an effort at it. No one could be that stupid or uninformed. He was a Peer, for pity’s sake, and he’d long since taken his seat in the House of Lords. He had to read the
Times
at least occasionally. She’d seen it on his breakfast table two mornings in a row, after all.

At least Lord Pelley was not present. He might hear of her idiocy from the others at the gathering. But most of them were serious people and probably wouldn’t gossip. She still had hope.

Hope, that was, if she ever inhabited her own body again.

She stared at Ian making a mockery of her life, and bit down on tears. Eventually she could no longer bear it. Offering thanks to her hostess for the gracious hospitality, she fled. Taking advantage of the sunny afternoon and her fine mount, she rode to the park to work off her misery.

Rotten Row was crammed at the fashionable hour, and Corinna regretted the choice as soon as she arrived. She recognized friends here and there, but most of them wouldn’t know what to make of it if the Earl of Chance approached them to chat. Sinking further into gloom, she almost ran headlong into Marquess Drake and Lord Grace when they appeared before her.

“Gathering wool, old man?” The marquess laughed, his belly jiggling despite the obvious presence of stays beneath his coat. His chest puffed out like a strutting cock’s.

At least Ian didn’t employ such vain devices. Though, of course, he didn’t need to. Corinna had again averted her gaze from the mirror while the valet dressed her after the impromptu haircutting, but she knew from her clothed appearance and the sensation of strength in her body that Ian was a well-formed man. And women continually swooned over him.

Nausea swirled in her empty stomach. She hadn’t been able to eat lunch, too worried about Ian’s determination to attend Lady March’s gathering. She’d had reason to worry.

Oh God, why her? Why him?
Why this?

“What are you doing on that, Chance?” Marquess Drake looked askance at her little mare.

“She is a perfectly lovely horse,” Corinna defended the animal. “She has a very tender mouth.” And she was small enough that it didn’t terrify Corinna to drop her legs to either side of the saddle.

“Lovely?”
The marquess looked bemused. Lord Grace’s handsome face was set in skeptical lines.

“What is amiss?” Corinna insisted.

“She’s a fine animal, Chance. All your horses are, of course,” Lord Grace said. “But didn’t you purchase that one for your mother?”

Corinna’s tongue failed her. Ian kept a horse in his stable in town for Lady Chance? She wouldn’t have thought him capable of the consideration.

“She needed the exercise,” she fabricated.

“S’what servants are for, old man.” Marquess Drake yawned. “I’m bored to pieces, gents. Shall we have a go at the Row? Top speed?”

The baron glanced at Corinna’s mount again. “Don’t know if Chance is up for it today, Stoop.”

Corinna’s neck bristled with the old familiar pride. She nearly felt her left ankle tweak, but that of course was ridiculous. Her ankle was still at Lady March’s house. But she could not resist the challenge, and the little mare was already prancing on the path, catching the excitement of the others’ mounts. Corinna had a man’s strength now. She may as well see what good it could do her when matched with her intelligence and ingenuity.

“I am up for it,” she said.

“Thirty guineas says I can make it to the lamppost and back first without leaving the path,” the marquess wagered.

“There’s an awful crush, Stoopie,” the baron warned. “Don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“Dandy,” Marquess Drake accused and dug his heels into his horse’s sides. Lord Grace gave her a quick, animated grin, and set off after him.

Corinna grasped the reins, pressed her knees into the little mare’s flanks, and let fly.

~o0o~

Ian stared at the page of the journal set on the breakfast table beside his cup of sticky-sweet chocolate, and actually felt the blood drain from his face.

It seems that the Earl of C. has given way to a maudlin humor of late. Apparently he was not satisfied with his swoon at the boxing match arranged by Gentleman Jackson earlier this week. This columnist has it on the authority of at least a dozen witnesses that yesterday on Rotten Row, in the midst of a race with his usual companions, Marquess D. and Lord G., Lord C. burst into tears.

Ian suspected it would be better if he didn’t continue reading. But his eyes sought the column like a drunkard locked to a bottle.

Spectators report that the earl was in the lead, despite his weaker mount (everyone knows what a splendid horseman he is), when a child walked into the animal’s path and nearly met her end beneath its hooves. Lord C. dragged his mount aside at the last moment, but the little one had fallen and lay still as death. The earl leapt to the ground and, to the astonishment of countless spectators, wept copiously.

Ian swallowed down his unruly breakfast for a second time. His hand went to his head, to shade himself from the reality of the printed page or hold back the pain splitting across his skull, he couldn’t be certain.

To the relief of all present, the child soon recovered. But the drama was not at an end. Feeling at fault for initially suggesting the race on the crowded path, and seeing his friend’s distress, Marquess D. began to sniffle, then sobbed as though his heart would break. Several gentlemen observing joined in the weeping as well, including (I have this upon the greatest authority) His Majesty, who was taking the air in his barouche-landau. Soon there was hardly a dry eye on path or green. Even Lord G., that paragon of manly, military stoicism, was seen to swipe at his eye with the back of his hand.

This columnist can only write that she is heartily glad the flower of England’s noble manhood feels confident enough to display such honorable emotions in public. One hears of Peers weeping in the House and lords wailing over fortunes lost at the tables. But to bemoan the fate of a child with such sensitivity and sincerity can only be considered most, most gratifying.

For many minutes, Ian could not move. His borrowed body simply would not.

Then the heat rose. Beginning in his gut, it swelled up through his chest and into his throat, closing around his windpipe to choke him.

He stood abruptly, the chair clattering to the floor behind him. He shot a glance at the astounded footman as he strode from the chamber and to the front door. Ignoring the butler’s shocked stare and proffered cloak, he descended the front stairs in threes. By the time he reached the steps of his own house, the damn blast torture device around his torso—and pure fury—had made him breathless.

On the stair he tripped on his hem just as his butler pulled the door open.

“Lady Corinna, what a pleasure,” Simmons said, a smile crinkling his aged face. Ian didn’t bother sparing a thought to the warm greeting.

“I must see Lord Chance. Immediately.”

Simmons’ brows didn’t even twitch. Ian reminded himself to give the old fellow an extra bonus at Christmastime.

“My lord is not presently in, my lady. But if you wish, I will alert him to your visit when he returns.”

“Yes, thank you,” he said through tight lips.

Ian cursed all the way back to Corinna’s house. He was still cursing when he met Lord Mowbray in the stairwell.

“Cora, what’s happened? You seem overset.”

Ian clamped down on his anger. He and Mowbray hadn’t ever been particularly friendly. But their lands marched together, and Ian didn’t have any reason to antagonize the man, even if it would make Corinna suffer. He fully admitted he was a thorough cad with her, and always had been, but he was a wise landholder.

“I’ve had some unfortunate news regarding a matter of some importance to me.”

“It is anything I can help you with? I don’t like to see you so distressed.”

Then he shouldn’t look at her. In Ian’s experience, Corinna was almost always distressed. Then again, he might have something to do with that. The thought nearly made him smile.

“Thank you,” he said, “but I will see to it myself.” He would see to the thorough chastisement of a woman who clearly didn’t know the extent to which the Earl of Chance would go to redress a wrong done to him. But she would as soon as Ian next saw her.

“Will you attend Lord and Lady Patterson’s ball this evening?” Mowbray asked. “I’m certain they won’t take it amiss if you cry off. You don’t look yourself, daughter.”

Ian’s eyes narrowed, satisfaction skimming through him like a gift. His mother had asked him to escort her to the ball. He’d agreed, planning to find her a suitable companion at the event to bring her home, then cut out as early as possible. His mother would remind him of their plans in a note today. She always did. Corinna would be obliged to go to the ball whether she wished to or not.

Ian would be there, waiting for her. Waiting to enact his retribution.