To Win a Lady's Heart (The Landon Sisters) (4 page)

Chapter Six

The earl went dark, and when he spoke, his voice was hard. “End the engagement? We can’t. What’s done is done.”

He must have expected this. Why did he look so shocked? It wasn’t as if she’d said she wanted him to strip down bare in the middle of Almack’s.

Not that the likes of her would ever be invited to a place like Almack’s. Oh, no, indeed. How terribly shocking that would be to have her mix in good, upstanding company. But to hear Hetty tell it, she wasn’t missing much.

Grace stood firm. It was a well-known fact that to have one’s wishes granted, one had to ask for what one wanted to receive. Men did so all the time. Why not ladies? “I understand it seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but it wasn’t, not for either of us.”

They were several paces from the lantern’s golden ring, but the softening early blues and lavenders of an ever-brightening sky glowed through the windows. His face had gone stern. Cast in the dawn light, he could have been a vengeful angel come to extract a price for her misdoings. “You won’t convince me to say I blundered in this instance, because I didn’t. Your reputation—”

“—is none of your concern.”

“It became my concern as soon as the storeroom door locked shut behind me.” His voice was harsh and ruthless.

“And what was all that nonsense about proffered kisses?” Grace shifted, all too aware that what she’d blurted did not follow the strictest line of logic from the point where the argument had originated. He couldn’t know how many times since the storeroom those words “a kiss generously proffered” had echoed in her mind.

For a horrible moment, he said nothing, only stared. He seemed taller as he stood looking down at her. That severe expression of his displeasure unchanged.

Lord Corbeau spoke carefully, low and calculating. “Is that what this is about? You were offended by a man expressing a desire to kiss you?”

“I was no such thing.”

“If you feel a forced engagement is on steadier ground with a good kiss at its foundation, I’d be happy to oblige.”

A wave of heat fanned through her, invading places a true lady wasn’t supposed to think about. Lord, if they married, he could kiss her. Suddenly the notion seemed less an abstraction and more a thrilling possibility.

She raised her chin at him. “If you know a man capable of providing a lady a remarkable kiss, pray tell me to whom I should apply.”

The hands by his sides actually closed into fists. She’d only seen a man react in such a way once before when a hotheaded young rakehell thought another man too familiar with the woman he later married. “You apply yourself to other men and I’ll—”

“You’ll what?”

“It’s useless to argue. After I kiss you, you’ll not look upon other men the same way ever again.”

She should very well hope not.

The man the earl was showing himself now to be was proving far different than the one she’d thought she’d known. From where had sprung this boldness? This—this assertiveness?

Grace crossed her arms. “That high opinion you have of yourself is going to fail you someday rather soon, I should think.”

“Shall we have a go at testing that theory?”

“I will soon enough, I trust.” A thrill rang straight down to the very end of her toes at the daring implication of her words. No small part of her did want to be kissed by this man—and to kiss him in return.

His brows rose. “I think you should discover for yourself now, rather than later.”

“Discover what, precisely?” She was provoking him—very deliberately so, and with no small measure of palpable delight. How far would he take this? “I already know what you think of yourself, my lord.”

If he reached for her, she’d let him take her in his arms—those arms she couldn’t help but notice as he’d worked. And those lips. If he pressed his mouth upon hers, she’d press back.

He took a step closer, his voice low. “You’ll discover just how well-founded my opinion of myself really is.”

The spell shattered. Her shoulders fell. Perhaps she wasn’t so eager for a kiss after all. “A man bragging about his exploits is far less appealing to my sex than yours, you realize.”

“Indeed. But I wasn’t bragging about my exploits. Some men need endless practice. Others don’t.”

Her mouth flattened. “And you expect me to believe you’re the sort who doesn’t?”

“On the contrary.” A dark gleam shone from his eyes. “I’m the sort who does. That’s why I’ve been waiting for you.”

Safely back in her room, Grace leaned against the shut door to steady herself. Her knees threatened to fail.

She pressed a hand against her brow, staring out but seeing nothing. What had she been thinking? She wanted to end the engagement, not show herself in such a light.

The conversation had run away with her. One minute she’d screwed up all her courage. The next…

She winced, toes curling as if she could fold into herself and vanish. Had she really said all those things? She didn’t know that brazen woman in the stables standing t
ê
te-a-t
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te with the earl who could exchange such words. Heated words. Improper words.

What must he think of her after such an exchange?

Maybe he’d think her a hussy and end the engagement himself. Her cheeks assumed a sickly sort of warmth, but if it became a means to an end, she would accept the release as a gift. It didn’t matter what he thought of her, after all. She knew she wasn’t a hussy. Whatever this morning in the stables had been, it wasn’t that.

No, the man was stuffed to the gills with honor—or his notion of honor, at any rate.

Or was he? Did honorable men speak of kissing the way he had, with such self-assuredness?

That wasn’t fair. She bit her lip. Irksome though it was, he was right.

The next few hours passed with painstaking slowness. Grace hardly tasted her breakfast or heard a single remark directed her way. Whether her responses were intelligible or not, who was to say? Not she.

The earl stayed away, entertaining the gentlemen guests while Grace kept with the females, all happy to spend the morning in quiet domesticity. It was little more than a study in whiling away time until they could ascend to dress for dinner.

In the spacious drawing room done in pale blue-grays with gold accents, Grace, needlework in hand, seated herself as far from the others as might go unremarked. Between the gracious fire tended regularly by the servants and the heavier winter fabrics layered over her body, she wasn’t too chilled positioned as she was, so far from the hearth.

Sly glances kept coming at her. No doubt they conjectured about what had happened in the storeroom. Considering her parentage, Grace should have been more used to it by now, but it wasn’t often anymore they kept such company. The atmosphere was almost enough to make her want to marry the earl strictly to stop those noses, so thoroughly out of joint, from ever looking down upon her family ever again.

A few of the girls had grown tired of stitching and had gathered around the harp they’d brought in from the music room.

Hetty came to sit beside Grace, peering over to see the posies she was scattering in brilliant shades on the stark white cloth. Her friend was small and round and smelled of violets. Pink perpetually stained her glowing cheeks, no matter the season, climate, or level of personal exertion. “It’s very pretty.”

“Thank you.”

“Have I remarked yet today how I can’t wait to be able to claim you as my sister?”

“Four times, I believe.”

“Let’s make it an uneven five. I can’t wait.” Hetty beamed. “My brother has already acquired a special license. I can’t see why another day must pass before you do what it entitles you to do.”

Grace paused over her work, not daring to lift her eyes. Corbeau had left Lord Maxfeld’s early to fetch the requisite document. All she was left to do was say the word and they’d be married in a trice.

If only there could be another way. If only Hetty hadn’t been set aglow when she learned her brother was to marry Grace. If only they’d been better able to handle having been caught together in that accursed locked storeroom.

How painful it was going to be for Hetty when they announced they were putting an end to the engagement. The thought of crushing her friend’s hopes weighed heavy on her heart.

Hetty’s voice dropped and she bowed her head. “Why does Lady Rushworth keep sending you such strange looks?”

“Is she?” Grace, although grateful for the shift in conversation, stiffened with awareness. She forced herself not to look up lest the lady in question realize she was being discussed. Whatever might have the matron unsettled now, please don’t let it be that she found out about Grace’s morning escapade in the stables with the earl.

“If she aims any snide remarks at you, you’ll tell me. I’ll tell my brother and believe me, he’ll find a way to make it clear with perfect decorum that he won’t tolerate such behavior.”

Just what Grace needed. The earl’s intercession. “I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

She turned a little in the chair to afford more privacy between herself and her friend. Were Hetty not an earl’s daughter, she might have been called plain. But her bright and open character, cheerful disposition, and discerning mind would have ensured that even were she not an earl’s daughter, nobody would have noticed.

A round-faced maid with indifferently colored hair partially covered by a cap appeared bearing a folded slip of paper.

Hetty was reaching her fingers to take the note when the maid shook her head. “’Tis for Lady Grace, my lady.”

“For me?” Grace tried to keep her expression blank, the earl’s face flashing in her mind. She swallowed. There was no reason it had to be him who had sent her a message. It could easily have been… She glanced around. All the ladies making up the Christmas party at Corbeau Park were present. Well, it could be from someone else.

She hadn’t noticed she’d licked her lips until the cool air brushed the moisture.

The note read;
Meet me in the North Gallery at midnight.
It was unsigned.

Her heart stumbled in the wake of realization. The implications were clear enough. It was from Corbeau. And Grace, at the age of twenty-seven, had her first assignation.

That was, she had her first assignation should she choose to follow his order. Whether she would or not was yet to be determined.

Hetty said nothing when Grace tucked away the note without comment, but her gaze followed the movements. She was too good a friend to press for a confidence when one wasn’t offered.

Secrets were hateful things, especially when kept from dear friends. Grace didn’t wish to lie, so she, too, remained silent. One of the less fortunate lessons her late father had imparted was that when one doesn’t wish to tell a falsehood, one simply says nothing at all.

Chapter Seven

“I suppose it was you who sent Grace that note this afternoon.”

Corbeau, seated in his dressing room, raised his head to see his sister in the mirror. He rose to his feet and turned.

They were both dressed for dinner, he in the standard somber male attire, fashionable but dull, she in a jonquil gown that set off the color in her cheeks. Why Hetty hadn’t descended yet was her own concern. As for him, he was stealing the last few minutes before the inevitable. If he hadn’t promised his late mother to continue all the traditions of Corbeau Park, he’d have abolished the holding of house parties here years ago. Far too many people.

Too many people…

He stared off, his thoughts lost to an old memory. Images he’d all but forgotten played before his mind’s eye, and he burned with the humiliation of a confused boy as surely as he were reliving the whole wretched affair.

He’d been young, a lad of no more than five or six, and his tutor had painstakingly drilled him to memorize a passage of a poem, hours upon hours upon hours of work, words of which no child could truly grasp the meaning.

They’d had guests, some of his father’s closest friends, a booming lot of boisterous sportsmen who’d come to hunt on the grounds of the park. His father had wanted to show off—had been boasting about his son for days.

The young Corbeau had been paraded out, the center of attention. What a great privilege it had been to be allowed beyond the nursery or schoolroom at such an unusual hour. He’d started reciting. The room had been silent.

Then…disaster. He’d forgotten. The silence had grown. The adults had passed knowing smiles between themselves. Someone had given him a cup of water, but his hand had been trembling, and he’d spilled in the worst possible way. It had appeared he’d wet himself. There had been laughter.

He’d run away, out to the only place he’d feel truly safe for a long time to come—to the stables, up to the hayloft.

The next day…the look in his father’s eyes when he’d beheld his son…

The memory alone was enough to elicit warm, sickly shame washing over him.

By God, Corbeau hadn’t thought about that night in years. Decades. Had that been the genesis of all his years of extreme discomfiture?

He made a silent vow that should he ever be blessed with children, he’d never do to them what his father had done to him.

Corbeau pulled himself back into the present. His lungs were tight. Damn it all, but he was too old for such nonsense. He wasn’t that same young boy any longer. He didn’t need to be ruled by one nightmarish memory.

He wouldn’t be. For Grace. For his sister. For himself.

But the thought of going down to all those people still made him go numb.

If only they’d go away. If only he hadn’t promised his mother.

“Brother?”

He caught Hetty’s eye. She enjoyed the company that the Christmas tradition brought to the house. The joy and merriment, the amusements and conversations. That was gratifying. He witnessed with no small measure of awe what a natural hostess she was, attending to everyone’s needs so individually as to make them each feel they were the sole guest.

His sister was perfectly suited to life at her station. Born to it, really. She had their mother’s warm and easy way with people, and had been indispensable to him acting in the stead of the lady of the house. How he would have managed if Hetty had married earlier was a question to which he could be glad of never having been forced to answer.

And tonight he could be very proud to be her brother, so fine she appeared in the pale gown cut to the height of fashion, with her brown hair arranged with such perfect elegance. How she’d not married yet was a mystery for which there was no accounting.

She gave him an expectant look. “Well?”

“Sorry?”

“The note you sent Grace this afternoon. I know it was you.”

“She told you?”

“She didn’t breathe so much as a syllable about the thing, but I’m not stupid.”

He blinked. “Ah.” Then scowled. “It’s none of your concern.”

Corbeau’s valet, a diligent man of longstanding employ with the family, who had been working silently with the discarded afternoon clothing, made a discreet exit.

Hetty sighed. “They’re all watching, you know. All of them. Watching, talking, speculating. It’s excruciating for her.”

A point to which he could relate. This year was far more trying than any previous. The guests this year, many of whom had been on the invitation list since the days when his mother was a new countess, seemed to be keeping a particularly sharp eye on him as well.

“Very well, I’ll send her no more messages in such a manner. You have my word.”

“Most especially Lady Rushworth.” Hetty went thoughtful. “Do you have any notion of why that might be?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t say.”

“I find myself asking why we invite her, whether it might be better for her to endure the slight of not being asked back. We could still invite Eliza.”

“Lady Rushworth’s sour temper inflicts discomfort to all those surrounding her. She deserves our compassion.”

“Inflicts misery more like.” She was muttering. “Beastly woman.”

“I heard that.”

Hetty lifted her face to him. “You only say she deserves our compassion because she’s your godmother.”

“No, I’d say it regardless, though I mightn’t invite her here were she not.”

“I hate it when you’re right.”

“Should I be apologizing for the inconvenience?”

“What about this business with Grace?”

“What about it?”

His sister flung herself down on the chair, head on the arm she rested over the curved back, and studied him. “I don’t understand you. I thought you’d be elated.”

“Elated?”

“By the engagement, of course. For all it came about in an odd manner—I know you couldn’t have liked having your hand forced a’tall—but it was a means to an end.”

Corbeau snorted, on the brink of being amused, held back only for the fact of Hetty voicing observations rather too astute for comfort. “If I’ve ever been elated in my life, I don’t recall.”

“No, you most certainly have not. Well, maybe by a new horse, but that hardly counts. After I heard about the engagement, though, I thought for certain you’d be—be—”

“What?”

“Well, I don’t know.” Hetty straightened and tossed up her hands. “But something other than this.”

“And just what do you suppose this to be?”

“I thought this was what you wanted. I thought you liked her. You’re taken with her, at least, I know that. You’re always staring at her.”

The conjecture told him two things. One, Hetty was as sharply observant as ever and he had to be careful. And two, Grace had never told her friend that he’d once wanted to court her.

He pretended to fuss with his sleeve. “She’s comely enough, I suppose.” Corbeau almost added that he never considered much either way, that he’d never particularly noticed his eyes drawn to Grace.

But Hetty would see through such a blatant lie as easily as peering through window glazing.

Laughing, she came to her feet. “Comely enough, you suppose?” She put a hard emphasis on each word. “High praise indeed from the likes of you.”

“We’d better go down. We can’t avoid it forever.”

His sister took his arm and allowed him to lead her from the room. “It’s funny. You’re aware of how much your natural reserve turns to outright reticence around her, don’t you?”

Except—the cognizance came with a little shock, like the startling snap that comes of touching metal after walking on carpet on a dry day—when he was alone with Grace. Then, before he noticed what came over him, he fell into easy and comfortable conversation.

With absence of mind, Hetty patted his hand. “Don’t worry, I’ll do my best to keep the guests amused. You’ll be saved the trouble, I promise.”

His natural reticence. Yes, well, Hetty was being kind to term it so gently.

He should have been struck by how easy it was to talk with Grace. The things he said to her…if it wasn’t her, if it wasn’t Grace, he could never imagine thinking those thoughts, much less that there might be someone in the world to whom he might speak them aloud.

…

She wasn’t coming.

Corbeau was making his fourth pass through the length of the gallery, strolling slowly past pictures of his ancestors.

The bedchambers were well on the other side of the house; even the servants would have to take some trouble to come this way, especially at this time of night. The space was at once open and public, while assuring privacy. Even the most lurid imagination would be hard-pressed to believe any salacious dealings could happen in such a place.

Although, considering the direction his imagination was apt to follow, perhaps that was overstating the case.

The clock had chimed midnight at least five minutes ago. Maybe ten.

What time had it been this morning when he’d taken her to the stables? Early enough. Just because there was no way he would sleep until they’d spoken did not mean the same was true of her.

“Why couldn’t we have met someplace more proper? Like the library?”

He turned.

There she was, like a vision, coming toward him, a shawl wrapped over her bedclothing. She hadn’t put rags in her hair, keeping it instead queued back, the end of the length falling over her shoulder to display the pretty yellow ribbon in which it was tied.

His body responded with a rush of need—need to claim her body, her mind, her heart.

What this woman did to him…

Seeing her approaching—a second chance at being alone with her—whatever it was, it was something. Perhaps nothing more than the way she looked at him.

Her potent magic worked. The weighted thoughts that had sunk him to murky depths throughout each and every brutally long hour of the day lifted.

And just like that, everything fell into place.

He knew. He had but one hope. If he had to give her up, it wouldn’t be because he hadn’t fought for her.

He’d brought this upon himself. Grace had always affected him. She was effortlessly elegant, self-assured, and generous with her smiles. She didn’t look young, precisely. That was to say, she was young, but not in her youth, and looked her age. Every one of her seven-and-twenty years were written upon her face. She was the better for it, by his estimation, for it enhanced her beauty. She had sloping shoulders made for a man to run his mouth down, and a healthy robustness about her, suggesting she would be ready at a moment’s notice for vigorous activity.

Say, in bed.

He drew his mind back to the present. “We stay out of prying eyes this way. I don’t know about you, but I have never felt under more scrutiny in all my life.”

Although in the dim light of a single branch of candles, the prying eyes in the faces of the stern ranks of ancestry could come a close second.

“I wasn’t going to come.”

“What changed your mind?”

A little smile touched one side of her lips. What a mouth. How had he never before noticed how perfect it was? “If I hadn’t come, it would have been for the wrong reasons.” She paused. “The message was perhaps a trifle…direct.”

He raised his chin, a touch chagrined. Here was the only woman he could imagine ever making his countess. Of course, he couldn’t speak to her in such a manner as he had. He should have realized it himself instead of having to have her draw his attention to the misstep. “You didn’t care for how I termed my request.”

“It was perhaps not phrased as a request, but as an order.”

“I apologize for that. And for sending it at all.”

“You don’t want to meet?”

“I meant, for sending it in a way that made you any more an object of speculation than you already are.”

“Oh.” Her expression went blank. “I can sense my every movement being monitored, well enough, but I didn’t notice the note bringing undue attention. Is that what Hetty said?”

“She did. And I can fair believe it.”

“The scrutiny will be far worse once we’ve ended the engagement.”

He swallowed. “That’s what we need to discuss.”

“Yes, I thought as much. That’s the reason why I came—otherwise, I don’t much care for how many times I am repeatedly bent to your will.” She appeared calm, with firm shoulders and a high head, but the slight edge to her voice betrayed her unease.

“Please believe me when I say I don’t want you bending to my will, Lady Grace.”

“You’ve seen reason, I suppose?” Her eyes widened with a sort of hope that should have slayed him. “Ending the engagement is the only sensible measure.”

Sensible. Hang sensible. He’d spent his life being sensible. If sensible meant he had to give her up…his stomach clenched. “I won’t force you to do anything that is so distasteful to you—”

“Thank you, my lord.” Grace melted. “I knew you couldn’t want to continue this ridiculous farce. It’s as bad for you as it is for—”

“Wait a moment, if you please.” He held up a hand. “I want to continue the engagement. In fact, I want to see it through to its natural conclusion.”

Her mouth fell open. “But—you just said—”

“I said I wouldn’t force you. You told me plainly enough what you wanted. It seems only fair that I tell you what it is I want.”

Her mouth closed again, and her lips drew into a set line. “You’re right. But you did say you wouldn’t force me to continue the engagement.”

“I think you should also know”—He drew a breath. This part he’d rehearsed endlessly in his head throughout the whole day—“that I admire you as much now as all those years ago when I first asked to court you. I’ve always liked you, my lady. And I do today more than ever.”

Her head bowed. Her voice was velvety. “My lord, you’ve caught me quite without words.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” His throat was thick. “To be admired by a man? A man like me?”

When she looked at him, her face so soft, her eyes so wide, time ceased.

Corbeau drew on all his inner strength. He yearned to pull her into his arms, to tell her he’d be strong for her, to kiss her until she forgot every last bad thing that had ever happened to her. “What I mean to ask is, can we begin again? We’ll set the past aside, all of it, the near past, the distant past—we’ll forget it, all of it.”