My Lady, My Lord (2 page)

“That is unwise, Amabel. I never lie.”

“But you can change your mind. I’ll make you,” she murmured. Then she went to her knees on the opulent rug of her parlor floor and took him into her mouth. Her gold head bobbed like a chicken moving across a yard.

Ian steadied his stance and let the blood rush.

“Forgive my inelegance, my dear, but I’m quite certain you shan’t,” he murmured.

She did not reply. For quite some time, in fact, she said no words at all.

Just the way Ian liked it best.

T
HE EVENING WAS PROCEEDING
just the way Corinna liked it best.

Ideas crisscrossed the brilliantly illumined dining chamber, sparking and crackling like wood ablaze. Presiding over the festivities at the end of the long table laden with crystal, silver, china, and the finest removes a French chef could contrive, Lady Corinna Mowbray smiled graciously.

Her mouth wanted to split from ear to ear.

On her right, Italy’s foremost architect debated with France’s foremost landscape artist over spatial delineation of light. On her left the most prominent Tory in Parliament and his influential Whig opponent were nearly coming to swords drawn over criminal law reform. Farther down the table a Russian poetess recited from memory her two-hundred-line ode to Diana, goddess of the hunt, to the enraptured glee of Mr. Kemble and Mrs. Siddons. A scientist conferred with a colonel whose dinner partner, an archbishop, debated with a pair of dyed-in-the-wool Free-Thinkers.

Corinna nearly clapped with satisfaction. Now, if only Lord Pelley would approach her. She did not wish to appear aggressive. She had made her hopes clear enough to the severe and staunchly Tory owner of the most exclusive publishing company in London. But the guests gathering this evening were not collected by accident. She had designed the party expressly to impress him. That he had not even cast her a glance since she welcomed him at the door did not bode well.

“In the three years since you began hosting this salon, Lady Corinna,” Mr. Hume said at her left, “your fêtes have become more glittering by the month.”

“Thank you, sir.” This was indeed the best yet, two dozen people of taste, talent, and intelligence, drawn from the finest of Europe’s elite, all collected earlier in her drawing room, now around her dining table. Life could not offer the mind sweeter ambrosia.

“Lady Corinna,” the Italian seated to her right said, “I expect you will attend Lady Chance’s exhibition opening tomorrow. The Greek revival is far from expended, no? No matter what that misguided Gigetto says about the crassness of employing columns of the Doric order in domestic building porticos.” He scowled.

“Of course, Signore Pistrucci, I would not miss it for the world.”

“Aren’t Lady Chance’s projects often focused on social welfare?” another said. “I understood her to be involved with Lady Savege’s charity for war widows.”

“Oh, yes. But she has a fine knowledge of art, as well.” Corinna smiled, but the evening’s pleasure abruptly became a lump in her midsection. She could not miss the Countess of Chance’s latest foray into the ancient arts. Lady Charlotte Chance was a gracious, intelligent, interesting person. Also, as a near neighbor during Corinna’s childhood in the country, she had been infinitely kind.

It was a regrettable tragedy that her elder son was a cretin.

As unfathomable as it was to Corinna, the Earl of Chance never failed to attend one of his mother’s events—charity balls, auctions, and fund-raising parties alike. He even came to a balloon ascension the countess hosted to raise awareness of maintaining the integrity of the migratory paths of wild birds. On each occasion he arrived
sans
his cadre of disreputable cronies, kissed his mother on the cheek, made himself agreeable to everyone around, and stayed the entire time. For a man whose fondest pursuits were horse racing, gambling, and chasing women, such events seemed entirely at odds with his life ethos: pure hedonism.

Corinna fixed her attention on her dining partners’ conversations, but her appetite had fled and the
fricassée
and
soupe-maigre
tasted like dust now. She would simply avoid him at the museum. That since childhood he seemed to have made it his life’s evil delight to torment her each time they met must not bother her. At least two hundred people would attend the preopening soirée, with a throng of visitors entering after the doors opened to the public. She could easily avoid encountering Ian Chance.

The party left the table and retired to the drawing room for tea. Corinna moved from guest to guest, conversation to conversation, interjecting pertinent questions into each discussion and subtly recombining groups when conversation flagged or tempers seemed to be on the verge of flaring.

She left the room only for a moment to order the butler to open another few bottles of champagne. When she returned, she stood at the entrance and surveyed her success.

“You are an exceptionally talented hostess, Cora,” her father said at her side.

She took his arm. “I enjoy it, Papa. Bringing people together who have so many interesting things to say to each other provides me with a satisfaction I cannot measure.” She scanned his face. At nine and fifty, he had not lost his elegant air. But lines played about his eyes more deeply than ever, and his mouth seemed tight. “You look peaked. Are you spending too much time at your club these days?”

“No. It is merely late.”

“I suppose I never notice the hour when I am having so much fun.” Voices rose across the chamber, and she released his arm. “I must go see to that.”

“Then perhaps you will address Pelley?”

“Yes. Although I do wish he would come to me first. His reticence is disheartening.”

“But you never let that deter you, do you?”

“I never let anything deter me from getting what I want, Papa.” With a serene smile, she moved across the room.

~o0o~

Two hours later she took her father’s arm again to ascend the steps to her bedchamber.

“I noticed your reaction when Pistrucci mentioned Lady Chance’s exhibition tomorrow,” he said. “I fear that it might prove too much for you after this evening. If you are too weary to attend, Cora, I will make your excuses to Lady Chance. I’m certain she would understand.”

The glow in her chest could not entirely be dimmed by the next day’s prospects. Nine years ago she had vowed never to let Ian Chance distress her again, and she wasn’t about to break that vow now.

“Miss the opening tomorrow? Of course not. The exhibition is purported to be the finest gathering of Attic religious statuary in decades anywhere in Europe. And I never miss one of Lady Chance’s events.”

He patted her hand. “He may not attend.”

Corinna stiffened. “Who may not attend?”

“Chance,” her father replied with a grim mouth. “I understand he’s quite busy with his stables currently.”

Corinna’s stomach cramped again. She could never hear of that man’s infamously successful stables without actual pain radiating from her left ankle. On rainy days her joint ached without any instigation. The accident had happened over twenty years ago, but some wounds never healed completely. She had gotten almost to the point where she didn’t even think of the horrid incident when she felt the discomfort.

Almost.

“Papa,” she trained her voice to serenity, as though conversing with a guest at one of her gatherings, “you know I don’t give a fig as to whether the Earl of Chance is at the museum tomorrow or on Charon’s ferry crossing the River Acheron.” She laughed carelessly.

“Mm.” They approached her bedchamber door. “I will be at my club tomorrow. Shall I meet you at the exhibition?”

“Yes. I have calls to pay in the morning. But it would be delightful to discuss the show with you afterward.”

He smiled. “Corinna, you are a daughter a man can be truly proud of.”

“That is because you and Mama made me so, of course.” She squeezed his hand. “Papa,” she ventured. “It has been more than four years now since Mama passed away. Are you certain you don’t wish to marry again?”

His eyes grew evasive. She hadn’t said a thing about it in ages. But lately he seemed unsettled, so unlike the even-tempered man she’d known her entire life, her closest companion since her mother died except for her two younger sisters. But Adela was married, awaiting the birth of her first child in the countryside, and Sophie was away at school for her final year.

Corinna had never had a home apart from her parents. During her first years out in society, she’d been too busy attending lectures and supporting her father’s political initiatives in Parliament to welcome suitors. When her diplomat uncle and aunt invited her on their travels abroad, she’d gone along with them happily. Then her mother died, and she returned to England to act as her father’s hostess. After the year of mourning ended, when she told him about her dreams of hosting a salon
,
he agreed to it. He remained with her in the London house, showing society that he supported her intellectual pursuits. He had always been the best of fathers. But all had not been right with him for too long.

“I know when you are not happy, Papa,” she persisted. “Please. I do not wish to pry. Only to see you content again.”

He clasped her fingers. “I am content knowing that you are.”

She frowned. “But enjoying my contentedness is not equal to experiencing your own.”

“For a parent it is.”

Corinna retired to her room, sinking into her bed in satisfied exhaustion. She didn’t even allow herself a moment to think of how horrid it would be if she encountered the Earl of Chance tomorrow. Perhaps providence would bless her; before tomorrow dawned, he might fall into a hole and disappear.

A woman could hope.

~o0o~

The next morning Corinna’s maid buttoned her into a black silk gown with silver pinstripes. She had adopted the style while traveling with her uncle and aunt abroad. Pretending to be a widow had allowed her privileges a maiden could not enjoy, and her uncle and aunt had gone along with the ruse. When she returned to England, she continued the habit during the year of mourning for her mother.

Now she had all her gowns made in the latest styles and fashions, but every one of them in black. It suited her role as a salon hostess, serious about her interests. And since her chestnut hair and hazel eyes were hardly de rigueur, the severe dress added to her unique style.

She set out on errands early, visiting the shops before paying morning calls. At her friends’ homes she enjoyed stimulating conversation: at one—politics; another—oil painting; and at the last—Lord Byron’s latest creation. By the time she arrived at the museum, her mind sizzled with inspiration. She knew precisely the luminaries she would invite to her next soirée in a month. She could hardly wait to make preparations.

She stepped into the broad, high-ceilinged exhibition hall and her excitement disintegrated. Several yards away, the Earl of Chance stood beside his mother. As usual, his dress was fittingly subdued yet carelessly casual: sapphire blue coat, snug-fitted as fashion dictated, and buff trousers. Also as usual, an odiously devilish glint lit his eyes.

His latest doxy hung on his arm. Apparently the Baroness of Weston had not cheated on her husband until after he took to his bed permanently with gout, which, Corinna supposed, made her one of the more respectable females of Ian Chance’s acquaintance. But what on earth was the ninny doing here unless it was to impress Lady Chance?

Corinna rolled her gaze away and slipped behind a group of guests studying a bust of Artemis. When a passing footman offered champagne, she grasped the glass and swallowed the contents in a mouthful.

Murmurs of interest and feet scuffling on the wooden floor attended visitors as they moved from one objet d’art to another. The familiar sounds and the bubbly drink softened Corinna’s fidgets. She circled the exhibition chamber, greeting friends and enjoying their remarks about the statuary, which were exceptional examples of the Classical Period carved from smooth white marble. One table-top-sized rendering of Aphrodite had been wrought from a single block of creamy alabaster.

Corinna stared at the supple creation. The goddess’s graceful arms, shapely hips, and legs draped with a sheer suggestion of fabric, her hair flowing down her back and across her shoulders and over her rounded buttocks, suggested movement, fluid and sensuous. Appropriate for the Goddess of Love.

But something beyond that drew Corinna closer. The statue seemed to glow from within, a golden hue suffusing its curvaceous surface as though from hidden fire. In contrast, the goddess’s almond-shaped eyes seemed disappointingly hard.

“Envious?” A voice like fire-warmed brandy on a winter night came just behind Corinna’s shoulder. She pivoted and met the Earl of Chance’s gaze. As usual, laughter colored his clear blue eyes. Also as usual, that laughter mocked.

T
HE HAIR AT THE BACK OF CORINNA’S
neck bristled. She turned her shoulder to him. “Why don’t you go crawl back under the rock you were born beneath, my lord?”

“Because it seems you are currently using it to wash your clothing upon,” he drawled. “It can be the only explanation for the constantly dismal hue of your gowns.”

“Oh, how flattering,” she cooed. “I never imagined you would notice.”

“I’m merely observing that you appear as though you are at a funeral, or at the very least en route to one.”

She swung around to face him. “Where is your latest lightskirt— oh, pardon me—your latest
friend
? I noticed her earlier, attempting to insinuate herself into your mother’s good graces.”

“I daresay she’s off somewhere taking in the exhibition.”

“She is very beautiful. Helenesque, really.”

“She is, isn’t she?” He smiled with natural arrogance.

“Too bad she hasn’t two sticks to rub together in her head. But then, you do make a perfect pair.”

His crystal eyes narrowed. “Ah, yes, because the ability to dissertate upon the fourth satellite of the planet Jupiter and the metaphor of Shakespeare’s thirty-fifth sonnet is much to be prized over beauty, charm, and good manners. You’ve certainly proven the two cannot coexist.”

“What on earth are you doing here? Did you come solely to vex art patrons?”

“Not at all. I came to please my mother.” He bowed, a graceful movement of his broad-shouldered frame entirely at odds with his taunting grin. He cocked his head. “Vexing art patrons is merely an accidental
coup de maître
.”

“Perhaps you might consider enjoying the art, instead.” If he didn’t remove himself, she would be obliged to cut him. But his mother was a friend, and mustn’t be insulted so.

“I could,” he conceded. “But I don’t know that cretins are capable of becoming connoisseurs of anything of real value.”

Corinna tilted her face up to examine his features more closely. It did not seem that he teased now.

She pursed her lips. “You could make an attempt.” She gestured to the statue. “This one is Aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty. You ought to be familiar with her, at least.”

“All right.” He appeared to study the piece carefully. His brow bent and one of his hands cupped his jaw—a square jaw of classical proportions not unlike the statuary about them. After a moment, his lips curved into a skeptical twist.

“What is it?” she ventured, an odd frisson of hope mingled with the usual wariness tingling in her stomach. She didn’t know why she should care that he took some interest in the alabaster figure, except that she was always happy to welcome a new member to the ranks of art devotees. But she held her breath. “What do you see?”

“Well, I don’t know that I should say...” His brow creased beneath a thick fall of overly long black hair. He never bowed to fashion; he was far too indolent and self-satisfied. “But it seems to me that... No. No, I shouldn’t.”

“Shouldn’t what?” She glanced at the statue. “No comment proffered from a standpoint of true respect for the artist, his medium, or his creation lacks merit.”

The earl’s mouth curved up at one edge and he shifted his gaze to her for a moment before returning it to the Aphrodite.

“Then I should feel free to say anything I wish about this statue? To you?”

“Of course. There is no critique of art I have not already heard more than once, I daresay. You cannot surprise me.”

He slanted her a quick glance. “You sound proud of that.”

A warning tingle scurried in where hope had briefly dallied. “Merely confident.”

“Well, then, I shall forge ahead and offer my observation.”

Something wasn’t right. Her heart beat too quickly. She had known this man since they were both in leading strings. On the surface his attitude now seemed perfectly reasonable. Some instinct forged in her during childhood must be in operation. But what if her instinct was wrong? What if he had finally grown a conscience? And a cerebrum? His mother was a woman of great intelligence, after all. He could not have entirely taken after his father.

“Yes. Do,” she forced herself to say.

“You say these all came here from Greece?”

“Of course. Attica, mostly, drawn from private collections throughout England and elsewhere.”

He scratched his jaw with two long fingers. Corinna watched in sick fascination.

“Ancient Greece?” he said. “Are you certain of that?”

“Quite. Your mother never would have had them installed here if she and the experts at the museum were not completely convinced of their authenticity.”

He shook his head. “No. I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

“But why on earth?”

“This one must be a recent production. Very recent, I’ll wager.”

She scrunched her eyes to peer at the piece more closely. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, you see.” He gestured to the Aphrodite. “Just the other night Drake had this very girl up to his rooms on Piccadilly. She wore precisely this same shift. Had her hair somewhat differently arranged, but I know Drake would swear she’s the one. Grace would, too. He saw her first, of course. Always has a quick eye for the sweetest beauties. But Stoopie stole the march on him.” He leaned close to her ear. “Tells them he’s going to be a duke someday. They can’t resist it.”

She stepped back, stomach churning. “You and your friends are barbarians. Hedonistic heathens. You don’t possess an ounce of character among the lot of you.”

As though a curtain lifted, from sober and thoughtful his features turned cool.

“You believe that your prosy, stiff-necked politicians and scientists are better?” he said, the drawl much more pronounced now. “I think not. At least Drake and Grace know how to enjoy themselves.”

Corinna fisted her hands. It simply was not fair. At least when they were children she usually anticipated this. But over the past decade he had perfected his skills in dissimulation, probably to help him waste away the Chance fortune at the gaming tables.

“That is all they do,” she snapped. “Enjoy themselves to the detriment of those around them and society at large.”

“Oh,” he grinned, but there was no real mirth in it, “we tend to keep our amusements rather closer to home than that.”

“And that’s another thing. You are ruining your brother.”
What was she saying?
She should walk away. What did it matter if anyone saw her cut him? He deserved it—he and his grotesque mockery of civility. But her tongue knew no curb. “I saw Gregory the other night at William Lamb’s house. He conversed with several of the most prominent men in government with ease. He could make something of himself, but you won’t let him.”

The earl shrugged. “My brother is a grown man. He does what he likes.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself, dragging poor Gregory into debased behavior, as though he weren’t worth five of you. Ten. If I were you I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night for the guilt of it.”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re blathering about, Corrie dear. I sleep exceptionally well, deep and untroubled, whether inebriated or stone sober, accompanied or alone.” He paused. “My conscience does not distress me, as obviously yours does.” He tipped a fingertip toward her chest.

“You are despicable. That you even mention such—such
accompaniment
in a lady’s presence is despicable.”

“I seem to recall someone speaking of lightskirts a moment ago. But you are correct, of course.” He smiled, a slow, wicked curve of his lips. “After all, generally ladies prefer not to hear about my accompaniment, but rather to live it.”

“You are astoundingly arrogant. Despite what the society rags claim, not all women fall under your spell. Exceptions to the rule do exist.” It was like staring at a carriage accident in progress. She could not seem to halt her tongue, draw her gaze away, or move her feet.

He gave her a slow perusal up and down, from the crown of her head all the way along her skirt. Spine shivering, she regretted not fleeing before.

Fleeing?

“Oh, I doubt it.” His odious confidence fairly oozed. “I’ve long suspected, Corrie dear, that you put on this prickle with me for safety’s sake.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

The smile deepened at one side, a dent appearing in his smooth-shaven cheek. Other women might call it a dimple. Corinna called it horrid.

He spoke beneath the hum of voices. “You want me to bed you.”

Scalding heat rushed into her cheeks and her mouth dropped open.

His eyes flared with satisfaction. “Ah, I am not off the mark, I see. The blush of the virgin reveals all.” He tapped a fingertip to her cheek.

She flinched back. “Perhaps your powers of observation are as poor as your judgment of character and your capacity for rational thought, Lord Chance,” she said through gritted teeth. “Members of the human species color in the face from anger as well as embarrassment. But since you don’t belong to that species, perhaps you simply do not know that.”

“No, I don’t think so,” he said smoothly, regarding her with lazy intent, as though he were reading her thoughts and finding them singularly uninteresting. “I believe you have had a secret
tendre
for me all these years. Haven’t you? Poor little Corrie. It would explain your attitude of contempt, a contrivance to protect your fragile self-esteem in the face of my continual disinterest.”

“My self-esteem is far from fragile, and actual contempt for you explains my attitude of contempt.”

“I think not.”

“Is that all you can say?
You think not?
Is that the extent of your ability to debate a position upon which you feel so fully secure?”

His crystal blue eyes danced. “The only position I feel fully secure in, my dear, is atop a naked woman.”

“You are disgusting,” she spat out.

“And you are a cold fish.”

“Reprobate.”

“Bluestocking.”

“Rogue.”

“Prude.”

“Dissolute.”

“Ice queen.”

Corinna’s head spun from the champagne. “I despise you,” she lashed out.

“The feeling, my dear, is entirely mutual.”

“I beg your pardon?” A thin voice sounded at Corinna’s elbow. “Could you help me?”

With a breath of relief, Corinna pivoted around. An elderly woman stood beside her. Garbed entirely in dove gray silk and chiffon, carrying a silver-tipped walking stick, with a gray silk hat sporting an enormous brim and a profusion of gray feathers, she looked to be about a century old. From within her face, lined to nearly caricature, a pair of soft, moist gray eyes entreated.

“Yes, certainly,” Corinna said. “How may I assist you?” They must have already opened the exhibition doors to the public. She would certainly know of a matron of these advanced years if she came from one of the families of the
ton
that Lady Chance had invited to the preopening soirée.

“Oh,” the woman tittered, her voice stronger than her appearance suggested, “it seems I have lost my reticule. I am here every day, you see, and the place feels so much like home that sometimes I leave my belongings about.” Her paper-thin lips smiled around surprisingly even, white teeth. “But I cannot see very well any longer. My eyes haven’t got the sharpness they used to.”

“Let me help you find it,” Corinna said.

The earl moved to the woman’s side.

“Madam,” he said in a steady, gentle voice Corinna did not recognize, “allow me to escort you to a chair while Lady Corinna looks about the place for your property.” With great care, he grasped the old woman’s hand and slid her arm through his elbow. The top of her outrageous hat barely reached his shoulder.

“Oh, you are very kind, young man.” She patted his coat sleeve. “And your lady is beautiful. The two of you make a lovely pair.”

Corinna’s gaze snapped to Ian, but his attention remained on the woman.

She pointed her cane at Corinna. “You will have charming children, I am certain.” She touched Corinna on the sleeve.

A jolt of heat coursed through Corinna from brow to toe. Her ears went cottony, the sounds of people moving through the chamber, talking, all abruptly muted. She blinked and gasped a hard breath. The earl’s hand hovered over his brow, his eyes half closed.

With a single shake of his head he seemed to recall himself.

“I will return shortly,” Corinna said, blinking again to focus her vision, and hurried off.

She found a little gray reticule tucked behind a life-sized statue of Ares, the god of war. She looked about for the earl and the old woman, but the hall had grown crowded. Instead, she followed the wall around the perimeter until she saw him ahead. He was taller than most of the men in the place, and she followed the sight of his glossy black hair until she reached them.

The old woman sat in a fragile heap on the stone bench, so thin beneath the gray gown that her bones protruded.

“Here you are, ma’am,” Corinna said and offered the reticule. The woman clutched it with gnarled fingers and smiled.

“Thank you, dear girl.” Her eyes glistened. “And thank you, my lord. I enjoyed hearing about your mother’s projects.”

He made an elegant bow. “And I about your grandchildren.” He took her arm and drew her up from the bench. “May I escort you to your friends now?” he asked.

“Oh, no. I am here with my son, but he’s somewhere about the place nearby, I suspect, and shall find me soon.”

“Then to your carriage?”

She chuckled. “What a fine gentleman you are.” She patted his sleeve again, then turned to Corinna. “You keep this one close, dear. Men like him don’t grow on trees.”

Corinna resisted choking on her tongue as the woman tottered away into the crowd, reticule clasped tightly to her bony breast.

The earl moved beside her. “A lady of great taste, obviously,” he said, laughter in his voice again.

Corinna’s bemusement scattered. “More likely blind, and certainly deaf,” she replied, then looked up at him.

She should not have. Where quiet pleasure had shaped his handsome features in the presence of the stranger, now cold aversion shone.

“You would know about an existence deprived of the senses, wouldn’t you?” he said. Without awaiting her riposte, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.