My Lady, My Lord (5 page)

“I would not.” Her voice sounded odd. Gravelly.

The marquess’ gaze slewed to hers again. “I know that.” He offered a woeful grin, the creases in his brow easing. Corinna sat silently astonished until he added, “You never return to the same trough twice, do you?”

She nearly gagged. She simply must escape this or she would end up casting up her accounts all over the luxurious velvet upholstery.

“But even if you hadn’t already kept her once,” Marquess Drake said mournfully, “you still wouldn’t take her, knowing how I feel about her. Wish I were the same, blast it. But a fellow’s got to be born with that sort of backbone. Just not in your makeup, I dare say.”

Corinna sat back abruptly. “It isn’t?”

“Course not.” He shook his head. “I ain’t had a dram of drink all day, but I am not afraid to say it, Chance old man: you are the most upstanding fellow I know, decent to everyone, a loyal friend, generous with your sisters and good to your mother though it must drive you insane to go to all those frippery events she throws.” He fixed Corinna with a sober look. “What’s worse, you’re honorable to a fault and a friend to all. S’why I trust you so well.”

Corinna had climbed to the top of the great pyramids in Egypt. She had dined with a Turkish vizier, traversed the perimeter of the Dome of the Rock, and studied Leonardo DaVinci’s
Last Supper
in situ. At the present moment, however, she was, for the first time in her life, speechless. Never had she imagined this could be said about Ian Chance. Every encounter she had ever had with him proved the exact opposite.

The carriage jolted to a halt. A footman opened the door and let down the steps. She climbed out after the marquess onto a grassy field carpeted with vehicles—from elegant carriages to carts—and thronged with men.

“Are we not going to Gentleman Jackson’s?” she said, trying to hide the tremor in her throat.

“Too much advance publicity. Jackson moved the fight here to avoid crowds in Bond Street,” Marquess Drake explained and moved toward the throng. Men of all sorts—gentlemen of apparent means, artisans wearing shop aprons, farmers in rough clothing, street laborers, and any number of less reputable looking fellows—shouted and talked while jostling toward the makeshift arena raised upon a wooden dais.

“Still have your bet on Left-Hand Luke?” the marquess called over his shoulder.

She nodded. Why hadn’t the scoundrel warned her about this? Would she be required to produce money? Did she even have any with her? A man with a weasel’s face and a filthy cap gave her a sly perusal. This certainly wasn’t the place to search the Earl of Chance’s clothing for bills.

She followed close, trepidation slowly fading as curiosity got the better of her. Boxing was a filthy, violent sport that made animals of men. But studying the situation proved irresistible.

It was thoroughly fascinating. Before the fight even began men strained at the ropes around the arena, faces contorted with the lust for violence. Two brawny fellows, nude to their waists and features misshapen from injuries, took center stage. The roar of shouts and jeers increased.

When the first blow connected, Corinna considered the angle of the aggressor’s strike. Basic laws of physics dictated that the larger man should prevail over the smaller. But the shorter, slighter man moved about more swiftly, circling the other with quick steps and jabbing more rapidly. The other used his enormously muscled, ape-like arms to loop swinging slugs toward his opponent.

The smaller fellow threw several left-handed punches. Each time he did so, a large portion of the crowd cheered ecstatically while the rest of the spectators hissed. Corinna was busily debating herself as to whether the shorter man intended this apparently unusual tactic to impact with his opponent’s face or merely as a distraction when the bigger man’s fist pummeled into the smaller man’s nose.

Blood spouted over the barrier and across the face of the man standing beside her. Gobs of crimson stuck to his brow and nose. Corinna’s throat tightened. Her stomach churned. Her neighbor smeared his sleeve across the stain and cheered even louder. The large boxer’s arm swung again and Left-Hand Luke’s nose erupted in showers once more. He staggered back, spitting a mist of red over his opponent. Corinna choked down a swell of bile.

After that it all became something of a blur. A brow split open just above an eye, and her head grew light. A boxer cannonaded against the rope in front of her, his body thick with sweat. Rank odor pressed around her, words she had never heard spoken before crowded the fetid air, and for the first time in her adventuresome life, Corinna thought she might die.

Instead, she swooned.

S
HE HAD NEVER BEFORE SWOONED
, and now, in the body of the Earl of Chance, her head went cloudy, her knees buckled, and she lost her balance. Fortunately, the people jammed up around her broke the fall.

Marquess Drake grabbed her shoulder.

“Chance?” he shouted above the roar.

Another hand gripped her arm. “Let’s go,” the voice attached to it commanded.

She barely knew how they made it out of the throng and back to the carriage. Within minutes of breathing the clear air, though, her head and stomach settled. When she regained her senses she was sitting on the carriage steps, elbows on her knees, hands behind her neck. She shook her head and looked up. The marquess stood beside another man. Both stared at her with intent skepticism.

Corinna was only slightly acquainted with the newcomer. The Baron of Grace was one of the earl’s closest companions, a rake and a rogue and a good-for-nothing, just like Marquess Drake and Ian Chance. But he was also one of high society’s most successful entrepreneurs and a war hero. From a wreck of an estate left to him by his wastrel father, he had founded a coal mining empire. He was wealthy, handsome, and unmarried.

“Feeling more the thing, old friend?” the baron asked.

“Must have been something I ate.” Foolish and ridiculous. A little blood and she turned into a wilting violet.

“I’ve collected our winnings,” the marquess said, apparently cured of his earlier misery over the heartless Russian doxy. “Let’s head on to the club for dinner, then go on and spend this blunt at the tables. You coming, Jag?”

He nodded, cast Corinna another odd glance, and climbed into the coach.

The next several hours passed like slow Purgatory to Corinna. Finally seeing the inside of a gentlemen’s club proved intriguing for the first few minutes. But it only served to remind her of what she was not allowed, wasted instead upon useless idlers like Ian Chance.

For years she had longed to become a member of the prestigious Royal Society, a club dedicated to scientific thought. All the elite intellectuals of the day were members, men she saw only rarely at her salon but who spent every day together discussing astronomy, physics, music, botany, and foreign lands.

Holding a membership at the Roxburghe would have been even more wonderful. That club, dedicated to the preservation and collecting of rare books and manuscripts culled from the greatest libraries in the world, called to her like a Siren. If only she were able to spend a few days, perhaps a fortnight, conversing with the members of these clubs, she could achieve what she had long dreamed.

With all her heart, she wished to purchase a publishing company.

Lord Frederick Pelley belonged to both the Royal Society and the Roxburghe. For months he had been searching for a suitable buyer for his publishing company. Corinna was more than willing to buy. But he would not sell to a woman. She had offered him a fair price. When he refused, she offered more—the whole of her mother’s dowry that had come to her. He held fast. Women, he said, did not belong in publishing, but in the home. The disdainful look he’d offered suggested they should not be hosting salons in those homes.

Corinna stared blankly into the clouds of smoke rising in Brooks’s dining room like coal-fire fog, barely aware of the hum of conversation around her, and she cursed fate. Despite his subhuman intelligence and licentious lifestyle, if Ian Chance wished, he could take membership in the Royal Society or the Roxburghe. And he could buy a publishing house. Simply because he was a man.

Marquess Drake offered her more wine. She declined. Lord Grace peered at her closely, but continued discussing the business of his estate. The marquess listened attentively. Corinna supposed she ought to be amazed they weren’t drunkenly wagering on which woman they would bed tonight. But she was too exhausted and miserable to care. She sat in silence, hoping no one would ask her anything she was incapable of answering, and sank further into gloom. She only hoped the Earl of Chance in his borrowed body was having a similarly wretched time.

I
F IAN WAS OBLIGED TO EAT ANOTHER
teacake or drink another cup of tepid swill he would vomit it all up in the middle of the Duchess of Hammershire’s drawing room. The corset bound his ribs and stomach with an iron grip. He had divested any number of women of stays, but he’d never understood before how damn uncomfortable they were to wear. How a woman ate more than a soupçon of food at a time, he hadn’t the foggiest.

His clothing, however, provided the least heinous of his discomforts. There simply could not be anything more to say on the subject of gardenias. The duchess and her friends, most of them comfortably over the age of sixty, had already spent an hour discussing the plant from root to petal. But they seemed no closer to finalizing the meandering discussion than they had at its start.

He would escape if he could. But he’d come with his own mother. At half past four, just as he was preparing to settle down in Corinna Mowbray’s parlor with a full snifter of brandy in the hopes that it would stabilize his unsteady hands, Lady Charlotte Chance had appeared at the door, nearly knocking him off his chair.

She’d given the glass of spirits a moment’s thoughtful consideration, then said they ought to be on their way. The duchess and the Ladies’ Society for the Advancement of Horticultural Diversity expected them.

Ian slouched back into his hard wooden chair. The old termagant’s parlor didn’t boast any other sort of seat. He’d never liked the duchess. A drawing room furnished with chairs fit for a boy’s school now seemed reason enough for his antipathy. He pretended he was anywhere else. He’d not yet heard a word that convinced him these ladies were interested in horticultural diversity of any sort. Anyway, he couldn’t give a damn about gardening.

In his imagination he conjured Amabel’s ruby lips. Then he allowed his imagination to wrap those lips around his—

“Isn’t that so, Lady Corinna?”

The mirage of the Widow Weston on her knees faded. Lips pursed, the duchess’s wrinkled stare fixed on his face.

“Of course,” he replied promptly. He was growing accustomed to Corinna’s voice coming from his throat. It was lower from within her head, and pleasing. Something of a surprise.

What quirk of fate or demon from the depths of Hell had contrived this? Tea and gardenias be damned, his situation topped all for inducing desperation.

“Of course they wilt more quickly in Powder of Abicum, or of course they appear at their best two days after full bloom, dear girl?” the Countess of Evanston queried.

“Oh.” Damn and blast. “Both, I daresay.”

Was this truly how Corinna Mowbray spent her afternoons? No wonder she was such a cold fish. But his mother seemed interested in the conversation.

It’d been the devil of a thing pretending to be Corinna during the ride over. Struggling to ape her prim manners, he’d silently prayed she wasn’t doing anything with his friends to shame him. Until she returned, he wouldn’t even know if he’d lost the thousand he’d bet on the fight or made a tidy bundle.

Damn. Blast. Damn.

His mother stood. “I apologize for our early departure, ladies,” she said in her customarily gracious tones. “Lady Corinna’s father expects her home for dinner before the opera.”

The opera? Tonight?

No chance in hell.

Ian stood, treading on the hem of his ugly black gown and jostling the tea tray as he righted himself.

“I beg your pardon,” he mumbled, nodded his head—he wasn’t about to curtsy,
damn Corinna Mowbray’s infernal devotion to social mores
—and followed his mother from the room.

“You seem pensive today, Cora,” she said as they moved down the steps to the carriage.

His mother called her
Cora
? Since when?

“I had less sleep last night than I required.” Not a lie. If he’d been inside his own body he would have slept until at least sunset. He picked up his skirts to ascend the carriage steps and tripped again.

“I noticed you and Ian speaking together yesterday at the exhibition.”

Speaking
was an enormously generous term to describe that encounter. Irritation pinched at him, chased by guilt. How much had his mother noticed, precisely?

“What did you and Corinna find to talk about?” she asked.

Her prudery. His immorality. The usual topics.

“The statuary.”

She stared at him curiously. She expected more.

“It’s an excellent show, M— ma’am.”
Not
Mother. Idiot. Perhaps Corinna wasn’t entirely off the mark. Perhaps brandy muddled his brain. “You must be very proud of it.” No, that wasn’t right. He sounded too much like himself. What would Corinna say? “I found the alabaster figure of Aphrodite particularly intriguing.”

“Aphrodite? That is a special piece. What did my son have to say about it?”

Dear Lord, did his mother quiz all the ladies he spoke with about his conversation?

“He rather admired the cut of her gown.”

His mother chuckled. “I don’t know whether to credit that observation to Ian or to your perception of him.”

He had to smile. His mother was no slowtop.

“He makes no secret of his likes and dislikes,” he replied lightly. He drew up the curtain and watched the London traffic pass by. A few more hours, the opera, sleep, then back into his own body. This might be easier than he’d thought.

When he stepped into Corinna’s drawing room, he reconsidered. The Earl of Mowbray sat in a comfortable armchair across the room. He rose as they entered and came forward. He smiled at both of them, then bowed to Ian’s mother.

“Good afternoon, Lady Chance.”

Her cheeks colored.

Good Lord, three and twenty years married to his lout of a father hadn’t beaten the blushing girl from her?

Lord Mowbray leaned forward and bussed him on the cheek. “Hello, Cora.”

Ian stood paralyzed. He hadn’t been kissed by a man in thirty years, and not for lack of a few upperclassmen making the attempt during his first weeks at Eton. He’d swiftly shown them what he thought of that. With his fives.

“How were the horticulturalists?” Lord Mowbray asked.

“As prosy as ever,” Ian’s mother replied. “Don’t you agree, Cora?”

Ian shook himself out of reverie. “They do go on,” he conceded.

His mother laughed. Lord Mowbray gestured for them to sit, but she shook her head.

“I must be going and allow you some time together before the opera.”

“I’m sorry you are unable to join us,” the earl said.

“Thank you, Marcus. But I will see you both on Saturday at Lord and Lady Patterson’s ball, won’t I?”

“Of course.”

She departed, leaving Ian alone with the man who had kissed him, never mind that Mowbray thought he was his daughter. He moved toward the door just in case. “I’ll go change for dinner, then.”

“Fine, fine. You will look lovely, as always, daughter.”

Unlikely. Ian hadn’t seen Corinna Mowbray don a color brighter than thundercloud gray in years.

He climbed the stairs to her bedchamber and summoned a maid. The same small, thin girl from earlier arrived, full of pleasant, vacant smiles and entirely not to Ian’s tastes. Probably better for him than the full-breasted one. No sense in torturing himself with enticements he couldn’t currently appreciate.

As the maid removed his funeral weeds and went to the wardrobe for a gown more suited to the evening—though no doubt just as dull—he peered at his reflection in the long glass.

She wasn’t an unattractive woman. Quite the contrary. Her face wore its habitual scornful glare, but the chestnut hair she usually kept bound tight to her infernal head was long and silken. She had a good figure too. Very good. Too bad that the words that came through her full, dusky pink lips invariably made him want to commit murder. He scanned the swells of her breasts above the tightly bound corset, her slender waist, and curved hips, to the thin silk shift clinging to her thighs, and recalled his discovery of her naked body earlier in her bed.

A hard breath left him. Thoughts passed through his mind in rapid succession, beyond disturbing in too many ways. He dragged his gaze away from the mirror.

“How about this one, milady?” The maid held forward an ebony gown with silver lace about the edges.

His scowl deepened.

~o0o~

“Lady Corinna, you are beautiful this evening.”

Ian shifted his gaze to the man offering him a glass of ratafia. He accepted the drink, but by God he refused to actually consume it.

“Thank you, my lord.” His tongue felt sticky saying the words, but they must have sounded well enough. Viscount Fitzhugh didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. He looked pleased as Punch, as though he had braved the wilds of Africa for the beverage and could now rest easy upon this accomplishment for the remainder of his days.

Ian didn’t care for Giles Fitzhugh. He barely knew him, but what he did know—that he spent more time with the House of Lords than with everyone else combined—didn’t impress him. That Fitzhugh seemed to be courting Corinna only reinforced Ian’s low opinion.

Lord Mowbray seemed happy with the viscount’s attentions, however, welcoming Fitzhugh’s visit to their box during the entr’acte. Of course, Mowbray couldn’t afford to be particular with a daughter so long in the tooth.

Ian glanced about the corridor. At least his friends weren’t in the theater tonight. Stoopie was still stuck on the duplicitous Madam Kozlov, and to Ian’s knowledge Jag hadn’t entered a green room since Mrs. Rebecca Clark came to London.

“Will you attend Lady March’s tea tomorrow?” the viscount asked.

“Oh, I daresay.” Ian waved his hand in an unconcerned gesture.

“I know you’ve been especially looking forward to it, and I’m eager to hear what you have to say on the labor bill coming forward in the House after Christmas.” Fitzhugh smiled as though he meant every word he’d said. Then again, he was a politician.

“I’m sure I’ll do my best.” Her best to bore half the people around her to tears, and insult the other half.

With another smile, Fitzhugh took Ian’s hand.

“You are a rare and fascinating woman, Corinna Mowbray. Will you attend the ball at Lord and Lady Patterson’s home on Saturday?”

Ian choked back a gag and tugged his hand away. “Yes.”

“Will you save me a dance? The supper dance, preferably, but I fear that will already be bespoken.”

Not likely. “I would be honored, my lord.” The chimes announcing the third act saved Ian from retching.

The final act passed like the continuation of a bad dream. Lord Mowbray invited Fitzhugh to join them in their box, and the fellow sat so close Ian couldn’t relax sufficiently to enjoy the soprano’s quivering bosom.

When it was over, Fitzhugh saw them to their carriage. Ian couldn’t fault the fellow; he didn’t go so far as to make calf’s eyes or kiss Ian’s hand. But he held it a moment too long in parting, driving Ian’s irritation deeper. During the ride home, Mowbray didn’t say a word about it, but talked of the performances.

When they turned onto the street, the lights were out at his house. He briefly entertained the notion of going to speak with Corinna to learn how her day passed. But the sooner he went to sleep, the sooner this farce would be over. And in the morning, waking up in his own bed, he would laugh and tell himself it had all been a horrible dream.

He allowed the maid to unbutton him from the gown and corset then he dismissed her. Without removing the shift or glancing at his reflection in the mirror, he climbed onto the mattress and lay for many minutes without stirring. A scent of fresh honeysuckle clung to the bedclothes.

He closed his eyes and tried to do the same to his other senses as well.

Tomorrow, all would be put to rights.

~o0o~

Ian awoke to morning sunlight spilling through partially drawn draperies, illuminating pink and white satin pillows and gold-striped silk, and wondered which of his many sins had finally caught up with him.