by Ingrid Hahn
She wiggled her toes in her boots. She must have been more chilled than she supposed, for they were beginning to lose feeling.
Jane spoke up, her voice as gentle as her manner. “I don’t see what’s so bad about being a governess, Mama.”
Lady Bennington turned a stern eye to her third daughter. “I accept that we won’t see eye to eye on this matter. You will accept that you will have to take my word as final on the subject. Trust my judgment, my dear ones. You’ll all thank me one day, mark my words.”
But Jane wasn’t ready to relinquish the point. “Isabel is a paid companion. I don’t see what’s so different about—”
“A paid companion is not ideal, but remains entirely respectable. Besides, your Aunt Landon owes us something for that son of hers inheriting your late father’s title, and it’s little enough, what she does. Thank goodness for Grace’s brilliant match.”
Lady Bennington began brushing the skirts of Grace’s dark blue traveling costume as if Grace were still a child. “Good gracious, how rumpled you are. This old fabric…” Her mother sighed. “Well, never mind. Your wedding clothes will arrive soon enough, I daresay, and we’ve spared no expense.”
Spared no expense had been a common enough refrain since the day Grace had been forced to accept Corbeau—if in the debacle she could be said to have accepted him.
In the eyes of the world, the deed was done. In their brief sojourn back to London, the family suddenly had credit with shopkeepers again, all for the simple fact that one way or another, the earl would be paying the bill.
Lord Corbeau and his men were upon them as Lady Bennington was taking lap rugs from the carriage and draping them around her daughters’ shoulders. Before he started delegating, he made the appropriate introductions in his true fashion. That is to say, he was formal and distant.
His manner stung, a feeling she tried to shrug off. He was nothing if not proper, and what harm was there in true propriety?
The servants with him weren’t footmen, but the earl’s own coachman, a white-haired man—his appearance downright refined when contrasted against the coachman who’d driven the ladies to Corbeau Park—and two stable hands, young men little more than overgrown boys, each carrying a box of tools.
The second of them, a ginger who still sported spots on his face, took one look at Jane and turned a color to match his hair. He hurriedly set to studying the damage to the coach as if it were the most fascinating thing he’d ever beheld.
The giggle that emanated from Phoebe made Jane blush a rather painful shade of pink. Jane mouthed silent words at her youngest sister. “Have pity on the poor boy.”
The impropriety on both sides was something best overlooked for now. Grace’s concerns were far more serious than showing disapproval for her sister’s lapse.
Sometimes it seemed Phoebe was younger than her one-and-twenty years, while at other times she behaved as if she were far older. Pray let it be the latter for the remainder of their time at Corbeau Park.
“It’s difficult to see from this vantage”—Lord Corbeau was speaking directly to Lady Bennington and gestured toward the manor—“but there’s one final dip and an immediate steep rise. The coach will need to be repaired here to be taken the rest of the way. Horses have no trouble with the terrain, but I wouldn’t task my men with the job of trying to bring a conveyance over the hill. You understand, of course.”
Lady Bennington smiled as if the inconvenience had already been forgotten. Smiled, though, was something of an understatement. If Grace were given to being more generous at the moment—and she wasn’t—she might more appropriately say her mother beamed at the man. “Of course we understand. Don’t we girls?”
The earl continued. “I apologize for the state of the road. The incessant rain we’ve endured has made the repair untenable, and the last few days the whole house has been preparing for the arrival of the guests. Had I known you would be arriving early, it would have been attended to at once.”
Grace watched him for any sign he might be offended at the sight of the old coach and the threadbare state of his visitors. If he noticed, she caught no indication.
The earl’s coachman rose from surveying the damage. “Won’t be an hour’s work, my lord.” He gave one of the stable hands a direction indicating what was necessary. The boy set to opening the chest of tools to begin the repair.
Lord Corbeau turned to the weather-worn hired coachman waiting on the sides with the slightly nervous expression of one with nothing to do who’d really rather be put to some use. “You, my good man, I’m sure you’ve had a long day. See yourself around to the back. My cook’s name is Larkin. Tell her I’ve said you’re to have a hearty meal and a hot drink. She’ll set you to rights.”
The man transformed before their eyes, straightening and brightening to be distinguished so generously by such an illustrious gentleman as the earl. Surprise melted into a flash of warm gratitude. “Thank ye, m’lord. Thank ye kindly.”
At last, Lord Corbeau turned to them. “If you’ll allow me to escort you the rest of the way, ladies.” He bowed and held out his hand in the direction of the manor.
His gaze landed on Grace. There was an awkward pause. For a wearyingly long interval, it seemed he might offer her his arm. Strictly by rote, she very nearly reached to take it before he’d made the gesture.
But he didn’t.
The shock of being overlooked hit her like a bit of string snapping under too much tension.
Hot irritation quickly superseded shock. She shouldn’t have cared. She didn’t want the engagement, after all.
The earl turned, walking adjacent to Lady Bennington while the rest were left to trail behind.
All that had passed in the storeroom didn’t seem real now. Maybe the entire business had been her own nightmarish invention.
But they’d talked, the two of them, she and the earl. They’d had a moment of—of, well, of a sort of companionability. The earl’s awkwardness had vanished so thoroughly, she could have believed she’d only ever mistaken his stiff manner, but she wasn’t given to flights of fancy. She couldn’t have invented the easy conversation they’d shared. Could she have? Maybe people who lived in a half-imagined world couldn’t see the walls of the place in which they were confined.
Grace stared into the earl’s back. Around them, the snow was already starting to accumulate.
When they reached the sweep gate, the earl waited by the side to see them all through. It was slightly odd, given that the port was big enough for the passage of carriages, but nobody else seemed to notice. Lady Bennington went first, followed closely by her two youngest daughters.
Grace went last.
He faced her, features dark but not foreboding, eyes penetrating but not accusing.
Their gazes met. And held. The other’s backs were turned, leaving the two of them, for all intents and purposes, alone.
It was so brief, she could have imagined it.
But she didn’t.
They shared something—something unnamable. It left Grace warm in a way she’d never before known warmth.
Chapter Four
Corbeau was in trouble. A light dusting of freckles swept over Lady Grace’s nose and cheeks, faded from the winter months, but still visible under careful observation. She probably hated them. Women and men alike were prone to thinking freckles a disfiguring ailment.
If he were peculiar for his liking, so be it. The whole rest of the world could go hang in being blind to the appeal.
As for him, all he could think about was how spring and summer would bring them out again, and how by then he’d be her husband, with a husband’s right to kiss each and every one.
They were gathered in the drawing room to take refreshments, the tea tasting like nothing at all, what with his mind so full of Lady Grace. She was there upon the blue sofa across from him, traveling skirts carefully gathered around her—so close, yet so far apart. So untouchable in every way.
Remembering himself and his
duty, he struggled to dredge up something to say in the silence. The ladies sat politely, studying the room with the overattentiveness of those not entirely at ease in their current situation.
He made himself take a steadying lungful of air and spoke by rote. “I apologize for my sister’s absence. Had she known of your imminent arrival, nothing would have taken her away from the house this morning.”
“Oh, dear. We are indeed such an inconvenience to you, my lord. I do pray you will accept our apologies.” Lady Bennington was a handsome woman who’d aged with considerable grace.
She’d married late—and, though beside the point, rather shockingly—and so was past the years of many mothers whose children were all under thirty and over twenty.
Lady Bennington was regal in her bearing and stately in her comportment. It was as if she had taken the entire burden of the Bennington reputation on her shoulders and attended duty with the utmost seriousness.
The ultimate disgrace of her marriage was a story well known by all, and still much spoken of, though the lady herself showed not the least inclination to be put down by the infamy of her husband’s painful demise.
“I will hear nothing of the sort, ma’am.”
“I regret to tell you that my second daughter, Lady Isabel, wasn’t able to take you up on your kind invitation. Indeed, she’s very necessary to her aunt, you see, having been her companion these past five years at least, and by the time it was decided she should remain behind, there was no time to send a message. I do hope we haven’t caused you any unnecessary trouble, my lord.”
His awareness of Lady Grace was so acute, it was difficult to pay proper attention to her mother. Lady Grace’s every movement, every glance, every gesture pulled at him. They’d been so easy together while they’d been locked in the storeroom. If he had her alone now, what might he say? And what might she?
“No trouble at all, I assure you. Pray make yourself easy upon the matter.” Lord, but he sounded stiff.
Were Hetty present, the social intercourse would be going much more smoothly.
This is why he kept a wide berth from Lady Grace. She deprived him of speech and reason. He was what he was and he made no apologies, but she robbed him of the control he’d learned so painfully and for which he prized himself most highly. She made him a stranger to himself. How could he at once be so occupied with kissing each of her freckles while experiencing a sensation not unlike dread when considering what the years of their marriage would bring?
A sound came from the furniture as the youngest of them, Lady Phoebe, shifted herself. Lady Jane, the third of the four daughters, if memory served, kept her lips tight and continued to study the room. Lady Grace just stared into her tea.
Lady Bennington smiled as if nothing were amiss.
When Lady Jane finished her refreshments, she rose to take a turn about the room. “Oh! Hellebores. Christmas roses. I thought so.” Standing at the mantel where the decoration had been set, she sighed and cradled the delicate blossom. “They’re so lovely, my lord. I must take the opportunity to make a sketch of the arrangement while I’m here. I do so fondly recall them from our Christmases while Father was alive. He always made sure we had them.”
At her sister’s exclamation, a brief flash of pain crossed Lady Grace’s features. And was it his imagination, or had she gone a little pale?
Lady Bennington leaned forward ever so slightly. “My Jane loves nothing so much as occupying herself with her drawings, indeed.” Looking at the young woman, she beamed. “But she does have such talent.”
Eager to shift the subject, he gave a hasty reply. “Of that I have no doubt, my lady.”
Society had never been easy for him, polite or otherwise. This, however, was by far one of the most awkward afternoons of his life.
How he yearned to be near Grace, wanting to know what she was thinking, wanting to see to her every comfort. All the while he was as unsure as ever of what to do with himself in her presence. Dreaming about tumbling her with the same urgency that made him want to keep distance between them was quite the dichotomy.
He was going to have to find a way to overcome himself. He was going to have to find a way to get her alone—and soon.
…
Grace awoke the following morning about an hour before the sun, by her estimation, and stretched long over the soft feather ticking laid over the mattress. The bed ropes must have been new, for they hadn’t given much during the night.
The hour was early. The fires had not been lit, and, kicking away the heavy counterpane, nothing but a shift remained between her overheated skin and the blessedly wintery-cool air.
If only she could free herself of the earl as easily as freeing herself from the bed coverings.
An uncharitable noise rumbled from Grace’s belly.
She sat upright to untie the rags from her hair, feeling her way over the knots in the dark.
Calling for a servant at this hour didn’t seem right. It wasn’t their fault she was hungry at an odd hour. She could well have had more last night if she’d pleased. So, she would manage for herself.
Wearing a dressing gown and thick woolen shawl about her shoulders, she stole through the dark passages of the still and silent house.
The scent found her before the noise did. Instead of discovering the kitchens empty, the cavernous room bustled. An unusually tall woman, lean of face and narrow of shoulder, issued staccato orders to three young girls. The kitchen maids, presumably. They were checking under cloths covering bowls to see how the bread dough was fairing, dressing three kinds of meats with an assortment of chopped herbs, and double-checking the small army of preserve jars laid out on the main table against a list.
One of the maids, a flaxen-haired girl with round eyes and an expressive countenance, gaped at Grace and elbowed her companion to look up from the herbs.
Grace withstood the scrutiny, insides scalding. Oh, yes, what a fine idea, coming down to fend for herself. Fine, indeed. One of her better notions, no doubt, almost as good as descending to the kitchens that day in Lord Maxfeld’s house. It was always so comfortable interrupting the happenings of the parallel world that existed adjacent to her own.
“Agnes Mayberry, stop your daydreaming, girl, we’ve got—” In the middle of scolding, the older woman—the cook, presumably—caught sight of Grace. “If you’re hungry, ma’am, I’ll have a tray sent up straight away.”
“She’s no ma’am, Mrs. Larkin.” The girl didn’t take her eyes off Grace. “That’s her.”
Mrs. Larkin looked Grace up and down. “Begging your pardon, but I seem to be at the disadvantage.”
“I’m Lady Bennington’s eldest daughter, Lady Grace.” And she here with her hair so unforgivably mussed. What an impression she must have been giving.
“Ah.” The cook nodded, but no understanding lit in her features.
The one called Agnes leaned in to whisper the rest of the information. “She’s the one he’s going to marry.”
Grace heated. Of course they must talk. At any given moment, they probably had a more intimately detailed notion of what was going on above stairs than anyone else, including the master. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to intrude upon you.”
She turned and almost collided with a massive bulk that had materialized behind her without a sound. Arms shot out to take her by the shoulders to keep her from stumbling off balance.
Oh, no. First that. Now him?
“Early riser, are you?” Amusement appeared on the earl’s face.
Aware the kitchen staff was scrutinizing their every move, Grace’s throat went dry. It wasn’t him that had any such effect on her. At least, not that she wanted to admit to herself. “Not usually, my lord.”
What sort of picture must she appear with her hair in such a state?
The earl looked past her. “Two cups this morning, I think, Mrs. Larkin.”
“I’ll have them for you in no time a’tall, my lord.”
Grace glanced over her shoulder. The cook
appeared far from perturbed by the interruption of her work. Indeed, the woman was all but outright glowing. Drop her into a dark cave and she might well have been all the light she needed to find her way out again. Grace would wager half a crown it wasn’t the cooking fires that elicited such a display.
So strange. In groups, he was, well, the man she’d thought she’d known. In more intimate settings, he was something quite different. It seemed the earl’s effect on people was to leave a devoted following of admirers in his wake wherever he happened to tread. Why had it taken her so long to notice?
He began leading Grace away.
But they weren’t, as she expected, going back above stairs, but down the plain white corridor to the other side of the house.
He disappeared into the boot room and came back holding a pair. “They’ll be large, but they’re the very smallest to choose from.”
Without thinking, she took what he offered. They were men’s boots. No, not just men’s boots, but laborer’s boots. Rough, worn, and thoroughly creased.
She puzzled at them. “What are these for?”
The earl peered down to the floor. “You’re wearing stockings, aren’t you?”
Instinctively, she curled her toes back from his appraisal.
He looked satisfied. “Yes, good. Excellent.”
Corbeau looked at her in expectation. He himself was dressed simply, in clothing that might give the mistaken impression the man made himself useful with what might be termed utilitarian pursuits. In the dim light, it was impossible to discern whether the fabric was a sort of indeterminate brownish or an indeterminate grayish or some middling compromise between the two.
The careless fall of a lock of wavy hair over his forehead completed the picture incongruous to the man she knew as the steady and staid earl.
Remembering herself, she straightened. She couldn’t be here with him—alone. Again. It would only reinforce the validity of their ridiculous engagement. “I should return to my room.”
“There’s nobody about, my lady.” Was she mistaken, or was that a jovial gleam in his eye? “Besides, you look like a woman starved for the thrill of a little impropriety.”