by Ingrid Hahn
“How do you envision this? Am I to press suspicious questions upon every male of age within a ten mile vicinity?”
“Are you giving up even before you’ve made the attempt?”
“You can’t be serious. Grace…” He paced away, running fingers through his hair. “This isn’t how the world works.”
Her face turned to stone. “My lord, that, I think, is entirely beside the point. The world works by our hands and ours alone. There is no hope for betterment if we don’t fight to create something better.”
Chapter Ten
After her little speech to the earl, Grace, without having selected anything to read in the Corbeau library, found a maid and issued instructions for a compress to be sent up to her room. The idealism she’d spouted at the earl left her mind spinning. And, somehow, unsettled.
No sooner had she tucked into bed with the cool cloth over her brow than she was asleep.
An hour later she woke, cursing herself for the ninny she was. Of course she’d unsettled herself. How could she not? Everything she felt on the subject pointed to the unfortunate truth she’d been struggling with for weeks: the only thing she would bring to a marriage would be the stain and dishonor of her father’s nefarious misdeeds.
She had to talk to Corbeau. He seemed not to understand. Well. She’d just have to make him understand.
The maid came to dress her for dinner. The meal was near interminable. Lady Rushworth had a particular knack for eyeing the diners as if tallying sins. Grace felt her ladyship’s gaze wandering in her direction again and again, as if tonight she found Grace’s manners unforgivably lacking.
She wouldn’t have believed it beforehand, but the wait for the gentlemen to join the ladies in the drawing room afterward proved far more brutal. Her mother hadn’t joined them this evening, reputedly not feeling well.
The soft candlelight set the silks of the room aglow. Grace sat apart from the others, lengthy imagined conversations with Corbeau spinning through her mind, each more heated, more frustrating than the last. And all ending with a quick dissolution of the engagement—which she absolutely wanted, of course.
Instead of triumphant and free, however, the imaginings only entrenched her in her unsettled feelings, if such a disparate thing were even possible.
Unsettled? No, that wasn’t the right word. It was bereft. An odd sort of panicked emptiness. But what was supposed to fit in the hollow space caged in her ribs?
The earl was a good man. A very good man, who would make a good and steady husband.
If her father hadn’t gambled everything away and left the family in utter ruin before his death, things could have been different. When so long ago Corbeau had come to her, his heart in his hands, asking in that earnest and straightforward way of his if he might court her, she might have said yes. The trajectory of both their lives might have been utterly different.
So what was she doing trying to escape the engagement? But accepting—no relenting—under such circumstances as this, a forced engagement, of all things, well… To marry under such terms…to marry him knowing her scandal would tarnish a man like the earl. It seemed so unforgivably coldhearted.
“Grace?”
Softening her features, Grace focused on Hetty, who took the seat beside her. “Yes?”
“What is it? You’ve been troubled all evening.”
Grace could hardly own what she felt to the sister of the man to whom she was, for better or worse, currently bound. A bittersweet sorrow tinged her heart. In the past, Hetty had always been the one to whom she could unburden her thoughts, even the most weighty.
Phoebe and Jane called them to come make a third and fourth for a game of cards.
Grace shook her head. “I’m of no mind for cards tonight, I’m afraid.”
Hetty rose. Her color was high, her expression tender. “Please reconsider. It would do you a world of good. We can talk about this later. Besides, you’re in need of a distraction, I shouldn’t wonder, and the more frivolous, the better.”
“My head is too much a muddle. I’d only upset everyone with my poor plays.”
“If you lost all your fish to others, they could hardly be upset with you if the aftermath meant hoarding their spoils.”
“But what meaning does winning have if there is no challenge in the getting of the prize?”
“Perhaps you’re right, you should be left alone tonight. Time for one’s self is important upon occasion.” Hetty nodded, her face warm with compassion. “Don’t tax yourself overmuch with such thoughts, though.”
Hetty approached Eliza with the hope of finding a more willing—and rational, was Grace’s editorial thought on the matter while observing—fourth than Grace.
At last the gentlemen began to come through.
Before she could consider too carefully about what she was about to do, Grace took herself into the direct path of Corbeau. His whole form visibly tensed as she drew near. How could he be so at ease when they were alone—almost jovial at times—but so serious and so on guard when in the presence of others?
“I thought we might talk, my lord.” She offered what she hoped was a disarming smile. Given the strain in her own body from the last hours’ mental distress, she could well have looked quite deranged.
He, however, looked as he always did. Tall. And well featured. And with rather more masculine allure than he’d any right to while in mixed company.
All she had to do was accept the engagement.
It seemed so easy.
The man who could have been hers stood silently before her, waiting for her to speak.
If only she could marry him.
No. There was no hope for the engagement. There was no hope for them. She wouldn’t let herself believe otherwise. If she deceived herself…if she told herself she was trapped and had no choice but to agree… It wouldn’t be fair to Corbeau.
She tried to smile again, this time with little doubt of failing hopelessly. “On second thought, I’m not sure it matters.”
When he slipped her arm into his, a delicious warmth spread through her veins. Odd how right it felt to be close to him, to be close enough to discern the light scent of the starch of his clothing in the air.
He began leading her in a slow turn to the cooler side of the room. “Is this about this afternoon?”
“I thought I wanted to discuss it, but I find I don’t.”
A sidelong glance revealed the way his expression had darkened. “If you have something to say, my lady, I expect you to say it. I won’t be provoked into being made to guess at what it is you might want.”
“Guess at what I might want?” She stopped abruptly to face him, shoulders square, her stare boring into his, her voice low. “My lord, that’s a game I would not play.”
He softened. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to suggest you might trifle with me.”
“I think I should—” She stepped back from him, an impression of loss rippling through her when she put distance between them.
The earl would never be improper with her. All his notions of honor and all.
Which was a pity, because she mightn’t mind terribly if he showed her a glimpse into wickedness.
Taking her out in her nightclothes while he fed the horses didn’t count. It was impetuous, but certainly not wicked. What was salacious if not the very soul of wicked? And those things he’d said to her in the storeroom, those things about kissing…
If she had the chance to kiss him, to really kiss him, she’d throw herself on the opportunity.
Well, she wouldn’t think of them ever again because he’d never act on them. They were as good as forgotten. It was a result of a moment’s fancy. But they weren’t real.
The sooner she was away from this man, the sooner she would have hope of regaining hold on her senses. “I think I should join my sisters.”
Cards had been abandoned in favor of gathering in sets to dance while Lady Eliza sat at the instrument playing lively reels.
“You want to
know why I told you what I told you.”
Her breath caught in her lungs. Yes. That was it exactly. She hadn’t put it in so many words herself, yet he’d spoken perfectly.
She raised her chin. “I thought you weren’t going to be guessing at what my wants might be.”
“No, you weren’t going to be silent when you should speak and hope I guess correctly at what it is you want.” The depths of his eyes sparkled with challenge. “And now, my lady, now is the time you should speak.”
Grace needed no further encouragement. They were in company, yes, but were at the far side of the room. The music and laughter would drown out any chance of being overheard. “You don’t understand what it’s like to live under the perpetual shadow of such a scandal as my father left in his wake—being utterly unable to do anything or go anywhere without heads turning and people whispering.”
“You shouldn’t care what such fools think of you.”
“No? And what about my sisters? Their chances of making good matches ruined forever unless they break all connections and assume another name. Nobody should have to live like that. I hate it. For myself I might be able to stand it, but for them…” A familiar old ache welled in her chest. Grace shook her head.
“I think it still bothers you, too, my lady, does it not?”
She let out a breath. Admitting how much she was still bothered by their circumstances was difficult. “It’s difficult to speak of. I shouldn’t wish you to believe that I pity myself.”
“That I should never believe. Not of you, my lady.”
“It’s painful to be turned away by your friends.” There. She’d said it. “It’s painful to have doors slammed in your face. Those days are largely gone, of course, but only because we keep a relatively quiet life. But there is still talk. Still whispers. Still hateful scorn in the faces of others when new people realize who we are and the infamy into which our father sunk before his death. We’ll never be free of it. And what’s done is done. The best we can hope is not to bring others down with us.”
“You don’t think me capable of judging for myself what I would find tolerable and what I would not?”
“I believe you’re every inch a gentleman, my lord, ruled by honor.”
“What should I be ruled by according to your measure, my lady?”
“My measure is not important. I have no wish to change you, my lord. Indeed, you are all that you should be, I daresay.”
“You don’t need to protect me, you know.”
Every last fiber within Grace wanted to believe him. But she couldn’t. She didn’t dare. Oh, she didn’t doubt he spoke the truth. “Perhaps not. But I don’t think you’re seeing the full picture.”
“Enlighten me.”
“It wouldn’t be only you harmed by the association. What if…” What if they had children? Her throat closed, snuffing out the words as surely as they’d never existed at all. Blast it all, why did this have to be so difficult?
“You’re thinking of my sister?”
As much as she hated untruths, she nodded, relieved to have avoided delving too far in her original direction. She didn’t trust herself to speak. There could have been tears. The thought of what she was giving up by never being able to marry—all she had in hand now for the asking by the whim of fate—and all she couldn’t keep.
Of course she wouldn’t dream of harming Hetty’s prospects. Not for the world.
But there was a special agony in thinking she might bring an innocent life into the world, a life that might have to suffer for his or her grandfather’s mistakes.
As if sensing she needed a moment to recover herself, he remained silent.
“Imagine our situations reversed—what then? Imagine you have almost no options for earning a living, imagine relatives disdain you and strangers sneer. Imagine that anyone marrying you would sink irrevocably by nothing more than the association. Can you tell me you would want to inflict that upon…?” Oh, hell, she might as well own her feelings. “Upon someone you esteem? Upon someone you…care for?”
He said nothing.
Finally, she reached out to touch his arm. “Promise me you’ll think on what I said.”
Corbeau said nothing. His eyes remained hard, his unwavering gaze stayed fixed. He parted his lips and drew in a long breath.
She braced herself for his abject refusal to consider anything she’d said.
But she’d underestimated the man. Apparently, he wasn’t quite so unmovable as she’d originally believed.
“I promise.”
A blade cut through the center of Grace’s heart. The look on his face as he’d issued his assurance to her had left no question as to exactly what it cost him to say those words.
Chapter Eleven
Of course he didn’t want to push her. But there was a measure of reassurance in what she’d said to him, if for little more reason than she’d trusted him enough to confide. Was it enough that he might hope he was moving any closer to winning her?
Knowing how she and her family were treated was a devil of a tricky problem. It wasn’t as if he could charge into all the ballrooms of Mayfair and demand at knifepoint that the Landons be accepted. Not being able to do anything left a gaping hole in the middle of his chest.
Corbeau was not used to being ineffectual. It was hellishly uncomfortable—worse than having shackles locked about his ankles. At least shackles would be a tangible item for him to struggle against.
He studied her troubled face. It wasn’t enough to tell her he didn’t care about the past—or anyone in the future who might judge her for what couldn’t be helped. This was her struggle, one she had to overcome before she could be his.
He would have to help her.
Somehow.
Following the direction of her gaze, he found himself looking upon the row of his younger guests happily engaged in a buoyant reel. “Do you wish to dance?” It looked only slightly more favorable than wading through pig muck, but such things didn’t matter where Grace was concerned.
“Thank you, my lord, but no.” She tried to smile.
“Are you regretting telling me so much?”
She thought a moment. “No, actually. I think you ought to understand the groundings for my objections to this marriage. Marrying you would solve a good number of my problems—but at what price?”
“Marriages have started on shakier grounds than a little scandal, my lady.”
“Nothing is a little scandal where the late Lord Bennington’s daughters are concerned, but that isn’t the point. The point is that I couldn’t live with myself.”
He took a breath. “I thought about what you said.”
She turned to him in surprise. “Already?”
“I meant about the maid’s predicament.”
“I don’t think…” She pressed her lips together, brows crossing, and took a pause, seemingly gathering her thoughts. “I think it would be better were we to speak no more on the matter, my lord.”
“I want you to know you would be my full partner in life. I can’t abide the idea of any woman being in a marriage where she might be stifled by the likes of a priggish husband. Least of all you.”
She leveled him with a hard look, all but sending him tumbling backward. “I thank you for such sentiment, my lord. But you’ve peripherally involved me in something to which I have no claim. I’m not your wife, so I’ve no right to offer an opinion in the matter of how you choose to deal with such things. But that leaves me with only a question about what I would be allowed were I to become your wife.”
“I want to make something perfectly clear right now.” It was becoming difficult to keep his voice schooled at an appropriate level. The room was expansive and they were well apart from the others, but living here since birth was more than enough to teach him how well sound could carry through the space. “There will be no further discussion of what is or is not allowed. I’m not going to be making demands of you.”
“Aren’t you?”
“
Am I?” He held her gaze, silently daring her to continue down that line of thought. He kept his mind focused on what she’d meant about the forced engagement instead of whatever might be entailed with the husbandly demands, which was certainly where his imaginings would strongly prefer to dwell. She was lovely and strong and he’d yearned for her from afar for so long only to discover being close to her roused his basest appetites all the more fiercely.
She took a breath. “When all is said and done—”
“When all is said and done, you’ll have as much say in this matter as in anything else.”
She glanced away, saying nothing.
There was one beat of silence too many.
He cleared his throat. It needed to be said so he would say it. “You’re as sensible a person as I—more than me, perhaps. You are not to be under my or anyone’s, well, let’s say jurisdiction, for lack of a better word. I will make no demands of you. I abhor the very notion that a husband ought to control his wife. If she’s in such dire need of control, per se, she should have been better brought up, and she certainly wouldn’t be an eligible candidate for marriage, not to any man, however foolish he might be.”
“And yet—” She gave him a deceptively languid look, the sort a sly cat might give when sparring with the vermin she plotted to make a meal. Which left him as the vermin in this analogy. Not the most comforting of thoughts. “It is you who has the power to decide such things. I am left only to accept. What power is that?”
“You have the power to demand what is right.”
“That’s what I thought I was doing earlier.”
It was becoming difficult to avoid staring at her lips—the arched bow, so perfectly matched to her arched words. Such a delicate shade, so soft. They were made for a man’s mouth to fall upon, to press against, to touch and to taste and to discover again and again all the best things about being alive.
“Where in any of this is the necessity that I agree with you?”
She pursed her lips, no help at all in his fight to keep his thoughts away from the carnal.
Corbeau sighed. “I’m afraid I’ve made a rather horrendous mistake in turning all of this into something so very serious.” He’d vowed to win her and had taken a gamble, only to find he’d made a critical error.