To Win a Lady's Heart (The Landon Sisters) (3 page)

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.”

“You’re quite mistaken, I assure you.” Grace gave him another look. If she didn’t know better, she might almost accuse him of being relaxed. Were those words from the same man who turned so stiff and silent around her? “And what makes you so bold as to say such things to me?”

“You think me bold, do you?”

“I think you’ve done enough to my life as it is—”

“I’m not sure that’s fair.”

“—never mind that I’ve had all the impropriety I can stand for one lifetime. I’ve no intention whatsoever of—”

“Please.”

The objection was becoming difficult to sustain. As much as she wanted to stand on principle, she was beginning to feel petty. The earl’s amiability was beginning to show through, and drat if she didn’t want to see more. “I shouldn’t—”

“You should.”

She patted her wayward hair. “I’m not exactly—”

“Never mind that, you’re perfect. And it’s safe enough, trust me. My senior stable hands are away for the week.”

“Stable hands?”

“And in their absence, the horses must still be fed and their stalls cleaned.”

She froze, almost unable to speak for fear of offending him. “You’re not…you’re not…feeding horses, are you?”

“We do pride ourselves here at Corbeau Park for being able to provide such luxuries as hay and grain to our beasts.”

That explained the smell about them. It wasn’t unpleasant, though not particularly indicative of his station.

“Don’t tease me.”

“I happen to believe you require a good bit of teasing, Lady Grace.”

An army of hot needles made a pincushion of her face. Good Lord, it was almost as if the man was attempting to flirt with her—no, not attempting. Not at all. Rather, he was in grave danger of succeeding.

“What about the rest of the stable hands?”

“They have the whole rest of the day to earn their keep and graciously allow me to intrude upon their domain of an early morning.”

“And this, I suppose, is why you want me to put on the boots?” In some strange way, it was all beginning to make sense while at the same time remaining incomprehensible. An earl cleaning his own stables? Who’d ever heard of such a thing? “The trip to the stables, I mean, not the teasing.”

He nodded. “The main areas are clean enough, I assure you, but it snowed rather heavily during the night.”

“You gave your senior stable hands the week off.” She paused, squinting as if she couldn’t possibly have heard correctly. “All of them?”

“They’re brothers. It’s Christmas.” He shrugged as if his conclusion from those facts were the most natural in the world. “Why not?”

Chapter Five

The earl let his senior stable hands have the whole entirety of the week to themselves? The wonder of such an indulgence. It was generous, excessively so, and entirely dear of him to care for those in service here at Corbeau Park, most especially with the additional demands of a very full house.

She and he were standing together just outside the boot room partway down the unlit corridor of the below-stairs passage. Excepting the kitchen staff tucked away in their realm, none of the servants were yet in evidence.

Grace considered him. The shadows cast harshness into the severity of his features. In his expression was a determined quality, as if he were handling a matter of the utmost importance.

Her insides jolted. The matter of the utmost importance could only be…well, her.

Not something she was about to consider at this junction. “So we’re talking again, are we?”

“Is that so odd?”

“Well, you usually don’t.”

“I am now.”

“And then there is the way you look at me. Yesterday, for instance, by the sweep gate…” She looked at him hoping he’d fill in the rest of the pieces.

“The way I look at you?” The dark slashes of his brows cut low. “How do I look at you?”

In a most improper way.

Grace couldn’t put voice to her feelings, so she sidestepped. “It’s just…last night it was all as it has always been. You barely acknowledged my existence.”

His lips pulled tight before he spoke. “I didn’t mean to neglect you. But you’re right. I did. Forgive me.”

“Neglect me? No.” She shook her head. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t want you to think—well, I don’t understand, you see. In the storeroom we seemed to get on pretty well. And then, well, everything went back to the way it’s always been.”

His expression went grave. “I’ve handled a great many things very poorly, which I am only left to regret. But is all hope lost?”

She held up the boots. “Is that what this is about?”

“Well, I must own I didn’t expect to find you loitering outside the kitchens, but the opportunity seemed as good as any to seize.”

Grace worried her lip. “I can’t go with you, my lord. You know I can’t. If anyone finds us together alone in the stables—”

He smiled. “They’ll force us to marry?”

“You can’t possibly want to laugh about the situation.”

“Actually… Yes. I must own that I do. Somewhat, at any rate.”

“Is that so?” Grace bit back a laugh. With the way he smiled, she could hardly help herself. The man was enjoying this.

“That’s the truth of it, I’m afraid.” His mirth died away. “Not that it isn’t serious.”

“Very well.” She sighed, shaking her head with false gravity. What harm would it do to go with him? It wouldn’t be condoning the engagement to do so, surely.

In spite of herself, a thrill of daring went down her spine. She was going to do it. She was going to be alone with him. Again. Stables of an early morning were hardly the place from which scandals bloomed.

And Grace should know.

“You’ve left me no choice. I must come to see you perform manual labor, but I will tell you this in advance: I fully expect to be provided the opportunity to tease you as you’ve teased me. Fair is fair.”

Avoiding the steady weight of his gaze, she attended to the boots, her hand on the cool plaster of the wall for balance as she stepped first into one and then into the other.

It was an odd sort of an intimacy, this. Wraps and gloves, spencers and bonnets—those all came and went without so much as a spare thought.

Shoes were something altogether quite different. Shoes went on feet and feet joined the legs at the ankles.

She met his eye. His gaze dropped and he cleared his throat.

He was thinking about ankles, too. Her ankles.

Just as he’d been putting back the latch, a voice called from the other end of the corridor.

It was the cook, her nondescript skirts in a flurry of determined industry as she hurried toward them, a tin—tin!—cup in each hand.

“Coffee for you, my lord.” Beaming at him, she extended one of the vessels toward Lord Corbeau when she was upon them. The scent of coffee appeared in the air. When he’d taken it, she turned to Grace. “And chocolate for her ladyship.”

Mrs. Larkin in no way beamed at Grace. She was everything a servant of stature should be in such a distinguished house who worked under the employ of an earl—noble of bearing yet deferential. She was so perfectly polite that Grace could only have imagined the split-second flash of challenge in the cook’s eye.

Grace watched the woman retreat full of the curious and all but unfounded feeling that the woman had dared Grace to try to prove she might ever be worthy of his lordship.

Wishing away the sensations within her, she stared down into the steaming surface. She hadn’t lifted the drink to her lips, but already the fragrance of the luscious indulgence made her want to twirl in a fit of girlish delight.

“You’re thinking you’d much rather be taking a pot of chocolate in the comfort of your own bed rather than here in a servants’ corridor wearing old boots and nightclothes, aren’t you?”

“I most certainly am not, and don’t you dare say such things.”

If she didn’t know better, she might think the earl was biting back laughter. He pushed open the door to reveal a world drawn in nothing but a monochrome of night blacks and dawn grays. The gauzy scent of snow was heavy in the air, and it was colder than expected, though not intolerable for a short period. The sky wasn’t clear, but no flakes fell.

Before she knew what was happening, he tossed his great coat around her shoulders. The masculine smell of him clung to the material.

“Shall we, my lady?”

Grace hung back, caught in the unfamiliar sensation of uncertainty. Perhaps this was too much after all.

The earl was gentle, speaking with effortless assurance. “There won’t be anyone up for hours. We’ll be quite safe from prying eyes, I assure you.”

“I don’t know if that makes what we’re doing more wicked or less.”

By way of an answer, he flashed a devilish grin that made her heart rise with hope.

…

They crunched across the snow, using the footprints he’d left before, mindful of the drinks they carried as they went.

Fate had handed him a gift. Corbeau couldn’t have more perfectly planned their chance meeting in the kitchen than had he written the encounter as a play and worked meticulously through the scene with actors.

It was hard not to smile at the turmoil of what he imagined were supposed to be curls in her hair. Growing up with a sister had told him that ladies held their toilette very seriously. He held his tongue. It would not do to tease her about that.

In the stables, he rekindled the lantern and hung it from the nail on a pole in the center walkway of the long space—horse, straw, hay, and wood mingled in the biting air. He’d already mucked out the stalls, and had only returned to the house because he’d craved coffee. All that was left was to feed the creatures.

Grace held her tin cup with both hands. She’d yet to take a single sip.

Not trusting himself, he didn’t look at her as he spoke. “The chocolate is better while it’s hot.”

“I know, I—” Grace gave the drink the sort of look that could well provoke a man to envy. “It’s just so—so wonderful inhaling it.”

That she could derive such pleasure from a simple thing made the interior of Corbeau’s chest contract as he forked hay down from the loft. A shower of detritus scattered. The idea of Grace going without what she loved made him want to…well, it wasn’t right. She was the sort of woman who ought to be lavished with attention. She wasn’t the sort who could be spoiled, which made the attempt all the more enjoyable. A man should have been doing his part for her long ago.

Not just any man.

Him.

If she’d accepted his interest all those years ago…no, he wasn’t going to think about the past.

“Should I be helping in some way?”

“I’ll manage.”

“Then why did you bring me out here?”

He heaved down another forkful of hay. “So we could talk.”

“Oh.”

A silence lingered between them that the rustling of hungry horses eager for their morning feed made all the longer and more discomfiting.

“Well, then.” A hint of strain carried from her voice, as if she were trying to dream up what she possibly might say and felt utterly self-conscious making the attempt. “Why are you doing this?”

She wasn’t asking about why he’d brought her here to talk.

He leaned on his fork. “I do it because it’s comforting. I used to come here as a small boy to escape my tutor and help the stable hands. I was convinced I’d be one of them when the eternity of my childhood at last ended and I could be such a grown-up man as, oh, fifteen or sixteen.” A smile softened his features. “I was certain that if I worked hard, I might even rise so high as to be head groom one day. My father stopped trying to explain the errors of my plan and left it to the passage of time to clarify what it was exactly I’d been born to.”

Corbeau stopped to stroke the long nose of a spirited chestnut stallion with a white stripe running the length of his face. “I’ve always loved the smell of horses, the smell of hay, and the gratification that comes with putting your back into work—the feeling of having been physical.” He inhaled deeply. “My father thought I should have become a pugilist to channel what it is that makes me want to come here, but fighting wasn’t for me. I prefer quiet. And the company of the animals.”

She said nothing.

“Additionally, as I’ve grown older, I’ve realized the most dangerous thing I can do is hand over the entire running of my land to proxies. My place isn’t to lord above people and be served, but to work beside them to ensure the greater good of all. Otherwise, I have broken the trust inherent in my title.”

In the soft quiet of intimacy that followed his explanation, Grace wandered partway down the center row of stalls. She stopped at one at the end and stared. “You have a goat tied here.”

A ribald bleat followed her observation.

Corbeau barely glanced up. Grace was sensible. She’d keep a good distance from an intact male animal. “That’s Sebastian.”

“Oughtn’t he to be in the barn?”

“He has to be minded at all times because he eats everything.”

“Don’t most goats?”

“Sebastian puts his brethren to shame.”

“I see. Well, that explains why the rope has been gnawed.”

“What?” He leaned the fork against a structural support beam and, taking the lantern, joined her at the far end.

Sure enough, the damned beast had chewed most of the way through the rope that tethered him in the stall. Much longer and he’d have freed himself.

Corbeau cut a new length and retied Sebastian’s restraint. They’d have to devise a new way of keeping the ropes out of reach of the goat’s mouth, but he’d worry about that later.

He was about to resume his original task when the gray cat that slept atop the bales of straw hopped down from the upper beams, ignored him, and, tail high, headed straight for Grace with a purposeful trot, his sleek fur gleaming in the lantern light.

She set her cup down on a ledge—her empty cup, he was gratified to note—and bent to offer her hand. “Hello, there. She doesn’t appear to have missed many mice, does she?”

“No, indeed.”

“What’s her name?”

“It’s a tomcat and he doesn’t have one. He’s gelded, of course, to keep his mind on his work here rather than overpopulating the park with his offspring.”

“The goat has been named, but the cat has not?” Her brows crossed. “That doesn’t seem right.”

“It’s easier to curse things when you can call them out by name.”

The feline was purring so loudly under Grace’s generous ministrations, the sound almost echoed. Cats, like chocolate, were nothing of which a man should be jealous. Even when the man was him and the woman was Grace.

A flash of inspiration made his chest so tight he almost couldn’t manage to get the words out. “You could, er, that is, if you wished”—he cleared his throat—“name him.”

Instantly he felt the battering wrongness of what he’d suggested. It was too much, too soon. Naming the cat would put her mark on the place in a way she wasn’t ready to accept.

Her smile vanished and she rose to pull the shawl more tightly around her shoulders, head bowed, not meeting his eye. Then her lashes flicked upward and her eyes flashed that steely glint—that show of strength that rendered him helpless before her. “My lord, I think you’d better tell me what it is you’re about. You didn’t bring me out here to talk only to avoid any serious topics.”

The cat sat directly at the comically large boots of her feet, head craned back, and voiced his displeasure at the loss of her attention.

She drew herself up as if she were gathering uncertain reserves of courage. “On second thought, perhaps I should speak first. I had something I wanted to put to you.”

The seriousness of her tone caught his attention. “By all means.”

The stables weren’t chilled, but Lady Grace wrapped her arms around herself as if the outside were blustering in. “I want to end the engagement.”