As You Are (10 page)

Very well reasoned
, Corbin acknowledged. He sighed in frustration. “She doesn’t—”

“Know you exist?” Jason finished for him. “I put that together, that she’s the elusive lady you spoke of before.”

Illusive, yes. But she’d smiled at him. It had been fleeting, but she’d smiled. She’d been in his house, smiling at him, laughing with him.

“You should have asked her to stay,” Jason said.

Corbin nodded. He’d wanted to do just that, but the words would never have come out whole. With his articulate and self-possessed brothers nearby for comparison, he would have made an even worse impression than he no doubt already had.

“You are too passive, Corbin,” Jason said. “You have to stand up. Take charge. Be strong. Tough. No lady is going to have any respect for you if you are walked all over.”

Strong? Tough? Corbin was physically quite strong—the result of years spent in the stables—but that, he knew, wasn’t what Jason meant.

“There is a reason ladies swoon over rogues. They are dominant personalities,” Jason said. “And they fall for soldiers because of the powerful image they put out.”

Corbin wrinkled his forehead, thinking. It was logical.

Jason seemed to warm to his topic. “A lady wishes for a gentleman to be in command. If you always seem weak, she won’t take you seriously.”

In command? Dominant personality?
Corbin knew he was neither of those things. How did a man go about appearing that way? Corbin remembered watching the Corinthian set around Town. Ladies were constantly swooning over that group of gentlemen.

They swaggered. Not so much a limp but a rhythm to their walk. A strut. They always looked as if they’d only just dismounted or come in from a round of fisticuffs or a quick sword fight somewhere. Perhaps mussed hair would be helpful. And a little dirt.

The Corinthians didn’t bother with flashy wardrobes or high shirt points. They looked like sportsmen: rough, powerful, like Jason had said. It was the complete opposite of Philip’s advice, which had turned out horribly.

Corbin shook his head. He could never pull it off. The Corinthians were the men-about-Town. He was Corbin Jonquil: the quiet brother, the unobtrusive one, the Jonquil most people didn’t realize even existed, the one Mater actually cried to see in the same room as a lady.

That last thought was the clincher. He had to do something before he became entirely pathetic. But what?

He stood near the windows for some time, pondering what he might do, short of another drastic transformation, to catch Clara’s eye. She was in his house, after all. When would he have another opportunity like this one?

Harold came and stood beside him at the window. “Mrs. Bentford seems a good sort of lady.”

Corbin nodded.

“I cannot help noticing, however”—Harold’s brows furrowed in a look that had pegged him as a future vicar from the time he was in leading strings—“that you did not speak much to her.”

Corbin raised an eyebrow in vague annoyance.

Harold held up a hand in acknowledgment of the words Corbin left unspoken. “I know you are not generally given to talkativeness. Yet, I feel inclined to offer a word of advice.” Harold was most vicarlike in that moment. Thoughts of Philip and Layton calling him “Holy Harry” throughout their childhood nearly brought a smile to Corbin’s face. “A lady can learn a great deal about a man through his conversation. His words will reveal the substance of his character. If he is a reliable, stable sort of gentleman, his words will reflect a certain sobriety. If, however, he is a flighty sort, his conversation will tend toward the overly jovial. Without some words spoken between you, Mrs. Bentford will have no knowledge of your character.”

Despite the advice coming from his
younger
brother, Corbin felt the words held more than a grain of truth. “You think . . . think I should talk to her?”

Harold nodded ponderously. “Allow her to see who you are through your words.”

He might as well have suggested Corbin get up during services on Sunday and dance a jig before the entire congregation. “I’m not good with words.”

“I am not suggesting you entertain her with a never-ending string of witticisms or pointless stories.” Harold shook his head in a way that put Corbin instantly in mind of the vicar at Lampton Park while they were growing up—a show of amusement, laced with sobriety. “Allow her to see that you are serious and well versed in those things that are most important. Keep your observations serious and grounded.”

Serious and grounded. Conversation was not precisely Corbin’s strength. Yet, the idea held the added bonus of not requiring he completely make himself over. He would simply talk to her on topics of appropriate seriousness. Certainly, he could manage that much.

* * *

Clara sat somewhat distanced from the children, watching them take their tea, which proved nothing more lavish than a platter of finger sandwiches and a glass of milk for each of them. A nursemaid assisted Alice with her meal, leaving Clara nothing to do besides watch and think.

Though she had originally left the sitting room fully intending to flee the house altogether, Clara found she hadn’t the heart to pull the children away. They both seemed to be enjoying their new friend. So she had settled herself in an unobtrusive corner of the nursery to wait.

Why had the dowager seemed emotional? Clara didn’t think she’d done anything to offend the lady. For the briefest of moments, she thought, perhaps, Corbin had said something unflattering to his mother about her. She dismissed the thought almost the moment she had it though. Corbin seemed too much a gentleman to act so shabbily.

As if her thoughts summoned him, Corbin walked into the schoolroom in the very next moment. Clara sat up straighter, determined to appear dignified, even in a schoolroom.

Alice waved at him. He nodded in acknowledgment and took a seat very near Clara.

“Good afternoon.”

It seemed an odd thing to say. They had been in each other’s company not twenty minutes earlier. He spoke as though they were meeting for the first time that day. “And to you,” she returned through her confusion.

He sat silently a moment, brow furrowed as if in deep contemplation. “Things seem to be . . . Matters on the Continent are in quite a muddle. With Napoleon and . . . Wellington.” He pushed out a breath that sounded somewhere between relieved and tense.

“Indeed,” Clara replied. “Warfare is a difficult thing.”
And an odd topic of conversation in a nursery.

Corbin nodded ponderously. His look of concentration remained. The air of strain that hovered about him made her decidedly uncomfortable. She had, in recent days, found herself surprisingly relaxed in his company. He didn’t worry her as much as he once had. But seeing him so tense made her decidedly ill at ease once more.

“The sermon was well delivered on Sunday.”

How had that change of topic come about? Clara could not account for it. Still, she followed the tangent. “We are fortunate in our vicar.”

“Indeed.” His eyes darted about as if searching for something, though Clara couldn’t say what. He abruptly spoke again, his words coming faster than before. “One must wonder if the uprising in the north cities—in the northern cities will recur. I believe Parliament is concerned the, ur, Luddites are not quite finished.”

“I suppose only time will tell,” Clara answered.

Tension pulled at Corbin’s jaw. If he disliked the odd discussion so much, why did he continue it? For a time, it seemed he did not intend to.

They sat side by side in utter silence. Clara’s eyes drifted to the children, though she surreptitiously watched Corbin as well. His brows remained furrowed even as his mouth moved silently. What had come over him? He’d never been talkative, yet he seemed strangely intent on discussing something,
anything
, with her. He’d veered from warfare to sermons to the Luddites with hardly a word of transition. As the minutes passed, he seemed to only grow more tense.

“There is a great deal going on. With . . . with the war.”

“Yes, you mentioned the war already.” How strange he was acting.

His eyes shifted to hers, a look of something very much like panic lingering there. What had brought that on? “Well . . .” His mouth moved silently again. “It is . . . It is important. And should be talked about. A sober-minded gentleman—or lady, certainly—she or he would want to discuss it. Not that I think you don’t want to. Or maybe you don’t.”

He looked very nearly angry. What had happened? Was he angry with her? Frustrated at being forced into conversation? She certainly hadn’t insisted on it.

“I like discussing those kinds of things. Important things.” He wore a somber expression that did not seem to fit him, though he had never seemed frivolous.

“Apparently,” Clara replied.

He grew noticeably uncomfortable and rose abruptly. “I . . . I have some things to see to.”

Clara nodded, as confused as ever.

“Mister!”

They both looked at Alice. She grinned as she took a finger sandwich in each hand and proceeded to press them on either side of her face. Edmund sputtered into his milk. Alice giggled as bits of sandwich fell from her cheeks.

Clara bit her lips together, holding back laughter. It was precisely the sort of ill-mannered behavior she had feared but in the moment did not bring the horrified backlash she had anticipated. Caroline, far from being offended, grinned as she watched Alice repeat her actions.

“See, Mister?” Alice sounded quite pleased with herself. “Funny!” She pressed what little remained of her ill-used sandwiches to her face again, earning full laughs from her table companions and the nursemaid.

Corbin smiled at her as well. He shook his head in obvious amusement. Then his eyes met Clara’s, and the laughter in them faded. He once again assumed the somber expression he’d worn earlier.

“Mister.” Alice tugged on the leg of his pantaloons.

Clara bit back her warning that she be careful not to smear the mess from her hands all over him. The words would have come too late as it was. She shifted to the edge of her seat, ready to intervene should Corbin be upset over his ruined clothing.

“Yes, Alice?” He did not sound overly upset. He did not sound upset at all, in fact.

“I’m funny?” She offered him a sparkling smile.

“Yes,” Corbin said. “You are being very funny today.” Why, then, did he not sound entertained?

Alice patted her cheeks with her hands, this time free of her sandwiches. She dissolved into a fit of giggles. Clara allowed herself to smile. Corbin seemed undecided. The other two children laughed along with Alice.

“Finish your tea, sweetheart,” Corbin quietly instructed.

Alice climbed back up on her little chair, looking quite pleased with her impromptu role as jester.

Corbin glanced back at Clara, uncertainty mixed with sobriety in his face. If not for the slightest hint of vulnerability she saw there, Clara might have been entirely put out with him. As it was, she watched him, trying to sort through the puzzle he presented.

Was he annoyed with them? Wishing the lot of them to Jericho? He had always been patient with the children and, though perhaps a little disapproving of her relatively humble circumstances, had never been unkind. They’d even exchanged a few amused observations earlier that day.

Why, then, had he been so unpersonable since arriving in the nursery? He could not possibly have been less enthusiastic about speaking with her.

“I need to go see to something.” Corbin bowed a little awkwardly and swiftly left the room.

What a confusing man he is.

“Here I come, Alice!”

Corbin recognized Edmund’s voice. He had been riding Elf, trying to add a little natural dishevelment to the look he was attempting to affect. Appearing rough and carelessly powerful had proven harder than he’d anticipated.

After the abysmal failure of Harold’s advice, he’d opted to try Jason’s suggestion instead. He ought to have known any plan involving actually speaking was bound to be a bad idea. Clara had looked at him as though he were entirely out of his mind during his ill-fated trip to the nursery. And no wonder. He’d acted like an idiot, unable to stick to any topic, running out of things to say almost instantly.

Maybe Jason’s advice would work better than Harold’s had.

He dismounted, wrapping Elf’s reins around an obliging branch, and inched forward, peeking through the trees. He’d nearly reached the small clearing that housed Ivy Cottage. Corbin wandered in that direction often.

“Where are you hiding, Alice?” Edmund called out, still amused and lighthearted.

The children were playing hide-and-seek, Corbin realized. He looked around the clearing and spotted Edmund.

“I am going to find you!” the boy called out, laughing as he knelt to look behind a small bush growing near the cottage.

Alice had, apparently, eluded Edmund. Corbin smiled at that. She was a precocious little thing.

Corbin searched the small clearing once more. Clara was nowhere in sight. He felt torn between disappointment and relief. He didn’t feel entirely ready to display his well-rehearsed but still uncomfortable persona.

Corbin tugged a little at the collar of the shirt he wore. Hub from the stables was the closest in size to Corbin, but his clothing was not made of the most comfortable fabrics. And, Corbin had realized, the stable hand’s neck was smaller than his. He’d had to leave the collar unbuttoned, something he would not usually consider doing.

The boots he wore still smelled strongly of the stable. They were his mucking boots, very nearly destroyed after years of working in them.

Corbin adjusted the shapeless hat on his head. It was yet another way he and Hub were not of a size. The blasted thing kept slipping half over his eyes.

He was beginning to doubt this latest attempt to capture Clara’s attention. He probably looked more like a fool than the powerful, in-charge gentleman Jason had insisted he needed to portray.

“Alice?” Edmund’s tone had intensified a little, which caught Corbin’s attention. “Alice?”