My Lady, My Lord (11 page)

“Is that so?”

“Don’t use that patronizing tone with me.”

“If you’re trying to win my cooperation, handing me orders will not accomplish it.”

“Tonight at a private supper I am to speak with a gentleman with whom I wish to do business. I seek to purchase a property he owns, but he is reluctant to sell it to me. I must convince him otherwise.”

“What property?”

Corinna released the words upon a rush: “A publishing company.”

He did not immediately reply. “You wish me to engage in this negotiation for you?”

She nodded.

He frowned and shook his head. “No. Ask your father to do it. Or, rather, I’ll ask him.”

“He arranged the appointment for me. I am to speak with Lord Pelley at Lady Fairchild’s musicale this evening.”

“This just gets worse and worse.”

“Ian, this is serious.” Her horse sidestepped. She gripped the reins and spoke low and quickly. “I will not have this opportunity again. Lord Pelley has said as much. I cannot postpone this conversation.”

“Corinna, I cannot help you with this.”

“You
must
.”

His jaw hardened, but perhaps that was a trick of light caused by his bonnet.

“Don’t you see,” she insisted, “this could be precisely what she wants of us, to prove that neither of us is so hardheaded as it seems.”

“Why this publishing company? Why not wait for another?”

“Pelley’s is the best. It publishes only texts of exceptional literary quality that also have popular appeal, like Lord Sheffield’s diaries of his travels through the East Indies. It also reproduces prints of ancient manuscripts. And publishers offer their companies for sale very rarely. Most remain within a family forever.”

“Why not establish a company of your own?”

“It would take too long to succeed at any level, and I would be hampered by dint of my sex, of course. Pelley’s ready-made network of connections with authors and scholars would ensure my success.” She gripped the reins tighter. “Ian, I have given this a great deal of thought and effort. Please. You must help me.”

He studied her face. Slowly, he nodded. Her shoulders dropped in relief.

Astonishingly, his lips curved up at one edge. “And what of your hardheadedness? How do you propose to disprove that?”

She looked him in the eye. “I will win back your horse.”

“N
O, CORINNA
.”

“Yes, Ian.” She darted a glance past him. “Your mother is approaching.”

“No. Do you even play cards?”

“Occasionally. What does Mr. Sparks play?”

“Young men and foolish women, as often as they fall into his clutches.”

“She is nearly upon us. I will speak with you about this tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“At the musicale. My father will escort you there.” She raised her voice. “Hello, Mother. How was your perambulation of the sheep and goat pens?”

Unease ran through Ian, alongside entrenched consternation and expanding anger. Only Corinna could do this to him, rouse his ire, frustration, and astonishment all at once. Now, of course, he knew she could rouse much more in him as well. It was a good thing she wasn’t currently in a woman’s body, nor he in his own. Otherwise he’d be hard pressed not to teach her a lesson on the dangers of bestirring a man’s baser passions.

He dragged his mind away from the unprofitable notion and tried to school his features into a semblance of maidenly propriety. His memory conjured Corinna’s maidenly eyes in the glow of lamplight, hazy with desire, her hot maidenly tongue tangling with his...

He struggled for sanity.

“You two seem to have plenty to say to each other,” his mother commented with a smile. “I’m so happy to see this finally.”

Corinna didn’t respond. If he’d worn his own skin, Ian would have told his mother to mind her own business. Graciously, of course, but firmly. A grown man did not countenance his mother commenting on his behavior with women, longstanding family friends or not.

“My lady, it has been great a pleasure visiting the farm with you,” he said to his mother, investing his voice with a touch of regret, “but I must return home.” To read, blast it. If Corinna had wanted this company for so long, she must have books in her vast library on publishing companies, or other information that could help him prepare. Ian knew nothing about the publishing business, but he hadn’t grown one of the most successful thoroughbred stables in England from a single pair of horses without learning a considerable amount about negotiation. And he had mere hours.

He wanted his life back, and his body that could take a woman when he wished simply because he wished it. He would do anything to achieve that.

Good Lord, a musicale. The situation could not possibly worsen.

~o0o~

The soprano shrieked like a macaw, the violin like a barn owl, and the tenor like a
castrato
with the croup. Ian endeavored to shut out the distraction, a skill he had perfected at the tables, and perused the gathered guests, alighting upon his quarry. The Earl of Pelley’s narrow face pinched into a scowl. He seemed no more impressed with the dreadful performances than Ian.

There the similarity between them ended. Three hours of focused preparation had done nothing to allay Ian’s concerns over the impending interview.

Publishing
. Why didn’t the damn blast bluestocking want to purchase a haberdashery or even a mine, for God’s sake? Ian’s lace collar tugged at his neck. He itched to tear off the schoolmistress gown and the body beneath it.

Only a few of the sillier women present tittered behind their palms upon seeing him tonight. Corinna’s impressive right cuff had apparently forestalled the worst of it.
Lord
Abernathy might have chosen his lady more carefully,
one gossip columnist scoffed,
had he intended us to
believe
his Banbury tale
.
Lady Corinna Mowbray as any man’s
affaire de coeur
? Preposterous.

Corinna stood across the chamber, appearing remarkably at ease—like Ian might, although not in these surroundings. The last time he’d set foot in the dowager baroness Fairchild’s home he’d been twenty-two, thoroughly foxed, and full of his own consequence. He’d started a game of piquet in her parlor and within an hour carried away a thousand guineas. Since then, the stickler-for-propriety had never ceased sending the Earl of Chance invitations. If he were a man to care about such things, he would despair of the English aristocracy.

The moment the program ended and the applause faded, Lady Fairchild approached Corinna. She bowed. The dowager baroness effused, her delighted tones reaching all the way to Ian’s ears. He cringed. He abhorred such gatherings for precisely this reason. Corinna attended mildly to the dowager’s gushing, maintaining an air of confident ease.

By God, she aped him well. How that could be, Ian had no idea. They’d seen little of each other for years. She hadn’t been in the country for her mother’s burial, unable to return quickly enough from her travels abroad. Five years before that, of course, she attended his father’s funeral, but she was just out in society then, her parents hopeful of finding her a husband.

That blasted funeral where he’d drunk far too much, and that blasted woman who couldn’t keep her mouth shut with a man far too deep in his cups.

He’d always credited that infernal tongue with her continued unmarried state, as well as the ice in her veins. But he hadn’t noted any evidence of cold blood when he kissed her.

His collar cinched. He didn’t give a damn who or why Corinna did or did not marry.

Lord Pelley accepted another glass of claret from a footman. Ian started across the room toward him.

“Good evening, my lord,” he said. Damn and blast he should curtsy. When hell froze over. He ducked his head. Corinna’s gaze felt like heat on the back of his neck.

“Lady Corinna, your father tells me you have not yet dispensed with this foolish notion of heading a publishing company.”

Ian looked past the man’s sneering lip to his black eyes and quite abruptly he had the urge to break Pelley’s beak of a nose with his fist. His own fist, not Corinna’s slender hand.

“Yes, my lord,” he plunged in. “I’ve spent several years researching the field and coming to terms with its challenges. I believe I am as well suited a buyer as any you could find.”

“Several years is a pittance compared to the decades I have worked cultivating editors and authors, not to mention book sellers,” Pelley said with patronizing hauteur.

“But you must have begun somewhere. Your education in the business did not spring whole from your knowledge of books like Athena from the head of Zeus.”

He lifted a thick gray brow. “Of course not. But I had the superior advantage of a man’s intelligence to assist me.”

Dear God, did men actually sound like this? They even addressed
Corinna
in this manner, the only salon hostess in both London and Paris under the age of fifty and by all accounts damn good at it? Ian had no interest in knowing precisely what went on at such gatherings. For years he’d made it a point of honor to avoid all conversation about Corinna—with anyone. But he couldn’t prevent occasionally hearing of her successful salon.

“My lord, while I may be less well endowed with that quality of mind that men depend upon in pursuing the grander faculties of politics and sport, I am well conversant in the realms of literature and art. More so than many gentlemen of my acquaintance, indeed.” Ian knew this personally. “Your company’s emphasis on producing works of only the greatest literary quality and artistic merit well suits my particular expertise.”

Pelley’s brow creased, but Ian had his attention. Now Pelley seemed to be listening.

“Additionally,” Ian continued, “my salons offer me the opportunity to become acquainted with the finest minds and talents in society, and to come to enjoy a certain state of intimate dialogue with them. Why, the other evening, His Grace the Duke of Wellington confided to me that he is considering writing a memoire,” he fabricated. “And I’ve just had a letter from Thomas Moore, from exile, of course, the poor man, but so talented. He’s taking dictation from Lord Byron on his life story.”

“But surely Murray would publish Byron’s autobiography. He’s published everything else Byron has written.”

“Oh, well.” Ian lowered his voice as though sharing a secret. “Mr. Moore and Lord Byron seem to believe Mr. Murray disapproves of the project.”

Pelley studied Ian carefully. Ian knew the look of a man who, having believed his mind to be secure upon a matter, discovered himself mistaken. He’d taken advantage of that moment many times at the gaming tables and the track. The thrill of tipping a man over the edge of that narrow precipice never diminished.

“My lord.” He dipped Corinna’s rich voice to its throatiest. “I am able to make Pelley Publishing what you always dreamed it might be. And I will make it profitable for you. If you agree to sell to me now, I will meet your asking price and offer you fifteen percent of the net profit for five years.” He paused before adding more casually, “Mr. Moore indicates that he hopes to complete Lord Byron’s manuscript within the next twelve-month, by the by.”

Pelley’s eyes gleamed. Corinna would probably hang him for it, but Ian knew the way to a man’s heart better than any bluestocking ever could. Stiff-necked Pelley might not frequent the gaming clubs Ian did, but he had the look of a gambler in his black eyes. And at the moment he imagined he held a full hand. He was ready to raise the stakes.

“Lady Corinna,” Pelley said, attempting to mask his growing excitement, “you have my interest.”

“I am gratified, my lord.”

“But not my acquiescence yet.”

“Perhaps you would like some time to consider my offer.”

Pelley’s lips curved downward. “I will contact you in several days.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“At that time I will ask you to provide me with a list of fifteen titles of classical works that you would publish immediately if you owned my company, and to explain your choices.”

Ian’s satisfaction cooled. “Do you intend this as a test of my abilities, my lord?”

“Only to determine whether you are capable of maintaining the level of integrity for which my family’s house has been known for a century. Lords Byron and Wellington may be currently
au fait,
but Cicero and Herodotus have stood the test of time, haven’t they?”

Condescension again. He believed Corinna would be intimidated by those ancient names. He clearly didn’t know her well.

“I daresay,” Ian replied, and because he was a man who appreciated a lark upon occasion, he curtsied. “I look forward to speaking with you again soon.” He moved away.

Giles Fitzhugh intercepted him.

“Good evening, my lady.”

“My lord.” Ian’s gaze scanned the room. He didn’t see himself anywhere. Where had the woman gone?

“Your hand is empty, Lady Corinna. May I procure a drink for you?”

Brandy. “That would be fine.” The entire bottle. “Thank you, my lord.”

Fitzhugh grasped Ian’s elbow lightly and guided him to the refreshment table. “I am surprised Lord Pelley didn’t think to offer you refreshment.”

Ian disbelieved the note of jealousy in Fitzhugh’s voice. Pelley was old enough to be Corinna’s father.
Grandfather
. He grasped a stem of orangeat and struggled not to gag from the aroma. He cast a glance about. Corinna stood by the door. Her anxious gaze darted to him, then away swiftly. At least she wasn’t fool enough to stare.

But of course, Corinna Mowbray was no fool at all. Only opinionated, determined, and, as he had recently confirmed, dangerously naïve. At the museum, he had not kissed her to convince himself he was once again a man. He kissed her because he needed her to know he could and would if he wished.

And because he’d wanted to for years.

Apparently, Fitzhugh shared that desire. He studied Ian with obvious appreciation.

“I’m glad to see you here tonight, my lady. I should have assumed it. You are too even tempered to allow foolish gossip to disturb you.”

Abernathy again. But it clearly didn’t bother Fitzhugh.

“Did you enjoy the concert, my lord?” How could he escape? He didn’t particularly care whether Corinna had the satisfaction of hearing about his interview with Pelley tonight. He wanted a glass of brandy, a comfortable chair, and a well-endowed blonde atop his lap. The first two must suffice, but he saw no reason to delay indulging in them now.

“The performances did not entirely live up to my expectations, I’m afraid,” Fitzhugh replied.

“Nor anyone’s, I’ll merit. An insult to the room’s excellent acoustics, really.”

The viscount chuckled. “That is what I adore most about you, Cora, your candid appraisal of society’s foibles, always delivered so graciously as though it were all a colorful work of art or complex text that you ceaselessly analyze, critiquing yet appreciating for its value nonetheless.”

Cora?

Adore?

Ian could not find his tongue. He must have expended too many words on Pelley already. By this time most evenings he’d barely dressed to leave the house. When he finally did, his nighttime activities rarely required him to converse at great length. He could not possibly be speechless because of Fitzhugh’s praise.

“I am too free in expressing my admiration, I see,” Fitzhugh said quietly, his gaze searching. “You dislike it.”

Ian could turn and walk away, or he could respond as the fellow hoped, the poor sot.

“I don’t know precisely what to say.”

“Would you know what to say if I renewed my suit, Cora? If I requested your hand again?”

Ian clamped his slack jaw shut. “Again?”

The viscount appeared abashed. “You had so many offers at the time that you have forgotten mine?” He smiled self-deprecatingly. “My dear, that is rather lowering, I must admit.”

“Well, I... I...”

“Nine years ago, Cora, I believed you refused me because you intended to accept another of your suitors—Brackston, Jeffries, perhaps a man I knew nothing of. When you returned from your travels with your aunt and uncle without a ring, I realized my mistake. I cared deeply for my wife, and I grieved her sudden death. But when the year of mourning ended I came to hope that I could change your heart on the matter.”

Shock silenced Ian. Years ago Corinna had had a suitor. Multiple suitors. And she had refused them all?

He knew now that she was susceptible to a man’s attentions. His old theory that her blood ran with ice rather than hot, feminine need no longer suited. Then why had she refused Fitzhugh, and if the man could be believed, others who had pursued her? Brackston was a reasonable fellow, Jeffries was a dead bore, but wealthy and titled, and engaged in government as well as his impressive stable of hunters.