The Lady's Guide to Scandal

by Emmanuelle de Maupassant

  Mr. Burnell dropped his gaze, a slight tick working in his jaw. "It was many years ago, but not forgotten."

  There were several beats of silence, during which her aunts exchanged glances.

  Cornelia felt a pang of sympathy. Her memory of Mrs. Burnell was insubstantial, but her son's feelings over the loss were evidently still painful.

  Suddenly, Eustacia was taking the reins again, returning to safer ground.

  “And this is our niece, your own playmate from those bygone days, our darling Cornelia.”

  Jumping in, Cornelia reached for his hand and shook it. “I fear we’re over-bold, Mr. Burnell. You may prefer to call me Mrs. Mortmain. It’s a pleasure to meet again after all this time.”

  His eyes held hers for a long moment. “The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Mortmain. Nigh on twenty years sure is a length of time, but I’d have known you among a million. Almost as if we met yesterday…”

  Ethan knew that most of the people in the room didn’t give a rat’s ass about Palekmul, or about any other damned thing in the building—however rare or priceless. They were here because it was fashionable to appear interested in the mysteries of the ancients, and prestigious to have been granted one of a limited number of invitations.

  There were a few dabblers of course: amateur enthusiasts who liked to think themselves knowledgeable. Even their engagement was superficial.

  This woman, though—the one who’d accosted him the other night (though she was doing her darndest to act like no such thing had happened) was different entirely.

  From what he’d overheard, she’d done a little reading, and he’d been observing her throughout his presentation. Most had given their cordial attention; there was no heckling in a joint like this. No one had yawned even, which was always a relief. But she’d done more than listen politely. He’d been watching real close.

  Despite that ugly hat bobbing up and down, he’d noticed how she’d been following every little thing he said. Downright enthralled he’d say, and he was man enough to admit that it made him swell inside.

  She was pretty as a peach too—a fact he’d taken note of when she’d been lying flat out underneath him on the gallery floor. Not showy in the way most women were. Heck, that buttoned up outfit she had on did her no favours at all, though it fitted right enough in the places that mattered. But there was no hiding the blush on her cheek and those sweet lips made for kissing. Those eyes were something else, too—so dark a blue that he’d had to look real deep to decide what colour they really were.

  Her hair was that shade of brown most common but glossy as a beetle’s wing and soft looking. Holding himself above her, he’d had the worst urge to pull out the pins and wrap a fistful round his palm. Not that he would’ve dared try it. He was too much a gentleman to force himself on a lady, even if it were just to bury his face in her hair.

  Stealing a kiss had been out of the question, too. She’d have struggled like a wildcat before letting him do any such thing. Nevertheless, he’d also seen the way her lips parted and her eyes grew wide. He’d bet a year’s supply of bourbon, her heart had been pounding as fast as his, and it hadn’t been only fear driving her pulse.

  Yes, siree, Mrs. Mortmain might be acting all prim and proper but there was something else altogether going on under that buttoned-up exterior. Somewhere underneath, she was still the girl who’d run barefoot and thrown seaweed at him when they hadn’t agreed on how many turrets their monumental sandcastle deserved. His Cornelia, with that chestnut hair flying in two long plaits and her skirts tucked into her bloomers so she could wade into a rockpool.

  He hadn’t recognized her at first, though something had tugged at him that night and wouldn’t let up. Now, he could see as plain as day she was the girl from the beach. Heck, she still wrinkled up her nose like she used to, and he knew what that meant. She was itching to give him a piece of her mind.

  Laying eyes on her made him want to laugh out loud, pick her up and spin her sideways. He’d made an art of keeping his heart out of the way of the ladies, but Cornelia had nestled there far too early for him to unseat her. And, after all these years, here she was—conjured out of nowhere to cross his path.

  Whoever this Mortmain guy was, he was a damned lucky fella. Though Ethan had his doubts he was making a good job of his marital duties. Cornelia looked to have enough passion brewing to keep any man on his toes, but there was a touch of sorrow about her too. He’d lay a row of dollars from here to Tower Bridge and back that she wasn’t happily wed, and that was a crying shame.

  Her aunts were still yapping away, he realized. Something about Rosamund writing to them and how they’d been glad to hear of his sister’s marriage to Studborne. He didn’t doubt it for a minute. These old biddies were harmless enough, but they must enjoy dropping into conversation the fact they were acquainted with a duchess.

  “And are you spending the festive season with your sister, Mr. Burnell?” The one with the more mischievous twinkle smiled at him.

  “Sure am, though I don’t know how well I’m suited to your English house parties. I wasn’t raised to play frivolous games or make endless small talk.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “I shouldn’t say so, I expect, but Rosamund is fixin’ to get me wed on top of it all, lining up a whole bunch of debutantes, as if picking a wife were as easy as deciding what flavour of pie I preferred.”

  “Now, now, Mr. Burnell.” The other biddy waggled her finger at him, though the expression on her face was kindly enough. “In matters of the heart, women always know best. Your sister only wants you to be cared for. At least give her the chance to show you what you might be missing.”

  Ethan grimaced. He ought to have known better than to mention it but he knew why he had—wanting to see what Cornelia would make of the idea, that was what. She’d been downright staring before, thinking he didn’t know it, but her eyes were doing the opposite now, refusing to meet his.

  Hell, what was he supposed to do? She was a married woman, and he’d no right to go chasing her, but he didn’t want to just walk away either. If he did, he might never see her again.

  Bringing the Palekmul artefacts to London had been necessary but he’d be gone soon enough. For all her crazy notions about getting him hitched, Rosamund was the one person in the world who truly cared about him. For that reason alone, he’d play along, but there was no way he’d be tying himself to some stranger just to make her happy. He knew darned well what she had planned and he was having none of it.

  He’d make the best of the situation and that would be the end of it. Duty done, he’d be on his way.

  The first old dame gave a wistful sigh. “And house parties can be rather fun—especially at this time of year. Charades and forfeits, skating and sledging; there’s no end of diversion. We shall be quietly at home, imagining all the delights of Yuletide at such a grand residence as Studborne Abbey. We’ll think of you, Mr. Burnell, enjoying your first proper English Christmas.”

  Before she reached the end of her sentence, his mind was whirring. The Abbey was huge, with more guest bedrooms than were ever needed, and these old birds had kept in touch with Rosamund all these years. His sister was a good sort. If he invited them down with Cornelia in tow, she was sure to make them welcome. At least, then, he’d have the chance to shake off whatever was pestering him and set his mind straight.

  “Ma’am, you’re gonna think me mighty forward, but there’s nothing I’d like better than for you to join me in celebrating the festivities. I can telegram to check with Rosamund, but I know she’d be pleased to see you both after all this time.” He brought his gaze to Cornelia, willing her to look back at him; willing her to give some hint that the idea appealed. “And Mrs. Mortmain too, if her husband has no objection to joining the party.”

  Sure enough, at the mention of her name, Cornelia’s head snapped round. Her nose was crinkling something bad, but she’d stopped looking elsewhere and was staring him down. “We couldn’t possibly impose on the duke and duchess, though it’s
very kind of you to think of us, Mr. Burnell.”

  Ignoring her, the two Misses Everly were positively cooing with delight. “Why, Mr. Burnell, we can’t begin to tell you what a delight that would be. If dear Rosamund is eager to host us, there can be no impropriety in accepting the invitation.”

  “As for Mr. Mortmain, he’s no impediment at all and hasn’t been these five years.” The impish one gave Cornelia a nudge to the ribs as she made to protest.

  “Sadly, passed on,” mouthed the other before adjusting her volume to a feminine simper. “You know where to find us, Mr. Burnell. We’ll await your correspondence.”

  With that, the two elderly ladies took an elbow each, steering Cornelia away.

  Ethan caught a last glimpse of her, nose wrinkles and all, as she looked back over her shoulder.

  He nearly barked his laughter out loud. No Mr. Mortmain?

  Perhaps stealing a kiss wouldn’t be out of the question after all. Certainly, having Mrs. Cornelia Mortmain along for the ride would make that damn house party a deal more bearable.

  In fact, he might turn it to his advantage very nicely indeed.

  Chapter 4

  Great Western Railway, heading to Weymouth Quay

  Several days later…

  As the train rocked on its tracks, there came a grunting snort from Aunt Eustacia, and Aunt Blanche mumbled from her own somnolence.

  Burnell’s nose twitched but his eyes remained closed.

  Cornelia was doing her utmost to keep her eyes fixed on the passing scene, though it offered little in the way of variety—trees skeletal black, reaching through low-hung mist, and endless fields frosted beneath a violet-streaked sky.

  She was not looking at the long, muscular legs lounging almost directly opposite and crossed nonchalantly at the ankle; nor had she noticed the tightness of the breeches encasing those legs, disappearing into polished Hessian boots—as if the owner were ready to mount up and meet Napoleon on the field.

  Burnell could hardly be expected to know the latest London fashions but Cornelia did wonder how his tailor had led him to such choices. The outfit was from another age, complete with smoothly fitting riding coat and a cravat, crisply white.

  His dark, curling hair, as usual, hung loose, and his jaw bore at least a day’s stubble. Coupled with his untamed handsomeness, his attire proclaimed him uncaring of convention, which she supposed was intentional.

  There was no chance of him blending in with the other guests at Studborne Abbey but that had never been likely in any case.

  Everyone was napping—even Minnie, whom Cornelia had taken out of her wicker basket as soon as they’d exited Waterloo Station. Unaccustomed to being shut away, the terrier had executed a canine snit for several miles before allowing herself to be lifted onto the banquette. There, she’d soon nestled into Cornelia’s lap and had since been snoozing.

  Minnie was surprisingly heavy for her size but Cornelia found her solidity comforting.

  Following her aunts behaviour at the museum, practically inviting themselves to the Duke of Studborne’s residence, Cornelia had given them a stern telling off. Nevertheless, she was relieved that, in the flurry of notes consequent to Mr. Burnell’s telegram, they’d thought to ask if her beloved pet might join the party.

  “Minnie, do keep still.” Cornelia winced as the terrier kicked out her hind legs in peddling fashion and gave a series of whimpers.

  Burnell opened one heavy-lidded eye. “Rabbit hunting, I’d say.” His voice was honey-rich, languid. “Was having a similar sort of dream myself.”

  Sitting up, he rolled his shoulders. “I never was keen on being cooped up so long. Makes a man eager to get his blood pumping.” The other eye opened and he fixed that on her too.

  Cornelia was suddenly aware of how close his knees were to hers. For perhaps the hundredth time, she recalled him lying on top of her. She glanced over at her aunts but they remained obliviously asleep.

  He made no further foray into conversation—certainly nothing on the subject of what had happened on the first night of their meeting.

  But, he must have some suspicion, thought Cornelia, although he might not be sure that she and his assailant were one and the same. Perhaps he knew perfectly well but was choosing to be discreet. Either way, he’d avoided mentioning it, for which Cornelia was grateful.

  “I must thank you, Mr. Burnell, for interceding with your sister on Minnie’s behalf.” She stroked her fingers across the expanse of white-furred stomach. “She’s slept on my bed since she was a puppy, so I couldn’t bear to leave her.”

  “It’s no bother at all. My sister is crazy for dogs and always has been. Once Minnie meets the four-legged members of the Studborne clan she’ll feel right at home.”

  “Well, that’s very kind.” Cornelia turned once more to the speeding landscape. The overnight freeze had transformed the stream running alongside the tracks to a ribbon of ice, leaving the ducks to slide along its surface, unsure of their footing.

  She had to remind herself, this man wasn’t a complete stranger, though he was twice as tall and three times as broad as the boy from the beach long ago. For whatever reason, Fate had thrown them into one another’s sphere, and there was no reason for her to be less than civil.

  Of course, the weather was the safest topic.

  “You must be finding the British winter rather brutal after those warmer climes, Mr. Burnell.”

  He gave her a long, slow smile, stretching out his legs again. “It takes a while to get accustomed to the heat and the mosquitoes around Palekmul, not to mention the termites and every other sort of insect wanting to crawl into your hammock of a night.”

  Cornelia bit her lip. The last thing she needed was to start imagining Mr. Burnell in his steamy night-time hammock.

  “And there’s the snakes. The deadly fer-de-lance and coral, along with fifty other serpentine species. There’s a bed-companion nobody wants snuggling up to them.” His mouth quirked.

  “Even the plants can be pretty ferocious. The chechen, for example, with its toxic sap.” He drew a finger across his jaw. “One scrape and the burning’s intense.”

  Cornelia closed her eyes. She refused to imagine how it would feel to have him graze that stubbled chin against the softness of her face.

  She swallowed hard. “Do tell me more of your travels, Mr. Burnell. Despite the deprivations, the experience sounds undeniably thrilling.”

  “That’s one word for it. There’s plenty of adventure, it’s true, but a lot of what’s necessary is routine hard work—from loading up the mules with tools and victuals, to hacking through the undergrowth.”

  He held up his palms, indicating the callouses. “Then, there’s boxes of glass plates and chemicals for photography, as well as sacks of plaster for mould-making—all to be carried in to the site.”

  “I did wonder about the plaster.” Cornelia leant forward a little. “I read that you’d taken more than a hundred impressions, in addition to sketching the designs engraved on the temples.”

  “Mostly hieroglyphics.” Shifting position, he crossed one leg over the other at the knee. “We haven’t worked out how to read the symbols yet but we’ll decipher them eventually. I wanted a good record for their study. I was careful not to remove anything from the site that was integral to the structure. Some ain’t so particular about dismantling ancient ruins but I consider it a crime to damage the heritage of another civilization.”

  Cornelia had no trouble agreeing with that sentiment. As great as her fascination was with all things ancient, she’d never been comfortable with the number of pieces within the British Museum that had been plundered without consent.

  She was about to say so when she noticed how he was looking at her. Not in a superior way, as many people did, but as if he were keen to hear what she thought. Something else too, though she couldn’t put her finger on it. Nothing about her appearance was designed to encourage a speculative gaze, yet Mr. Burnell’s was unwavering.

  All at onc
e, the train lurched. There was a rushing darkness as they plunged through a tunnel. The air changed—confined and compressed, making her dizzy.

  Just as swiftly they emerged again and she was blinking.

  As before, he was looking at her in that steady, unapologetic way, as if he had every right to do so, and she none at all to refuse him the pleasure. Was there a word for this; when a man looked at a woman this way? There ought to be one, and a word for how she was feeling too: far too hot, her chest tight and mouth dry.

  She made herself breathe deeply but the exhale emerged as a nervous laugh. “Mr. Burnell, I fear you must be fatigued—with the view from our window so unchanging. Perhaps you have a newspaper or something else to pass the time. I shan’t be offended if you read.”

  “I’m not in the least bit bored, and quite the opposite of tired. Just restless is all.” He cocked his head to one side. “And a mite curious.”

  Cornelia was aware of her heart beating a little faster. “Then, that makes two of us. If I may speak openly, until my father’s passing, my aunts resided in their own cottage near Osmington, barely four miles from Studborne, and though they maintained a cordial correspondence with your sister, they never before received an invitation.” She looked down at Minnie, still asleep but now licking her lips, as if the rabbits had all turned to sausages.

  She was aware that she sounded churlish—discourteous, even. One did not ask for invitations to be explained; still less so when they were issued by such illustrious hosts.

  He hesitated a moment before answering. “I admit to selfish reasons, Mrs. Mortmain. I feared, if I didn’t lure you to this house party, I might never see you again and, as you know, I’m curious about everything that seems puzzlesome.”

  “There’s very little to be curious about, I assure you. I live very quietly.”