The Lady's Guide to Scandal

by Emmanuelle de Maupassant

  “While we remain guests in this house, we’d better turn from this subject.” Burnell gave the baron a flinty stare. “I will merely point out that wearing animal cloth and farming the land does not make one a savage, nor a simpleton. I reserve such terms for those who refuse to look beyond their own bigotry.”

  “Why, you arrogant, jumped up mongrel, I’ll wipe that smug look—” Only the interception of the colonel and Lord Fairlea taking either arm prevented the baron from throwing his punch. “Let me go, damn you!”

  “You’re a disgrace, Billingsworth.” Burnell turned his gaze towards the windows. “And you’re drunk. On that count, I suggest you remove yourself from this company and let the kitchen send a tray up to your room.”

  “Like hell I will!” The baron’s cheeks were turning purple.

  “He’s right, old chap. Don’t know what’s gotten into you, but let’s get you out of here. Very bad form to carry on like this.” Lord Fairlea took a firmer grip of the baron’s arm. “I can call the duke to help drag you upstairs but I’d imagine you’d rather I didn’t.”

  “Damn fools the lot of you.” The baron wrenched his arm away. “I’ll take myself off, but you haven’t heard the last of this Burnell.”

  “What excitement!” declared Blanche, as soon as the baron had departed. “Colonel, would you escort us to a seat, and another sherry would be most welcome—one’s nerves are a little heightened.” Not waiting to be asked, Eustacia took hold of Lord Fairlea and followed suit.

  “Goodness me!” Bustling over, Lady Pippsbury flashed Burnell her brightest smile. “How thrillingly masculine. One doesn’t approve, naturally, but there is something stirrifying, seeing two males batting horns. I’m delighted to see you’re the stronger-willed, Mr. Burnell. A woman choosing her mate takes note of such things, even when the brute force of two warring stags remains contained.”

  Cornelia fought the urge to roll her eyes. Meanwhile, it gave her some comfort to feel Burnell place his other hand atop hers—still tucked into his arm.

  “I don’t countenance violence.”

  Cornelia noticed that a tick was working in his jaw.

  “Too many men are free with their tempers, and their fists. It’s the cause of a great deal of unhappiness.”

  “A most creditable sentiment,” the marchioness beamed. “As a doting mama, I’d like to believe that any husband to my daughters would take care on both counts. A man’s honourables lie as much in self-control as in defence of those he holds dear.”

  Mrs. Bongorge appeared beside. “It is true; a woman likes to be assured of a man’s dominance.” She turned bedroom eyes upon Burnell. “But even pleasure must be taken in moderation.”

  Lady Pippsbury gave a condescending glare. “Modesty is the one thing we should never moderate—and vulgipperies are to be moderated at all times.”

  “Vulgipperies?” Mrs. Bongorge batted her lashes. “Whatever they are, they sound immense fun. Knowing so much about them, I do hope you’ll enlighten me.”

  The marchioness pursed her lips. “Fribbilous girl! Those without the gentilicules to know better cannot be taught.”

  Burnell gave Cornelia’s hand a squeeze, and she was obliged to smother her laughter within a fit of coughing.

  Lady Pippsbury’s eyes narrowed. Certainly, she had more to say on the subject but, to Cornelia’s relief, the dinner gong sounded.

  As before, Lady Pippsbury and Mrs. Bongorge fought for Burnell’s attention but he drew Cornelia in, asking her to share her thoughts on the Palekmul treasures. Besides her aunts, she was the only other to have seen them, so her opinions could hardly be disregarded, and Blanche and Eustacia vigorously agreed with whatever impression she put forward.

  Cornelia had no desire to monopolize the table, but the duke and duchess did nothing to intervene as Burnell prompted her repeatedly to speak.

  She was certain she saw Lady Pippsbury yawn, and Lord Fairlea appeared to enter a reverie at her side, focused entirely on the food before him.

  At last, Lady Studborne called the ladies to withdraw, leaving the men to enjoy their brandy.

  “Thank heavens.” Cornelia heard Portia whisper to Paulina as they filed out. “If I hear one more thing about blasted Palekmul I shall scream.”

  With the adjoining doors closed, the duchess invited her guests to coffee and ratafia, and took a seat by the hearth, giving the dogs a generous ear rub.

  “Let’s have something festive from each of us at the pianoforte.” Lady Studborne smiled benignly. “With any luck, the melodies will lull the little one to sleep and persuade him from kicking me for the next few hours.” She looked directly at Cornelia. “You’ll oblige me, Mrs. Mortmain?”

  Though rather out of practice, Cornelia managed a passable rendition of Good King Wenceslas.

  Mrs. Bongorge followed, playing a jaunty arrangement of Here We Come A-Wassailing and singing her accompaniment, then urged Esther to take her place.

  After that, Lady Pippsbury settled her daughters upon the stool, and Cornelia was in little doubt that they would play through until the gentlemen appeared, and beyond.

  Mrs. Bongorge and Esther excused themselves as Persephone began a halting rendition of The First Noel, in a key not altogether soothing.

  Her aunts, sitting with Mrs. Nossle, were dozing and Cornelia couldn’t help but notice that Lady Studborne had also taken the opportunity to rest her eyes.

  It had been a very long day and there was nothing Cornelia wanted more than to retire. Rising, she went to whisper in the duchess’s ear.

  “Very sensible.” Lady Studborne patted Cornelia’s hand. “Who knows how long the gentlemen will be, and we have something rather fun planned for the morning. Take your rest, my dear. I shan’t be long behind.”

  Cornelia’s room was located at one conclusion of the corridor, with her aunts next door. Lord Fairlea, the baron and Burnell were opposite and, where the passageway turned a corner, Mrs. Bongorge and her sister had chambers, as did the Pippsbury contingent.

  Voices drifted from the far end.

  “We ought to have stayed in London.” The young woman speaking sounded decidedly sulky. “Even if he doesn’t marry Mrs. Mortmain, I don’t see what good it will do me. I haven’t a clue what to say to him. I’d far rather marry someone like Lord Fairlea.”

  “A title isn’t everything.” The other voice was dismissive. “Half of those foppish aristocrats haven’t two pennies to rub together. One mightn’t know it to look at him, but Mr. Burnell is obscenely wealthy—thanks to all that oil.”

  “I suppose that would be something.” The first seemed to consider. “But, truly Stella, I’m in no hurry to marry anyone at all. From the little you’ve told me, it sounds rather frightening—and Mr. Burnell is so…”

  The low laugh was most certainly that of Estela Bongorge. “Yes, he is… But, you needn’t concern yourself too much on that score. As his wife, you’d only be required to do occasional duty. A man like Burnell would find more suitable partners for his true needs.”

  The voices dropped, so that Cornelia was unable to discern more of their conversation. She considered a moment, then tiptoed further along. Mrs. Bongorge was known to be well-informed of Society gossip, and Cornelia couldn’t help wondering what she might be saying about Ethan.

  However, as the voices became audible again, she realized they were talking of someone else entirely.

  “Do you notice her face when he talks to me? I believe the expression is ‘like a cat’s bum’.” Mrs. Bongorge laughed wickedly. “Of course, I could have him any time I liked. I’d be interested to see how he rides in the saddle. Has he learnt any exotic lovemaking techniques on his travels, I wonder?”

  “Really, Estela! There’s no need to be coarse.”

  “Sweet Esther, I’ve long since given up acting the virgin. It was a tiresome role even when it was true. It may suit Mrs. Mortmain to present herself so but I doubt that approach will hold Burnell’s attention when there are other, more enticing
delicacies within reach.”

  She laughed again, seductively. “With all that’s said of her mother, I’d expected more, but it seems she knows nothing of how to tempt or tease. She could have half the rakes of Mayfair lined up at her boudoir and not know what to do with them. No wonder Mortmain was sniffing about elsewhere on the night he died. As for Burnell, I can’t begin to understand what he sees in her.”

  Cornelia felt herself sway. Mrs. Bongorge’s words were no more hurtful than many she’d heard before, and yet her stomach knotted. It seemed she couldn’t win. Her reputation was linked irrevocably to her mother’s shocking behaviour, and to her failure as a wife to Mortmain.

  On that count, Burnell had hinted as much on the train journey, asking if she wanted everyone to think her dull and stodgy. Well, he hadn’t put it quite like that—but it was what he’d meant, and Mrs. Bongorge was of the same opinion. She’d seen right through Burnell’s attempts to appear romantically interested.

  Pushing down her tears, Cornelia stumbled away, leaving the women’s voices behind her. Hadn’t she given up caring what people said? After all, none of them knew her.

  Only her aunts could claim that but, even with them, she hid her deepest wishes, and her fears. The true impulses of her heart were hers alone, held safe from prying eyes.

  She hardly saw where she was going. Reaching her room, the door seemed to shift and dissolve. She wavered, her knees suddenly weak.

  All at once, a hand slipped about her waist and she was staring up into dark eyes.

  “Cornelia?”

  When had anyone spoken her name so tenderly?

  A wave of longing rose within her. She wanted him to pull her close and hold her there. She needed his warmth.

  “Kiss me.” She sighed the words so faintly, she wasn’t sure he’d heard but his head lowered. She stood on tip-toe, reaching for him.

  He gazed at her a long moment, and then his mouth met hers. His lips were soft but his arms were commanding, pressing her to the hardness of his body. She opened to the gentle intrusion of his tongue and, in answer to her small moan, he deepened the kiss.

  She didn’t want to think; only to be here.

  He scooped beneath her bottom, lifting her higher, so that she was entirely in his arms, her face above his.

  “Cornelia?” His voice was rougher than before, heavy with desire for something more than their kiss.

  She was aware of his knee pushing between her skirts, and he was breathing hard, his lips moving to her neck, his mouth trailing kisses along her collarbone. His jaw grazed the upper curve of her breast.

  She might let him push open the door and carry her to the bed. Lose herself to his hands and mouth and his demanding masculinity; lose every memory of hurt and just let herself feel.

  “We shouldn’t…”

  “Are you sure about that?” His voice was husky.

  “I mean…you shouldn’t kiss me like this.”

  “How should I kiss you?”

  Breathless, she opened to him again, letting his tongue enter her mouth, wanting to surrender to everything he was offering her.

  It was a wicked, intoxicating kiss—fierce and dangerous—and she fell into it with abandon, her limbs weak with longing.

  Only the sound of far-off laughter woke her to where she was. She pushed against his chest and, with a groan, he allowed her feet to find the ground but he didn’t release her.

  He rested his forehead against hers. “What do you want, Cornelia?”

  What she wanted in this moment wouldn’t bring her heart contentment—not the sort that lasted; she wasn’t naive enough to confuse what was happening here with love.

  As voices floated up the stairs, footsteps and the swish of skirts, she pulled free.

  Safely inside her room, Cornelia leaned back against the door, willing her pulse to steady itself.

  What had she been thinking!

  Her lips still throbbed with the imprint of Burnell’s. Closing her eyes, she touched her mouth with trembling fingers. No one had warned her that a kiss could feel like that, making her forget where and who she was.

  She hadn’t wanted it to end—the intimacy of his lips, and his body pressed to hers. All power and heat, holding her aloft with ease, his hands firmly where they had no right to be, and his mouth—grazing the softness of her neck and breasts.

  She’d done little to stop him—even though she’d known the kiss was reckless; not just because someone might see them, but reckless in other ways.

  Sitting on the bed, she reached for Minnie, resting her forehead against the terrier’s soft tummy.

  If I do have any intention of finding a husband, I mustn’t let this happen. I need to summon my courage to enter Society again, to find a true companion; a man who cares more for what I am myself than the reputation that follows me.

  A man like Burnell?

  She needed to put that thought out of her mind.

  She’d been upset and he’d comforted her in the way most natural to him.

  Sitting up, she caught sight of the book once more—The Lady’s Guide to All Things Useful. Was there a chapter on husbands? Flicking through the pages, she found what she was looking for:

  A woman may live her life perfectly without any husband at all, if she has the companionship of friends and the satisfaction of intellectual pursuits.

  Where we take a husband, we must remember that he holds our happiness in his hands—and no woman can be content wedded to the wrong man.

  Choose wisely and well—for marriage is a union not just of bodies but of minds and hearts. Its foundation lies not in passion but in respect, and love which cares as much for another’s happiness as our own.

  Well, there was nothing revelatory in that.

  Cornelia tossed the book aside again. She didn’t need a manual to remind her that passion formed shaky ground upon which to build a future with someone.

  She’d eat her shoe before giving Lady Pippsbury the satisfaction of thinking she couldn’t hold Burnell’s attention, but she would need to guard her heart in the process.

  Having Burnell appear besotted to pique the curiosity of other men was merely a charade. She could not afford to forget.

  Chapter 11

  Late, the next morning…

  Cornelia knew she must face not only Burnell but her hosts and fellow guests, or appear unutterably rude.

  Trays of spiced punch and hot mince pies circulated amidst those gathered in the grand hall. Like herself, they’d been instructed to wear their warmest clothes, to take part in a contest of sorts.

  Failing to see Burnell among them, Cornelia cursed him for abandoning her again. They’d hardly convince anyone of him being head-over-heels if he kept finding diversion elsewhere.

  “Now, remember, Cornelia, whatever is afoot, men like a challenge. This is a contest in more ways than one, and lions chase hardest when the gazelle is running. Mr. Burnell is not the only cat on the prowl.” Blanche winked, threatening to unhinge one false eyelash.

  All fell silent as the duke cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles, making ready to speak. “Although Lady Studborne won’t be able to join wholeheartedly in the merriment, she’s determined to entertain us.”

  He looked fondly at his wife. “With the snow deep as it is, the usual riding pursuits will be difficult, but as the snowfall has ceased for the time being and the sun is shining, we may try our hand at sleighing.”

  There was a flurry of animation among the Pippsbury girls.

  “The groundsmen have been busy this morning, setting out flags around the lake and lower meadows, and driving the first sleigh to make a pathway, so no-one will go astray. It should take no more than half an hour but Melinda and Tommy, who’ll be your timekeepers, are convinced it can be done quicker.”

  Armed with stopwatches, the children gazed up at their father. “And you’ll take us out at the end, Papa, so we can beat the best time?” Melinda’s eyes were alight with excitement.

  “I cer
tainly shall.” The duke placed a hand on each of their shoulders.

  “As you see, it behoves you—” Lord Studborne cast a half-apologetic look at the assembly, “to ensure a worthy challenge is set.”

  “Admirable idea!” declared Colonel Faversham. Nancy had assured Cornelia that the hairpiece was back with its rightful owner but it seemed he was taking no chance of losing it today, wearing a snug deerstalker hat, with the ear flaps secured beneath his chin.

  “If we might choose our racing partners, I call dibs on the Misses Everly. I took a gander earlier; plenty of room for you both upfront.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

  The baron stepped forward. “And I’ll drive Mrs. Mortmain.” Coming to her side, his eyes were flashing with a determination Cornelia could hardly fathom. “Burnell can’t hog you for every bit of festive fun. No ring on the finger yet, hey! Must let other fellows get a run at you!”

  Cornelia fought a wave of disgust. It was barely eleven in the morning but the baron reeked of whisky. Either he’d drunk late into the night or had begun again at breakfast.

  “Actually, Billingsworth—” Lord Studborne smiled in a conciliatory manner, “I hear Mrs. Bongorge is an expert with the reins. As modern men, we might agree to let the ladies drive.”

  “How marvellous!” Mrs. Bongorge clapped her hands. “Esther, you must come with us of course.”

  The baron could hardly argue.

  “Perhaps you’d set out with me, Mrs. Mortmain.” Lord Fairlea offered his arm but, before Cornelia could accept, the duke interjected. “Two of the Misses Pippsbury might join your sleigh, Billingsworth, leaving room for the marchioness and her other daughters to drive with Lord Fairlea.”

  Cornelia’s heart sank. Lord Fairlea was the only one she might consider as a possible suitor and, as Burnell hadn’t bothered to join them, she supposed she’d be left with Reverend Nossle and his wife.

  The Reverend was setting upon his third mince pie however, and seemed to have no desire to venture into the snow, while Mrs. Nossle was protesting a delicate chest and a preference for keeping Lady Studborne company indoors.