For a moment, Cornelia said nothing. Then, slowly, a flame of anger flicked to life. Lifting Minnie off her lap and setting her onto the floor, she stood. Only when she’d reached the fireplace did she feel composed enough to arrange her features and turn to face her aunts.
Cornelia pushed aside the remembrance of Mr. Burnell straddling her upon the floor of the Palekmul gallery, and chose her words carefully. “So, you think I’ve been secretly meeting with…that man, and, on the basis of him knowing next to nothing about me, have been throwing myself at him, hoping he’ll form an irrevocable attachment before he realizes what a huge error of judgement he’s made?”
Eustacia assumed a hopeful expression. “One might call you childhood sweethearts?”
“Separated by an ocean but now reunited by the hand of Fate?” Blanche ventured.
Cornelia fought the urge to stamp her foot. She was a grown woman, perfectly able to think, and act. Since her father’s passing, she’d been financially independent, and she’d carved a meaningful life for herself, albeit within a limited frame.
With her history, few gentlemen of standing would contemplate linking their name with hers and, really, there was no need to pursue such an outcome. In fact, it was preferable to dismiss such thoughts entirely. She had no intention of repeating her error, marrying without proven affection, mutual respect or intellectual sympathy.
Mr. Burnell, whoever he was or might have been, was a stranger to her. Their lives had been altogether different. Beyond a brief history of sea paddling and building sandcastles, and an interest in antiquities, they had nothing in common.
Moreover, from all the papers inferred, he had the pick of London’s single women (and, in probability, the pick of quite a few of the married ones too). However intriguing the man might be, she wouldn’t stoop to joining the queue of females panting over him.
She’d suffered enough humiliation to last a lifetime. To court more would be beyond foolish; it would be absurd.
“There’s no need to be sensitive about it, dearest. We’re only thinking of your happiness.” Eustacia looked rather hurt.
“In any case, you won’t need to worry about seeming over-eager. We have everything in hand.” Blanche smoothed out her skirts and gave Cornelia a conciliatory smile. “We sent a runner to the museum this afternoon, with our letter to Mr. Burnell. Making ourselves known as old friends, we’ve requested three tickets to his opening lecture, and we’ve barely mentioned you at all.”
Eustacia picked at a bit of imaginary fluff on the sofa. “Just the merest mention—in case he might remember Dorset a bit more than yourself Cornelia.”
“We barely said anything at all about you being available for courtship,” Blanche added. “Or about how marvellously clever you are.”
“And we’ve absolutely not mentioned that you have a bit of a temper.” Lifting the teapot lid, Eustacia peered inside to see if there might be sufficient for another cup. “Although such a thing isn’t necessarily off-putting. A man like Mr. Burnell might view it as a sign of hidden passions.”
Heaven help me! Rolling her eyes, Cornelia proceeded to the decanter and poured a second brandy.
Chapter 4
British Museum, London
Afternoon, December 13
“No one can doubt that those who lived in Palekmul, thousands of years ago, were more advanced, intellectually and technologically, than we have yet conceived.” The man gripping the podium scanned the rapt audience, his eyes intense as he reached the conclusion of his impassioned lecture.
“The extraordinary layout of Palekmul defies any notion that it expanded in random fashion. Not only are its structures linked in an orderly manner, but the city’s main temples appear to have been placed most purposefully, in direct relation to solar alignments. So much more remains to be uncovered, buried deep within the jungle. On my return, I intend to map a full mile radius of the main temple and I believe the findings will be unprecedented, changing everything we think we know."
Seeing Mr. Burnell set his notes aside, the crowded room erupted in applause and he bowed his head in recognition.
Eustacia was whispering to Blanche. “Dear little Ethan, grown into such a strapping man. Who would have thought! And he speaks with such authority!”
Cornelia had to concede her enjoyment of the lecture. She’d attended several in the past, and the men who gave them were invariably pompous and long-winded. Mr. Burnell delivered his address with conviction, but without conceit.
She’d fully expected him to toss aside her aunts’ letter—surely one among hundreds requesting an ‘audience’ with the great explorer—but the tickets to this, the last of his lectures on the subject of Palekmul, had arrived the previous morning. Though Cornelia had taken pains to keep to the basement since the awful blunder, it had been impossible to deny her aunts the pleasure of attending all together.
In hope of escaping notice, she’d chosen a plain skirt and jacket in dull navy serge and dipped the brim of her hat low. He’d seen her under quite different circumstances, after all, and might not associate her with the woman who’d threatened to shoot him a few nights ago. She had but to keep out of sight behind the other visitors. Her aunts had no real interest in the contents of the gallery and would be easily persuaded to leave after a swift turn about the room.
All would be well, if she only kept her head.
An expensively attired matron to Cornelia’s right sighed audibly and exclaimed to her companion. “So masterful! We must get him to one of your soirées, Mathilda, and soon. A man in his prime, and so very handsome; such a waste for him to return across the ocean without sharing the full extent of his knowledge. One senses he will be satisfying in all respects.”
As the other tittered, Cornelia clenched her jaw. Mr. Burnell was beguilingly attractive, in a wild sort of way, and the fit of his clothing accentuated his well-proportioned physique, but there was no excuse for coarseness. Had they no shame?
With the formalities over, the audience moved to admire the exhibits ranged around the perimeter of the room. The effect was well-conceived, for Mr. Burnell’s painted plaster constructions were compellingly authentic. Various artefacts were on display ‘in situ’. With the afternoon light fast fading and the electric bulbs adding their pale glow, one almost felt one might be entering the sacred halls of a temple of Palekmul.
“Oh, this one’s stained inside.” Blanche peered into a wide-brimmed chalice. “Might it be blood? They were rather bloodthirsty, I’ve heard. All those human sacrifices; dreadfully gruesome!”
Cornelia adjusted her spectacles. “A ceremonial vessel for drinking chocolate, I’d say. Montezuma is said to have indulged in more than fifty cups daily. Health benefits, you know, and a sign of prestige. The temples are filled with carvings and stucco paintings which indicate its ceremonial use—at weddings, for instance, and as an offering to the gods. Cups filled with the drink were placed with the dead, too, providing nourishment for their journey to the afterlife.”
“Are you sure that’s all, dear?” Blanche looked distinctly disappointed. “Might they have made the virgins drink it, perhaps, before they sacrificed them?”
A muffled cough came from behind and a low, husky drawling voice spoke over Cornelia’s shoulder. “The lady is correct. In fact, the beans often formed part of a woman’s dowry. The bride would have to make the chocolate drink with exactly the right amount of froth, to prove her worthiness to marry. This particular vessel was among the first I unearthed from inside one of the temple’s inner chambers. The stain inside is cacao residue.”
Blanche spun about, clasping her hands before her. “Oh, Mr. Burnell. What a pleasure it is to meet you again after all this time. This is all so fascinating. We were hanging on every word, weren’t we Eustacia.”
“Oh yes!” Eustacia placed her hand on Mr. Burnell’s arm. “A wonderful surprise. Cornelia often tells us about her work here but I always find it deadly dull.”
Cornelia fought the urge the
scream. Much as she loved her aunts, they were incorrigible. If she didn’t steer them away, they’d start asking the most awkward questions—about Palekmul consummation rituals on the wedding night, or some other highly inappropriate nonsense.
However, Blanche was already extending her hand. “I hope you won’t think us too forward, Mr. Burnell, in writing to you. It was some twenty years ago and we weren’t at all sure you’d remember us, although we have kept in touch with your dear sister.”
“Charmed, Miss Everly.” He touched his lips to her aunt’s glove. “Indeed, I do recall you both. Rosamund and my mother appreciated your kindness and companionship that summer.”
“Oh my!” Blanche wasn’t usually one to giggle but appeared unable to control herself. “It was our pleasure of course, to extend the hand of friendship. Your mother was a timid thing, but she seemed to enjoy the company.”
Mr. Burnell gave no answer to that, instead turning his gaze upon Cornelia.
Eustace was beaming. “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, but 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 at least done a little reading, and he’d been observing her throughout his presentation. Most of those in the room had given their cordial attention, of course. 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 a little 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 all the pins and wrap a whole 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 even 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 he knew what women were like. No doubt, they enjoyed 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, he knew Rosamund was the one person left in the world that cared a damn about him and, for that reason alone, he’d play along with her, 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, but we’ll think of you, Mr. Burnell, enjoying your first proper English Christmas.”
Even 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 this was that 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 pleasure that would be. If your sister is amenable, we’d be over the moon and, if dear Rosamund is eager to host us, there can be no impropriety in our accepting the invitation.”
“As for Mr. Mortmain, he’s no impediment at all and hasn’t been these five years.” The impish aunt gave Cornelia a nudge to the ribs as she made to protest.
“Sadly, passed on,” mouthed the other aunt 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.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1) Page 36
