Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1)

by Anna Campbell

  She was about to return the way they’d come when she noticed they were standing directly in front of a rather large orangery and someone was inside. With a quick tap on the window, the little door was soon opened and Cornelia stepped inside, to welcome warmth and the scent of citrus blossoms.

  “Goodness, ye be shivering, ma’am.” The gardener gave a worried frown. “Here, take off that’n coat and rest beside the woodstove if it please ye; quickest way to get dry. I can send for your’n maid.”

  “No need.” Cornelia smiled, pulling off her gloves and settling on the little stool he pulled forward for her. “I’ll just sit here a few minutes as you suggest, then I’ll go and change.”

  “If ye be sure, I’ll leave ye be, then. ’Tis a pleasant spot, in any case; best in the Abbey, I do think.” Having placed another log within the burner, he turned away, taking the watering can with him.

  Cornelia was inclined to agree. The garden room was filled with trees in bloom and others in fruit—oranges and lemons on one side and apricots on the other. And, she had it all to herself.

  Not far off, a fountain was playing, blocking her view of what lay beyond, but she guessed the orangery extended the length of this side of the house. Truly, it was like some Mediterranean haven. She would have to bring Blanche and Eustacia to see.

  Unlacing her boots, she stretched her toes towards the stove, grateful to let its heat work on her damp stockings. Minnie seemed to have the same idea, laying prone on the warmed terracotta tiles. Cornelia closed her eyes. With all that had happened, she’d been feeling rather cross but this place was wonderfully soothing.

  So much so that Cornelia found herself jerking awake as her chin nodded forward.

  The snow had ceased falling and the Eastern horizon was now tinged violet through broken clouds. Even her feet were almost dry.

  No matter how comfortable she was, she ought to return to her room. However, she was just lacing her boots again when a voice drifted to her from somewhere beyond the fountain.

  “If one of you doesn’t catch his eye over the coming week, I simply won’t believe you’re trying. That Mortmain woman may have attached herself to Mr. Burnell for the time being but she’s unsuitiboble to become any respectable man’s wife. Everyone knows that Mortmain wouldn’t have touched her if it weren’t for the dowry her father put up.”

  Ice gripped Cornelia’s heart. The voice was Lady Pippsbury’s.

  “The Everlys like to think themselves a cut above, but they made their fortune little differently than my father made his—importing wines and spirits no less. Their connections cannot be compared with our own. You, my dears, have good breeding and gentiliquette.”

  One of the girls interjected. “But, Mama, wasn’t Lady Sturgeon an Everly before she married the viscount? She must have had some qualities to recommend her, to make such an excellent match.”

  “Piff paff! An animomoly! She was pretty enough in her youth and had a handsome dowry. Like all the Everly women, she lacks true refinement, as that business with the footmen amply demonstrated. Lord Sturgeon is a fool, or he’d have cast her off years ago.”

  “Footmen, Mama?”

  “Not for you to know, Paulina!” Lady Pippsbury was making no effort to lower her voice, the words carrying quite clearly to Cornelia’s burning ears.

  “You need only cast your mind to the actions of Mrs. Mortmain’s mother. Throwing over her husband to abscondicate with a penniless artist! I ask you! Flighty and featherbrained! Such recklessness runs in the blood. Mark my words, the daughter will come to a bad end herself. No loyalty, no integrity, and no sense.”

  Cornelia didn’t want to hear the poisonous words. Hadn’t she berated her aunts for eavesdropping on the train? One rarely heard good of oneself, as the saying went. But, how could she not listen?

  “Remember, girls. A true lady is not ruled by passions—for that way calamitysm lies. Now, we must hasten to the drawing room. Lady Studborne wishes us to hear her brattish offspring recite some twaddle, and we must oblige. The duchess’s good favour is sure to count for something with her brother, and there are other gentlemen to practise upon. None are as wealthy as Mr. Burnell, but Lord Fairlea is no paltry catch and the baron is not without means. We must cast our nets where the fish are flipping, my dears.”

  As their footsteps retreated, Cornelia let out a great gulping cry. She was familiar with smirks and smug expressions, titters behind fans, amused whispers, and sudden silences as she passed. She’d hardly ‘fitted in’, even before her mother’s departure. Afterward, women like Lady Pippsbury had treated her as if she were unworthy to associate with them; as if she were tainted—like a mud-spattered slipper.

  Men had regarded her with a more speculative eye. Her father had asserted that his wife was visiting an elderly relative in Paris, and continued to send Cornelia to dance parties and soirées. She hadn’t understood, at the time, why men who’d previously ignored her now stood much closer. Stray hands would touch her bottom; an arm would brush her breasts. She’d learnt to avoid quiet passageways and dimly lit terraces.

  Thus had Cornelia first learnt what it was to be the subject of sordid gossip, and to know that she was viewed as an apple falling from the same tree.

  And, all the while, her father had been negotiating—finding someone who’d take her regardless of the rumours, fishing for a man who wouldn’t be fussy, baited by a large enough dowry.

  Brushing aside her tears, she tiptoed after the Pippsburys. One thing was certain; she couldn’t face joining the other guests for whatever frivolity was underway. The duke and duchess would be busy and wouldn’t notice her absence. She’d retreat to her room, pleading a sore head if necessary.

  Only as she crossed the great hall, making her way towards the stairs, did she remember her arrangement to meet Burnell in the library.

  Meanwhile, in the duke’s study…

  Studborne clapped Ethan on the shoulder in sympathy. “Not a problem, old man; leave Rosamund to me.”

  Ethan hadn’t thought to confide his plans, but his brother-in-law had been effusive in his congratulations—asking even if they needed to send an announcement to The Times. He’d felt obliged to confess.

  Truth be told, he’d thrown himself into the whole make-believe with more gusto than he’d intended, and Cornelia’s irritation about it had been the icing on the cake. She was an easy one to rile. He hadn’t realized how easy it would be to convince everyone at the Abbey.

  But now they were panting for a formal announcement of engagement. If it weren’t so out of hand, he’d be finding it amusing. As it was, no matter how he was enjoying the charade, he’d have to wrap this thing up pretty fast.

  It wasn’t fair on Cornelia, and it sure as hell wasn’t what he’d had in mind.

  Half the wedding-hungry mamas and bright-eyed daughters Rosamund had invited had cried off, thanks to the weather, but his fooling around with the delicious Mrs. Mortmain hadn’t seemed to put off the ones who’d made it to the Abbey. Lady Pippsbury was like a rattler in the desert, fixing him with those snake-eyes of hers.

  Meanwhile, the one seated on his other side at lunch had left him in no doubt that nothing was off the menu; strings free satisfaction, and no two ways about it. Hers was the sort of deal he’d have happily taken advantage of once upon a time. It wasn’t like this was his first rodeo.

  But, for whatever reason, he wasn’t tempted.

  Darn it! Truth was, he didn’t set his mind on more than one woman at once, and the one he was keen on wasn’t offering her favours quite so freely.

  He hadn’t been lying about having his curiosity piqued. That little girl he’d scooted about with on the beach had grown into a damn fine woman and, for all that talk of her reputation being tarnished, she seemed a yard an’ a half more principled than most of the women he’d met.

  If he was going to sweet-talk anyone into his arms, it would be her—at least for the duration of this interlude. But, he wasn’t promising anything, and he’d no
expectations so, whatever happened, it would need to be at her instigation.

  It was a relief in any case, to have set things straight with Studborne. He’d understood straight off. Rosamund was the best sister in the world, but she was misguided on the romance front. Not every man wanted to get hitched—plain and simple.

  The duke had agreed to have a quiet word, downplaying Ethan’s interest. At the end of the festivities, he’d melt away, back to where he needed to be, and Cornelia could return to whatever she’d been occupying herself with before he rolled up.

  It only remained to put her in the picture.

  Chapter 9

  Ethan took the door leading directly from the duke’s study to the library, emerging into a shadowed corner, furthest from the window. Ethan had to concede, this was one room in the house that had his admiration. It smelt of leather and tobacco and, needless to say, of books. There were no tapestries or oil paintings in here, only endless volumes—ranged floor to ceiling on sturdy dark oak shelves. The floor, polished to a high shine, was scattered with Turkish carpets, and a desk of mahogany, with a large, wing-backed chair behind, sat under mullioned windows. The only other furniture was clustered about the fire, which crackled cheerily in the grate.

  As he stepped forward, he saw her head bent over her book. She was absorbed in reading, with legs tucked up beneath her and a green blanket wrapped around. For some reason, her coat was thrown over the back of the sofa and her outside footwear was kicked off by the hearth. Her dog, resting its chin on one boot, cocked its ears as he drew closer.

  So engrossed was she that she didn’t stir at his approach. At last, he coughed discreetly.

  “The illustrations in that one are particularly good.”

  She looked up, blinking rapidly, as if surprised to be reminded of where she was, and to find that he’d crept up on her so quietly.

  “Oh, it’s you.” Her brow creased; she sniffed, then composed her face into a more ladylike smile. “I thought you’d be here already. I’ve been waiting.”

  “I was caught up with Studborne—longer than I intended—but I see you found something worthwhile to pass the time, and got yourself pretty comfortable, too.”

  She closed the book—Catherwood’s Views of Ancient Monuments in Central America, Chiapas and Yucatan—and laid it aside. Stretching out her legs, she smoothed down her skirts.

  He was well aware she’d been angry with him before but she was in a whole other mood now. She’d been crying for one thing; that he could see plain as day.

  A heavy feeling pricked inside his chest. If he was responsible for her being upset, he deserved to feel bad. He’d treated this like a game, knowing he had nothing to lose. It wasn’t the same for women. That side of things needed a delicate hand, and he’d charged along like a bull following an irresistible flash of red cape.

  He’d come clean and let her know they could laugh off the whole harebrained scheme. He’d play things however she thought best and do his utmost to make it right for her. He was tempted to dive right in and tell her so—that he didn’t need her to pretend anymore. But, he could see that might make her riled, after all the things he’d said about needing her help.

  Better to put her at ease. Let her see that he valued her for something other than what she could do for him.

  He nodded towards the book. “It’s a first edition I sent to Studborne a few years back. Twenty-five colour lithographs, if I recall, reproduced from the watercolours he painted during his expeditions.”

  She glanced back at the cover. “They’re more accurate than Waldek’s. Though his are beautiful, they’re far too romantic and embellished. His illustration of the pyramid at Uxmal, for example, makes it look Egyptian, which I’m sure can’t be right. It makes far more sense for those temples and great cities to have been made by the native people of the area. It’s insulting, really, to attribute their construction to anyone else.”

  “That’s what I’ve been saying for years.” Burnell took a seat in the armchair opposite. “Waldek was full of horseshit, if you’ll pardon my French. Some people only see what they want to see; not what’s right in front of them. He put out a story that he lived in the ruins of Palenque for three years, but everyone I’ve met insists it was more like three months, and he spent most of that lazing around with his mistress.”

  Cornelia made as if to say something but her cheeks reddened and she looked away, making no reply to his coarseness.

  He could kick himself. Being in the jungle for the better part of ten years was no excuse for being crude.

  “I made a study of the site myself. It’s a fascinating place. As with the main pyramid at Palekmul, the steps number three hundred and sixty-five—the number of days in the Maya solar year. My theory is that the Maya viewed the summit temples as axis mundi, uniting the earth with heaven and the dark realm of the underworld. We know that human sacrifices took place, having found the bones, but there are sculptures too—depicting that very act—which bring to mind darker forces.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it’s possible.” Cornelia sat up a little straighter. “Mine is an amateur interest only, but one I’ve entertained since I was young, reading Maudslay’s exploration of Copan and Chichen Itza, then studying Mahler’s photographic records. I have copies of Lloyd Stephens, de Charnay and Holmes’ works. It’s clear that strict scientific methods are essential in excavating and documenting the sites, or the conclusions are mere fancy. And, I must say that I admire your efforts, Mr. Burnell, to preserve and protect your discoveries at Palekmul.”

  Ethan inclined his head in recognition of her words. He remembered the way she’d looked at the exhibits back in London. Reverentially, yes—but also with a critical eye. Now, her tone was impassioned.

  “But, it irritates me that women are so rarely mentioned, when they’ve clearly played their part—cooking and carrying and supporting the expeditions. The names of Livingstone, Stanley and Burton are well known around the world but, even in fiction, travel is seen through male eyes.” She paused only momentarily.

  “Consider the watercolour by Catherine Frere, the daughter of the governor of British South Africa. Her work shows women standing alongside the men in Stanley's expeditionary force, which travelled through the heart of the African continent, from Zanzibar to Angola.”

  Her colour was rising. Whoever had laced her stays needed to give her a bit more breathing room.

  “And then there’s Isabel Arundell, Burton’s wife. Besides tending livestock, she learnt to strip and reassemble guns, and to fence, so she could defend them while in the wilderness together.”

  “I take my hat off to them all, but particularly Isabel.” He could’ve told her a great deal on that subject, but he doubted she’d be comfortable hearing it. “Burton wasn’t easy to get along with, so I’ve been told. Isabel’s Catholic sensibilities were often distressed by his liberalism.”

  “Oh, I know all about that.” Cornelia blushed again and bit her lip.

  If she knew the half of it, he’d be surprised, but she’d clearly come across something relating to Burton’s translations. Perhaps her father had purchased them and failed to keep them effectively locked away.

  The Thousand and One Nights had made Burton 16,000 guineas—much of that success down to him embellishing the parts that couldn’t be read aloud and, of course, there was his version of the Kama Sutra. Rumour had it that the long-suffering Isabel had burnt most of Burton’s translation of The Perfumed Garden within hours of her husband breathing his last.

  Cornelia had perked up a little, anyway, and it was time for him to bite the bullet. Leaning in, he looked her right in the eye.

  She’d been feeling horribly sorry for herself, and angry, and all sorts of other things she was in no mood for examining.

  Burnell had led her into this situation—and was having a grand old time, while she was the one bearing the consequences. And, if there was one thing she was heartily sick of, it was being made to deal with other people’s expe
ctations of how she ought to be conducting herself.

  She was working up to telling him so—that he had some cheek using her as his ‘blind’, that any man worth his salt would be more considerate. However, before she had a chance, he jumped right in and said the one thing she couldn’t argue with.

  “Mrs. Mortmain, I owe you an apology.”

  Resting his elbows on his knees, he interlaced his fingers, looking as uncomfortable as any man did when admitting they’d been wrong.

  “I got myself carried away, but I hope you’ll see your way to forgiving me. Under other circumstances, I’d likely be courting you for real.” His mouth quirked, but she only stiffened in response. It wasn’t a subject she felt inclined to joke about.

  “I suggest we take a step back. I’ll make it clear that I hold you in the highest regard but that we’ve realized our situation is impossible. You deserve a man who’s happy to stick around and make babies, while my work takes me to the other side of the world—a place far too inhospitable for me to drag a wife, let alone a family.”

  He gave a heavy sigh. “I’ll say I got carried away. Jumped the gun. Spoke without consulting you. That’s all mostly true, anyhow.” He had the grace to look sheepish. “And I’ll do whatever I can to help, if one of the other gentlemen catches your eye. That Lord Fairlea, for instance; he looks like someone you might want to know better. I’ve squared things with Studborne, so he knows our attachment was never real, and he’s promised to speak to Rosamund on my behalf, so she knows why I made the damn fool decision in the first place.”

  Cornelia knew she should be relieved—ought to graciously accept Mr. Burnell’s apology, and be glad the pretence was over. But, all she could imagine was the delighted expression Lady Pippsbury would be wearing when she found out. She knew full well what the old dragon would say—that Burnell had come to his senses and had second thoughts, realizing that Cornelia wasn’t what he’d thought her. Perhaps, that someone had shared with him the sordid details of her past. Lady Pippsbury would gloat, her face triumphant, assured in her belief that Cornelia had never deserved such attentions in the first place.