Nicola Cornick - [Bluestocking Brides 01]

by The Notorious Lord

  And then Cory took off his shirt.

  One minute he had been engrossed in shovelling a pile of soil out of the trench, the next he had put down the spade and with one movement pulled the linen shirt over his head. The late afternoon sun shone upon him, burnishing his skin to gold. Rachel’s pencil fell from between her fingers and rolled away into the grass. She blinked, frowned and discovered that her mouth had fallen open. She closed it again quickly.

  In a way, the experience down by the river should have prepared her for such an eventuality and yet it had not. In that moment it was as though a flame had been lit within her and it was utterly impossible for her to view Cory with the detached eye of the artist. Instead she was compelled to see him as clearly as she had seen him once before, strong, virile and devastatingly attractive. The knowledge was like a blow to the stomach, knocking all the breath out of her.

  She looked down at her sketches and suddenly the idea of trying to humiliate Cory for his treatment of her seemed shabby and underhand and, above all, desperately sad. Rachel could see now that it had been a foolish idea from the very first, born of jealousy and frustration because she disliked the attentions that Cory was paying to other women. It was a mortifying thought and she understood neither why she should feel like that nor what she could do about it.

  And whilst she sat there, frozen between shock and horror and desire, the breeze caught the edge of her sketch-pad, scattering the pages in all directions. She made an instinctive snatch for it and Cory glanced up from where he was working and looked directly at her. He grabbed his shirt in one hand and leapt out of the trench.

  Rachel jumped to her feet, overcome by total panic. She did not know where to look or what to do first. The pages of the sketch-pad were dancing in the wind, evading her desperate attempts to gather them together. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Cory shrug himself back into his shirt and heard the crunch of the sand under his boots as he came up the slope towards her. It was bad enough that he should have caught her watching him, but if he realised that she had been drawing him as well…Rachel grabbed at the nearest pieces of paper with trembling fingers, feeling slightly sick as she saw Cory bend to pick up a couple of the sheets and glance at them with a casual interest.

  He joined her in the lee of the pines and held the pages out to her politely.

  ‘Hello, Rachel.’ He did not sound in the least bit out of breath from the climb up the slope.

  Rachel, in contrast, found herself gasping for air. ‘Oh! Um…hello, Cory!’ She snatched the paper from him and pressed it against her chest. ‘Ah…thank you!’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Cory said. ‘It is a windy day for sketching.’

  Rachel risked a quick look at the sheets he had found. They were the pictures of her parents. Thank God. That must mean that she had already scooped up the incriminating drawings of him and he need never see them.

  Cory was looking her over with cool appraisal. Rachel was horribly aware that her face was flushed and she was almost certain that she was sweating. She crumpled the drawings viciously in her hand. The idea of sketching him had been a terrible mistake from the first, in so many ways. Until now she had not quite realised just what a mistake. She was never, ever going to attempt to draw Cory again. Lady Sally’s book of watercolours would simply have to do without him.

  ‘I didn’t realise that you were up here,’ Cory continued, his silver gaze still on her face. ‘Have you been here long?’

  Rachel blushed harder. ‘Yes…no! That is, just long enough to do a few sketches…’ she gestured wildly ‘…of my parents, you know, and the scenery…’

  ‘The scenery,’ Cory repeated. A smile touched the corners of his mouth. ‘I see.’

  Rachel felt a sudden dread that he had, in fact, seen one of the drawings of himself. She fought down the urge to uncrumple the paper and check again.

  ‘I apologise,’ Cory said slowly, ‘if you saw me without my shirt. I would not want to offend a lady. Not after the last time.’

  Rachel’s throat was dry. She stared at him, remembering in vivid detail the hard muscle and smooth brown skin beneath the linen. Her fingers itched to touch him. ‘I…er…I was not offended,’ she said.

  Cory raised a brow. ‘So you did see me?’

  Rachel swallowed hard. ‘I…I scarce noticed. I was busy drawing.’

  Cory looked at her whilst the hot colour mounted into her face and her skin felt as though it was burning.

  ‘Well,’ he said, after a moment, ‘I am glad that I have seen you, Rae, because I wanted to speak to you about the ball. I am sorry I could not do so sooner, but I was called away at short notice.’

  Rachel turned away. She did not want to prolong their meeting. She wanted nothing more than to escape. And though she had wanted Cory to apologise, she now found that she did not wish to talk about the ball. She was too embarrassed at the situation he had almost caught her in.

  ‘There is no need—’ she began.

  Cory put his hand on her arm. ‘Please. There is a need. I was very discourteous to you, Rae, and I wish to apologise.’

  Rachel paused on the edge of flight. ‘It does not matter, Cory. As you said, we are such old friends that I dare say we need not stand on ceremony with one another.’

  Cory was watching her face. Now she saw the swift frown that darkened his own. ‘You sound very matter of fact, Rae,’ he said. ‘I had the impression that you were quite upset at the time.’

  Rachel bit her lip. ‘I was. But I feel a lot better now.’ The edges of the papers bit into her palm, reminding her of the need to hurry away. ‘Excuse me, please. I…There are things that I must do. The man will be here to mend the clock soon. Papa took it apart to prove some ridiculous law of physics and now there is sand in the mechanism.’

  Cory smiled at her and it felt like the sun coming out on a dark day. Rachel felt the helpless, strong attraction catch her as it had done when she was sketching, and she sought to cover it by bending to retrieve her pencil from the springy grass.

  ‘There is a card party at Mrs Stratton’s this evening,’ she said, a little at random. ‘Do you attend, Cory?’

  ‘Not tonight,’ Cory said. ‘Is James Kestrel escorting you?’

  Rachel turned her head sharply. ‘No, he is not. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No particular reason.’ Cory thrust his hands moodily into the pockets of his trousers. ‘I hear that you have been out driving together? I am surprised that Kestrel would risk an activity as dangerous as taking out a team of horses. He might damage himself.’

  Rachel tried not to smile. James Kestrel had, in fact, been a competent whip, but there was no doubt that he had been more concerned for his own comfort on the drive than that of his passenger.

  ‘Was this not how we started to quarrel last time, Cory?’ she enquired lightly. ‘There are certain topics that I feel we should avoid if we are to be comfortable together.’

  Cory leant one hand against the trunk of the nearest pine tree and scrutinised her from top to toe. ‘Such as our choice of dancing, driving and flirting partners?’ he said softly.

  ‘Precisely.’ Rachel tilted up her chin with hauteur. ‘I shall not comment on your flirtations if you do not pass judgement on mine.’

  Cory gave her his slow, wicked smile. ‘Why should we avoid discussing them, Rae,’ he challenged, ‘when we are good friends and claim to be able to talk about anything? Are we admitting that the nature of our friendship has changed?’

  Rachel felt the colour creep into her cheeks. Her mind was split; half of it was concentrating fiercely on not letting go of the papers in her hand, and the other was wrestling with the difficulties of engaging with Cory on this particular topic. It was not that she felt she was about to quarrel with him again. Far from it. She felt in danger of an entirely different sort, disturbed, disquieted and disconcerted by her feelings for him. She stared at him, quite unable to formulate a suitable response.

  The wind whipped the sheets of sketches out of her
hand for a second time.

  ‘Careful,’ Cory said. He put his boot on one piece of paper and bent to pick it up, almost colliding with Rachel, who had pounced on it quickly. Her heart was beating as quick as a drum and she crumpled the pages into a tiny ball.

  ‘Excuse me, Cory,’ she said quickly. ‘I really must go and get ready.’

  ‘You are always rushing away from me,’ Cory said gently. He smiled and Rachel felt even more heated. ‘Some time soon, Rae, we must spend some time together.’

  ‘I…’ Rachel was not sure how she felt about that. Spending time with Cory now felt like inviting danger. She could not look at him. She felt edgy and nervous, and assured herself that it was entirely to do with the incriminating piece of paper screwed up in her hand rather than anything to do with Cory himself.

  ‘That would be pleasant,’ she said rapidly. ‘Excuse me, please…’ It came out like a plea.

  Cory nodded slowly. He touched her cheek, his fingers cool against her hot skin, then turned on his heel and strolled back down towards the excavation. When he had gone five paces, he stopped and turned back.

  ‘Oh, by the way, Rachel,’ he said, ‘I have been giving some thought to what you said about Lady Sally’s book of watercolours and I think that you are right. I have been a little…ungenerous…in refusing to take part. I think that I might sit for my portrait after all.’

  Rachel gave a little gasp. It was all that she could do to avoid looking guiltily at the paper she was clutching so tightly. She attempted a nonchalant tone, but it came out rather high and breathless. ‘Oh, do you think so, Cory? That would be nice.’

  ‘I am glad that you approve.’ Cory was smiling at her gently. ‘That is, of course, unless you would prefer to sketch me yourself? As you are taking a renewed interest in your drawing…’

  Rachel clutched convulsively at her sketchpad and her pencil snapped, the two ends shooting off into the undergrowth. ‘I fear that my skill could not equal the subject,’ she said tightly.

  ‘No?’ Cory said. ‘If you are sure.’ He sauntered off down the path to the excavation and Rachel could hear him whistling under his breath as he went. She was sure that he knew exactly what she had been doing.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Ladies, please!’ Lady Sally Saltire clapped her hands together like a schoolmistress reproaching her recalcitrant flock. ‘How are we to discuss The Enchantress when you are none of you paying attention?’

  The members of the reading group were seated on the lawn at Saltires, under a large white marquee. It was another scorching day and it was a pleasure to be out of doors where the faint breeze from the river brought at least a little relief from the blistering heat. The air was warm and full of the heady scents of an English summer: the sharp sweetness of cut grass, the dry, nose-tickling smell of lavender and the faint pale perfume of the pink roses that tumbled over the arbour to their left. It made Rachel feel very somnolent.

  Lady Sally had arranged for iced lemonade and almond biscuits to be served to her guests and the ladies had settled into their chairs and opened their books at chapter twelve, beginning an animated discussion of whether Sir Philip Desormeaux was genuinely in love now, or whether he was merely infatuated. Lady Sally contended that their hero, like many a man, was fickle and afraid to commit himself. Lady Benedict chided her for her cynicism and Miss Lang said that, for her part, she found the book slow and wished the author would simply get on with the story.

  It was at this point that a counter-attraction occurred and the attention of all the ladies was, to a greater or lesser extent, distracted. Rachel was the first to notice it. Around the side of the house had come Cory Newlyn, accompanied by Mr Daubenay. The artist set his easel up on the lawn facing the rose arbour and instructed his subject to stand on the step under the archway and adopt the attitude of a man scanning distant horizons.

  Rachel smothered a giggle. Evidently the idea was to create the impression of a fearless adventurer striding out across the desert, but since Cory was standing in Lady Sally’s rose garden and one of her prized Austrian Copper roses appeared to be growing out of his head, the effect was decidedly more prosaic. Furthermore, she could tell that even at this distance Cory thought the whole thing ridiculous. There was something stiff in the way that he held himself, an impatience that was barely concealed. And when he saw the ladies watching him, he positively scowled.

  They soldiered on for a while longer but when Cory, on the instructions of Mr Daubenay, took his jacket off and slung it casually over one shoulder, all concentration was lost. Helena Lang’s mouth was open and even Deborah Stratton had to be recalled to the discussion twice. Rachel was annoyed to find herself as culpable as anyone else. She tried to concentrate on Sir Philip’s infatuation with Miss Milward and only succeeded in finding her thoughts suspended as she considered Cory’s lithe figure. She looked up to find Lady Sally’s amused gaze resting on her.

  ‘I cannot tell you, Miss Odell,’ Lady Sally said, ‘how grateful I am to you for persuading Lord Newlyn to pose for my watercolour book. I do believe the credit must all be yours.’ She closed her book with a snap. ‘And the blame for disturbing my reading group must rest entirely with him. Johnson!’ She called one of the footmen over. ‘Pray ask Mr Daubenay to take his sketching elsewhere. His subject is distracting my ladies!’

  It seemed, however, that the mood of the group was broken. Even after Cory and Mr Daubenay had walked away to take up another position in the walled garden—locked in and out of sight, Lady Sally said—the ladies could not settle back to their discussions. In exasperation, Lady Sally sent them all home to read the next few chapters on their own.

  ‘Pray be prepared to make more of a contribution next week,’ she said severely, on parting from her guests, but there was a twinkle in her eye.

  Rather than take the path by the river, Rachel accepted a ride from Olivia and Deborah as far as Midwinter Mallow village. The movement of the gig at least set up a small, refreshing breeze, which was very welcome on so hot a day. As they drove the ladies quizzed her about her matrimonial affairs, in which they had taken a proprietary interest. Deb maintained that James Kestrel was Rachel’s most ardent admirer and, since Rachel had promised herself not to share the information of James’s flirtation with Helena, she could do nothing more than laughingly disagree.

  ‘Indeed, Rachel,’ Olivia commented, ‘you have quite a proliferation of admirers, do you not, just like Sir Philip Desormeaux in The Enchantress!’

  ‘And as is the case with Sir Philip,’ Rachel said, ‘I am not content with any of them. Mr Lang is a wastrel, Mr Kestrel is a bore and Sir John is an out-and-out rake. He tells me that he wishes to marry, and indeed he may do so, but I doubt that would encourage him to give up his other amorous pursuits.’

  Olivia sighed and encouraged the fat pony to a faster trot. The gig gathered speed down the hill towards Midwinter Mallow.

  ‘That would certainly appear to put him out of the picture,’ she agreed. ‘Some women do not regard it, but I confess that it would not be to my taste for my husband to be unfaithful.’

  Rachel shook her head despondently. ‘I do not understand why it is so difficult to find a respectable man in the Midwinter villages,’ she said. ‘All the gentlemen are completely unacceptable!’

  ‘Now if you were looking for a rogue and a scoundrel you would be positively overwhelmed with candidates,’ Deb said, laughing.

  They rounded the bend at the bottom of the hill.

  ‘You may find,’ Olivia said shrewdly, ‘that these so-called rogues of yours are sound men underneath the surface.’

  ‘Oh, pooh!’ Deborah said. ‘Lord Richard Kestrel of steady disposition?’

  Olivia gave her sister a speaking look and Deborah flushed under her scrutiny.

  ‘I am sure,’ Rachel said hastily, ‘that I understand what Deborah means, Lady Marney. I do not know Lord Richard well, but I can state with certainty that Lord Newlyn, for example, could never be described as of stead
y disposition.’

  Olivia was smiling faintly. ‘Maybe not, but does he possess a sense of humour, Miss Odell?’

  Rachel laughed. ‘Oh, indeed he does.’

  ‘And does he also possess sufficient humility?’

  ‘Not at all. He is quite arrogant at times.’

  Now it was Olivia’s turn to laugh. ‘Yet that can be quite an attractive trait in a gentleman. Surely you would not deny that in comparison with Sir John Norton, for example, Lord Newlyn is charmingly self-deprecating?’

  Rachel thought about it and she was obliged to admit that there was some truth in what Olivia was saying.

  ‘Well…’ she said cautiously, ‘it is true that Cory—Lord Newlyn—is not self-important in the same way as Sir John.’

  ‘And you think him attractive?’

  Rachel blushed. ‘I suppose I can see that he is.’

  ‘That does not signify,’ Deborah objected. ‘One would have to be dead not to find Lord Newlyn attractive!’

  ‘Very well.’ Olivia conceded the point. ‘But you like him, Rachel? You esteem him as a man?’

  Rachel frowned. She realised that her feelings for Cory Newlyn were becoming very complicated. She felt for him an emotion far stronger than mere esteem. She liked Cory tremendously. She always had done. The reason she had regretted their quarrel so much was because she valued Cory’s friendship highly and could not bear to lose it. In fact, she did not merely like Cory. She loved him…The colour flooded her face.

  ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘I hold him in the highest esteem.’

  ‘So,’ Olivia said inexorably, ‘in point of fact, Lord Newlyn possesses almost all the qualities you would look for in a gentleman. Whereas Sir John and Mr Lang and Mr Kestrel are sadly lacking.’

  Rachel was saved from replying, for the gig was pulling to a halt at the crossroads in Midwinter Mallow.

  ‘We should all go on a trip to the seaside,’ Deborah said, fanning herself lazily, ‘if the weather holds. Would you like that, Rachel?’