Adopting her sweetest tone of voice, Cornelia cooed and coaxed. “Come now, Minnie. Good dog. You know I love you.”
Minnie stood up again.
“That’s it. Over here.” Cornelia reached out her hand but, at just that moment, her nose began to tickle. A sneeze was coming.
Without a handkerchief to catch the exhalation, it whooshed towards Minnie, taking a whirl of snowflakes with it.
In protest, the terrier hightailed in the opposite direction, leaving a trail of footprints in her wake.
“No!” Cornelia wailed. “Minnie!”
Damnation! Gritting her teeth, Cornelia scuffed through the snow at a brisker pace.
Luckily, Minnie stopped. If Cornelia was swift enough, she might grab her before the terror shot off again.
Though her hands were numb, Cornelia kept going. The terrier glanced back but stayed put, raising her paw to the window she'd stopped beside.
At last, Cornelia flung herself forward, landing atop the little dog and pulling her tightly into her arms. Burying her face in the soft fur, she sent up a silent prayer of thanks.
She had only to shamble back the way she’d come. However, she saw suddenly why Minnie had stopped. The space on the other side of the glass was illuminated by the soft glow of lantern light.
Though the panes were slightly misted, she could discern that the room was stark, the walls and floor white-tiled. On one side was a sink with a large mirror; on the other was a bath.
A bath filled with water.
A bath with someone in it.
Someone with dark hair tousled and damp, and shoulders astonishingly broad.
And then, she was sucking in her breath because the someone was standing up—and his body was long and lean and distinctly masculine. Her eyes took in his tautly muscled back and trim waist, down to the firm haunch of male bottom, dimpled on each side.
Oh my!
The someone was stepping out of the tub and turning around, revealing the sort of sculpted form she’d seen only among the Greek and Roman statues of the British Museum. Except that those marble gods lacked the light dusting of hair on forearms and legs. They had none curling about their chest, nor the darker line, angling downward, leading to…
For a moment, Cornelia stopped breathing altogether.
Taking a towel, he rubbed vigorously through his hair, then over every part she’d catalogued.
Minnie, with the piece of matted fluff still clamped in her jaws, gave a muffled yelp, protesting at the strength of her mistress’s embrace.
As the object of her attention wrapped the towel around his waist, he looked up—directly into Cornelia’s eyes.
“What the hell are you doing out there?” Burnell opened the window and Minnie leapt straight through.
Wasting no time, he grabbed Cornelia beneath the arms, pulling her in. Instinctively, she placed her hands on his bare shoulders.
“You’re like ice!” He jerked away. “And your skirts are sodden.”
Yanking the window closed, he looked at her as if she were a madwoman. Cornelia could hardly blame him.
“It’s c-complicated.” She struggled to keep her voice from emerging as a squeak. He’d just caught her looking at him in the altogether. Spying on him while he bathed. Ogling his naked body.
He was partially covered now, but she’d seen everything—and there had been quite a lot to see.
She ought to be mortified, and she was. But, rather than scooping up Minnie and exiting the room, she was simply looking at him, in the soft light of the lantern, his skin glistening damp.
He held up his hands. “Don’t try to explain. Whatever it is can wait. First off, you need to get out of those wet clothes and into this bath. It’s the quickest way to warm up.”
Cornelia clutched her arms to her chest. “I’ll do no such th-th-thing.” Though the room was wonderfully warm—a light steam rising from the bath—her teeth were chattering. “P-please stand aside. Minnie and I will retreat to my bed chamber.”
He scanned about, giving a start as he clapped sight on the bright-eyed terrier.
“Dear God! What’s in her mouth?”
He bent down, peering at the bedraggled, drool-soaked scrap hanging from one side of the dog’s jaw. “Is it…still alive?”
He was treated to a low growl and a flash of fang.
Burnell stepped back. “It’s all yours. Forget I mentioned it.”
He glanced at Cornelia. “Come on, scoot around. I’ll unhook those buttons, and pull the laces loose on whatever’s holding you tight under there. Then, I’ll leave you be. I promise.”
He looked sincere enough, and the bath did look inviting. Nodding, she turned around. The circulation was returning to her fingers, making them throb horribly. Even if she managed to reach her own buttons, she wouldn’t have a hope of unfastening them.
His breath teased upon the nape of her neck as he wrestled with the tiny pearls closing the back of her bodice. She was conscious of how close he was standing. All that covered his nakedness was the towel, and she was all too aware of what lay beneath that meagre covering.
“Damn fingers aren’t made for little fancies like these.” He let out a grunt of frustration. “Ah, there we go. The next one’s coming easier now.”
Cornelia couldn’t help but imagine what his fingers were made for…
His knuckle grazed her bare back, just above the rear yoke and an image rushed upon her of him brushing his lips to her neck and shoulder, whispering in her ear, telling her where else he wanted to kiss her...
She was startled from her reverie by his hands resting firm on her shoulders.
“All done. You should be able to wriggle out under your own volition from here on."
His voice drifted over from somewhere near the door. “There’s a fresh towel on the stand and, don’t forget, lock this behind me. You’re only two down from your bed chamber, with the linen cupboard between, so you should be able to scoot back safely enough, if you take a good look before committing yourself to the corridor.”
With that, the latch clicked shut behind him.
Cornelia caught a glimpse of herself in the misted mirror; someone she only half recognized looked back.
Chapter 10
Standing before his mirror, Ethan wrangled with his bow tie for the fifth time.
He couldn’t stop thinking about her.
God only knew what she’d been doing outside the window when he’d been bathing. However much she might secretly want to see him in the buff, risking life and limb crawling along that ledge seemed an extreme way to go about it.
Hell, she’d only to ask if she wanted to while away a few hours doing something other than playing cribbage, or charades, or whatever kept the rest of Studborne’s guests amused while stuck inside.
As for having that dog of hers tucked under her arm…
It was a story he looked forward to hearing—and just the tonic he’d need after enduring an evening listening to Lady Pippsbury murdering the dictionary while extolling the virtues of her daughters.
In point of fact, he’d been indulging in a little masculine musing the whole time he’d been in the tub—and Mrs. Mortmain had played a starring role. Not that he’d be letting that slip.
He doubted she was anywhere near the prude she made herself out to be, but she mightn’t appreciate knowing what he’d been imagining her doing to him while he lay back in that gloriously hot water.
Discovering that she’d been looking in on him while he’d been satisfying that particular fantasy had shaken him up alright. As to how long she’d been out there, he could only speculate, but he was pretty sure she must have seen him get out of the tub.
His concern had been to get her safely inside and warmed up, but he had to admit that pulling her into his arms—albeit briefly—had stirred his blood right up again. That, and knowing she’d been watching him.
The thought appealed to him on a whole other level—and she’d enjoyed it, he was mighty sure. She�
��d been a married woman, after all, so it wasn’t like she hadn’t seen a man in all his glory before.
Anyways, he’d kept himself gentlemanly, for which he had to congratulate himself. Not that it had been easy. His hands had been shaking so much unfastening her damn buttons, he’d almost given up and high-tailed it out of there.
He couldn’t help wondering how she might have reacted had he dropped a kiss on those pretty shoulders. Most likely, he’d have gotten a slap across the face for his trouble—and he’d have deserved it, too, having promised not to take liberties.
He’d gotten out of there just in time, or he wouldn’t have been able to hide what was going on under his towel.
Without warning, desire welled up, hot and sweet and fiery.
Damn it! He’d have to think of that tapioca pudding the English served that looked like phlegm—or flabby tripe, served cold and congealing.
With a sigh, he tugged at the length of silk again. He needed to get a grip on himself—in every sense—and keep strictly to what she’d asked of him. Sweet as it would be to take a bite of that peach, he knew a single taste would never be enough.
The beguiling Mrs. Mortmain wanted him to appear enamoured, so that’s what he’d do. He just needed to remember that the sooner he was out of here and back where he belonged, the better.
Everything was mortifillicating—as Lady Pippsbury would say.
Entering the drawing room with her aunts, Cornelia found herself searching for Burnell, and was both relieved and vexed to find him yet to arrive. Certainly, it was going to be awkward to look him in the eye.
She couldn’t help picturing him as he’d been little more than an hour ago.
She’d taken for granted that most people looked better clothed than otherwise, but he was most definitely an exception to the rule.
Accepting a glass of sherry, Cornelia drifted in her aunts’ wake, feeling just as vulnerable as she ever had. There was no denying that having Burnell around made her feel more at ease. He, at least, didn’t pretend she was invisible. He teased her mercilessly at times, but without spite—and she doubted anyone would make a disparaging remark about her while he was in earshot.
She glanced warily at Lady Pippsbury, but the marchioness was far too occupied to turn her attention to Cornelia. She’d cornered Lord Studborne and appeared to be doing a great deal of simpering.
Tonight, she was sporting a surprising number of lace ruffles on her evening gown, in various shades of citrus, and had dressed her daughters in matching ensembles.
Cornelia felt a pang of sympathy for the girls. It was no fun being hauled round like a prize sheep, hoping to catch a man’s eye.
This time, Cornelia resolved, she’d be the one taking stock of the possibilities, such as they were.
Eustacia had promised to have a quiet word with the duchess, to place Lord Fairlea at her side rather than the baron, and she did wonder how far Burnell might be right—regarding other men’s interest being heightened while he acted his part as a love-struck beau.
Across the room, Colonel Faversham was in rather loud conversation with Reverend Nossle, reciting some tale of derring-do from his time among the Boers.
He’d found something else to cover his pate, Cornelia noticed. It was only sensible to travel with a spare, although this model fitted less well, tufting strangely above his ears, and was a rather alarming shade of orange. The original was drying on the mantle in her room, well out of Minnie’s reach, and Nancy had promised to slip it into the colonel’s room at some point in the evening.
He was looking rather put out, as well he might, but the alteration in his appearance seemed to have passed by her aunts.
“Very good teeth.” Eustacia bent her head close to Blanche’s, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And I am partial to a decent moustache.”
“I wouldn’t say no,” Blanche whispered back. “And there’s something to be said for a man with only one eye.”
Cornelia spluttered on her Amontillado.
“Do try and conduct yourself with more decorum, Cornelia,” chided Aunt Eustacia. “Skewering oneself on a bayonet is no laughing matter, even when the weapon is your own.”
“Very unfortunate.” Blanche nodded sadly. “Such are the perils of searching for the latrine on a moonless night—but don’t mention it, dear. Men can be very sensitive about these things.”
Cornelia made a concerted effort not to look at the colonel. “I really hadn’t noticed anything was amiss.”
“Finest Murano glass apparently, and made to order, but has a tendency to expel itself if he becomes overexcited. Rolled right across the table and onto the floor during our final hand of whist. The duchess’s dog might have swallowed it if she hadn’t been quick off the mark.”
As if on cue, the colonel grinned in their general direction and beetled over.
At the same moment, a drawling voice spoke to the right of Cornelia’s ear. “Why, Mrs. Mortmain, how ravishing you look.”
“Now, now,” admonished Colonel Faversham, reaching them just as Burnell raised her gloved hand to his lips. “No ravishing until the connubial night, don’t you know!” He guffawed at his joke. “Although I do concur. Your gown is most becoming Mrs. Mortmain; red for passion and all that! You’re a lucky man, Burnell.”
Cornelia took several deep breaths. Though she much preferred compliments on her intellectual or practical abilities, and the colonel’s comments were vastly inappropriate, she’d hardly put on the crimson gown without some hope of recognition. It had been part of her trousseau on marrying Oswald and even he had intimated, in a rather lurid way, that the dress suited her.
Blanche had insisted she wear her drop ruby earrings and had refused to produce the matching red velvet slippers unless Cornelia permitted her to dab a little scarlet on her lips.
The neckline of the bodice revealed far more of her shoulders and décolleté than she was comfortable with but, in the soft candlelight, she couldn’t refute that the effect was pleasing.
Burnell turned to the colonel with a slow smile. “I wouldn’t dream of jumping the gun with a lady of Mrs. Mortmain’s character. She deserves to be put on a pedestal by the man who claims her as his own, so it’s just as well she has a good head for heights.”
“Heights, eh?” The colonel looked thoughtful. “Not so good with them myself. Studborne’s children were climbing a ladder to decorate the tree on the morning I arrived. Made me quite queasy, I must say—and one can’t be too careful as one’s years advance. Can’t afford to put out my hip—or not without company for the bed rest, at any rate.”
Blanche and Eustacia tittered as he gave them a saucy wink.
“Mrs. Mortmain has no anxiety on that score.” Burnell placed her hand in the crook of his arm. “Wherever she stumbles, I’ll be here to catch her.”
Cornelia felt herself go hot and cold. No one seemed to be taking anything amiss but Burnell’s mention of heights could only be a reference to her earlier escapade—and she’d practically fallen through the window, straight into his arms. She did hope he was going to behave himself. It would be just like him to tell them she was training as a trapeze artist for Barnum’s Circus.
However, before any more could be said, Baron Billingsworth, a large glass of whisky in hand, sauntered over to join them. He launched directly into a eulogy on the merits of expanding the Empire.
“Not to diminish your achievements, Burnell.” The baron gave him an imperious look. “But everyone knows that the greatest explorers are British. It is they who have charted the unmapped wildernesses—from the Arctic to the heart of the African continent—in their quest to turn the map pink.”
“I can hardly argue against their sense of pre-eminence, nor their egotism.” Burnell shrugged. “But even the most intrepid didn’t venture forth on their lonesome—not if they wanted to return in one piece, that is.”
“He does have a point, Billingsworth.” The colonel took a thoughtful sip of his own aperatif. “Loc
al guides are invaluable in enemy terrain, interpreting in several languages and negotiating safe passage. Natives aren’t always friendly. Better to get them on one’s side.”
“I’ll give you that Burnell, but I hope you won’t be giving us that poppycock about your precious Palekmul having been built by loin-clothed savages. They’re far too primitive, as any fool can see. I refuse to believe they could construct such elaborate cities.”
Cornelia felt the man at her side stiffen. Was the baron baiting him on purpose? Anyone who knew about Burnell’s work was aware that he advocated for indigenous tribes having been far more advanced than those living on the British Isles at the time, and that the current residents of the region were their true descendants.
Several moments passed, the baron looking increasingly triumphant and, when Burnell spoke, she could tell he was fighting to contain his temper.
“The generations succeeding those who built the great Mayan monuments—who mastered mathematics and language, astronomy and the visual arts, not to mention the perfection of the calendar—live on, farming the land and travelling the same rivers. To claim otherwise is not only inaccurate but insulting to the millions who uphold the traditions of their ancestors. Though the region was Christianized several hundred years ago, the old ways are revered in a hybrid between European Catholicism and Mayan mysticism. In many places, shrines to the Virgin Mary and the goddess Ixchel are interchangeable.”
“Pah!” The baron’s lip curled in disdain. “That proves nothing. Great the original architects might once have been but whatever enabled those people to rise to supremacy, they’ve long since been brought low—through disease perhaps, or some other weakness of their blood. The peasants who remain are simpletons, and nothing you say will alter the fact.”
Drawn by the baron’s raised voice, others in the room turned their way.
Cornelia was aware of Ethan bunching his fist. Surely, he wouldn’t resort to settling a debate of this nature through physical means?
The Lady's Guide to Scandal Page 10