The Lady's Guide to Scandal

by Emmanuelle de Maupassant

  Suddenly, the anger ebbed away, replaced by a tide of sadness. She couldn’t bear any more wasted years.

  Throughout her story, he’d sat quietly, letting her speak. He didn’t appear shocked or disappointed but the face looking back at her seemed older, and so much wearier.

  “You’re preachin’ to the choir, Nellie.” He gave a half-hearted smile, but the quirk of his mouth held no mirth. “My Pa thought providing the material things fulfilled his end of the bargain just fine, and he was free to do whatever the hell he wanted on account of that. If my Ma dared to suggest different, the ball of his fists put her straight.”

  Ethan’s eyes were dead inside and the way he was speaking…she’d never heard him like this.

  “When she brought us to England, it wasn’t just to find a titled husband for Rosie, though that’s what she wanted us to believe. She was running away, Cornelia—and when my father put two and two together, he sent one of his men to fetch me back. Just me, mind you. Rosamund and my mother were left to fend for themselves.”

  He gave a doleful sigh. “Pa made a point of telling me all about that—how he’d never forgive them for plotting against him and that all women were scheming varmints. He left them without a cent, and I wasn’t even allowed to write, but Rosie got a letter to me by sending it to our cook. That’s how I learnt Ma had died and Rosie’d found Benedict to care for her.”

  The words were toneless, as if he were reciting a story about someone else, rather than himself.

  “When I finally worked up the guts to walk out and he had that seizure, I felt nothing.”

  Standing, Burnell took the poker and stabbed at the fire. “Actually, that’s not true. I did feel something.” Another vicious jab sent sparks flying. “I was glad, Cornelia, and I hoped he suffered with every last breath.”

  His expression had grown harder. “Funny thing was that, despite all the women he slept with and the children he fathered over the years, I was the only true heir to all that money he cared so much about—and the old bastard had no intention of marrying again to secure another legitimate son. So, in the end, I had my revenge.”

  Cornelia’s mouth was too dry to speak but it didn’t seem to matter. Burnell had plenty to say all on his own.

  “I vowed to see everything he worked for stripped to nothing. That’s why I sold it all—why every dirty, oil-soaked dollar has gone to Palekmul.”

  The soft lips that had kissed her so tenderly that morning were set in a thin line. “My father’s poison dies with me. I won’t let there be more sons to carry on his line. Even if I took you to Palekmul, that’s one thing that’s non-negotiable, Cornelia.”

  She wanted to shake him and hug him all at the same time. Couldn’t he see that he was only hurting himself, letting his hatred for his father control him.

  Her pulse was racing but this was too important to shy away from. “That’s an excuse, Ethan, and you know it! Maybe you’re afraid of being hurt, or trapped, or disappointed, I don’t know—but, all this time, you’ve been badgering me to ‘be brave’ when you’re a coward yourself.”

  Ethan regarded her coolly. “You’re right, Cornelia, and you deserve to be loved without limitation or rules, but I can’t make those promises.”

  A horrible, lurching pain rose from Cornelia's stomach. It wouldn’t matter what she said, or how she promised to love him if he wasn’t ready to let go of the past.

  She’d let herself believe there was a true connection between them but it had all been smoke and mirrors. He’d warned her from the beginning; she’d been a diversion only, to keep other women at bay.

  The love affair was fake, regardless of how her imagination had taken hold—a ridiculous scheme between the adventurous, free-spirited, handsome Ethan Burnell, respected in his field and…she might have called herself a mouse before, someone who was more comfortable hiding away than being the focus of attention, but she was just herself.

  She didn’t want to apologize for being ordinary.

  No one took particular notice of her nor sought her opinion, even when she had one to give, but it didn’t mean she was ‘less’ than she should be.

  Being herself was enough.

  A sudden vision came to her of Lady Studborne bent over the basket of puppies, each small face pressed to their mother’s belly—and that cheeky little Jack Russell, Hercules, sitting proudly next to his brood.

  Cornelia would never have babies of her own—because the only man she could imagining sharing that love with was Ethan.

  Swallowing her tears, she made herself stand to face him. “If you can’t see beyond your obsession, there’s nothing real between us. I deserve better, and I’m going to find it. There are other men besides you, Ethan Burnell.”

  Her breath hitched. There would never be anyone else; not for her. But he didn’t need to know that.

  With as much dignity as she could muster, she turned her back and walked away.

  Chapter 18

  Ethan struck the cue ball, sending it ricocheting off the cushion, knocking the black violently into the top corner pocket.

  A hard ride on one of Studborne’s horses would have suited him better but he could hardly justify risking the legs of one the duke’s stallions just because he was in a foul mood.

  Studborne himself was busy with the rigging of curtains on the mock-theatre he’d erected for the children.

  As for the crypt, he’d promised to accompany Ethan down there in the new year, but not before.

  He reasoned that it had sat shut away all these years, so a few more days would hardly matter.

  Ethan was in no position to argue.

  Billiards would have to do, though he was tempted to pick up the nearest ball and lob it through the window.

  “Nicely played, Burnell.” Lord Fairlea updated the score. “That’s ten shillings I’m afraid, Colonel. Settle now or play on?”

  “I should know better than to cross cues with this young’un. He has the luck of the devil.” Colonel Faversham raised his hands in surrender. “Not so easy to play with the one eye, of course.”

  “You were a worthy opponent, sir—and no need to reckon up. Add my winnings to your tip for the household staff when the time comes.” Ethan dipped his head to the colonel.

  “Generous of you, I do say.” The colonel extended his hand.

  “What about you, Billingsworth?” Lord Fairlea was already setting up the rack to position the balls anew. “Fancy your chances?”

  The baron stubbed out his cigar and took a new cue from the stand. “You’ll find I’m not so easy to beat, having both my oculars. Besides which, I need some respite from all that caterwauling of carols. Damn women love to sing, don’t they? Only thing interesting about it is seeing who opens their mouth widest.”

  Leaning over, he took the break shot, pocketing a red.

  Lord Fairlea raised an eyebrow. “Bit vulgar, old chap.”

  “Driven to it,” grumbled Billingsworth, pausing to refresh his glass with another inch of whisky. “I’ve had enough of making polite conversation with seasoned nags.”

  Colonel Faversham frowned. “I’ll ask you to keep that talk to yourself, Billingsworth. His Grace’s guests are all ladies, whether they bear a title or not, and they deserve to be spoken of with respect.”

  “Keep your wig on, Colonel.” Billingsworth grinned wickedly.

  He positioned his bridge and sent the yellow home with a gentle bank shot. “I’m not stepping on your toes. I don’t mind what shade of brown the fluff is, but I draw the line at grey.”

  “Damn cur! I won’t stand here and be insulted. What say you, Burnell. Those are your fiancé’s aunts this toad is disparaging.”

  “If the shoe fits, I’ll wear it, but you don’t fool me, Colonel. You’d as readily grind that old harridan Pippsbury as that scrawny pair.” Billingsworth chalked his cue and gave a loud guffaw. “The old ones are more grateful, I’ll give you that.”

  “Steady there.” Ethan took hold of the colonel’s
arm. “He’s not worth your time, Faversham. He’s goading you. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

  The baron swirled the golden liquid around his glass and narrowed his eyes. “There is one filly I’d gladly take a run at. Two peaches ripe for squeezing and a hungry look about her. She’s bound to make good bedsport—but perhaps you know that already, Burnell.”

  Letting go of the colonel, Ethan took a step towards Billingsworth. “Apologize, or I’ll make you squirm on the ground like the worm you are.”

  “Only saying what everyone’s thinking. Tongues will wag, you know, and the woman is hardly a diamond of the first water. Not that it should bother you. Americans may have money but you’ve no blood to recommend you. Can’t afford to be too fussy.”

  Ethan clenched his fists. He’d aimed to take the high road but his mood was black and no one spoke like that without inviting a good pummelling.

  A shot between the eyes would be more like it, and handling a gun was one thing his father had taught him well.

  The baron moved around the table, putting some space between them, but he was still leering. “Have a mind when you’re off gallivanting, Burnell. Perhaps I’ll pay a call on that lovely bride of yours while she’s languishing in Portman Square. Cheer her up a bit.”

  As Ethan lunged, the baron ducked left, surprisingly agile for one of his age, and gave Ethan a jab to the ribs. Dancing back and forth on his toes, he presented his fists. “Hit me if you can, but I warn you, I’ve been an expert pugilist since my Oxford days.”

  “Is that right?” Ethan spat on his own fist and planted it full centre on Billingsworth’s smug face, sending the baron staggering back.

  His next punch landed on the side of his opponent’s head, dropping him to his knees.

  A final push to the chest with the sole of Ethan’s foot sent the baron sprawling onto his back, spluttering and gasping.

  It was all over within seconds.

  “Dear God!” Lord Fairlea leapt forward.

  The baron lay recumbent, clutching his nose and cursing, crimson oozing between his fingers.

  “He’s fine.” Colonel Faversham sent Ethan an approving nod. “The cad deserves that and more.”

  “Speak ill of Mrs. Mortmain or any other lady in this house and I’ll bloody more than your nose, Billingsworth.” Ethan looked at him with loathing. “I doubt Studborne will throw you out the door, but I damned well will.”

  The baron glowered back, but wisely kept his mouth shut.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen.” Ethan bowed to Fairlea and Faversham. “I’ve somewhere else to be.”

  Ethan was shaking as he took the stairs two by two.

  Was that the sort of man Cornelia had thought to marry—some arrogant bastard like Billingsford? Even that milksop Fairlea wasn’t much better. She deserved respect from someone who treated her like an equal—a marriage at least as harmonious as that his sister enjoyed with Studborne.

  She deserved a man who would fight for her.

  His anger bubbled hot inside—not just for how the baron had dared speak, but anger with himself.

  He’d buried so much bitterness and resentment over the years. His father had been a selfish, vindictive, merciless asshole and now he was dead, along with the woman he’d turned into a cowering wreck.

  That man deserved none of Ethan’s energy, and no more thought than a burr under the saddle—plucked out and tossed away.

  Rosie had worked that one out. She’d managed to move on—creating a family, finding her place of peace.

  She was all he had now.

  Reaching the top of the stairs, he turned instinctively towards Cornelia’s room.

  The urge to go to her was so strong he felt the breath knocked out of him, but she’d made it clear.

  What he was offering wasn’t enough.

  She wanted more.

  She wanted to be with him every step of the way, through all the craziness, and she probably wanted them to make babies on top of it all!

  His gut twisted.

  She was a whole heap of cuckoo.

  Unrealistically optimistic. Foolishly trusting.

  Prickly and passionate and impishly comical.

  His gut stabbed him again. She’d asked him to share her life, for them to protect and care for one another. She’d asked him to love her.

  Goddamn it!

  Running down the passageway, he flung open her door.

  Meanwhile…

  “I must say, ma’am, our leaving is unexpected.” Nancy pursed her lips, but kept her gaze firmly out of the window of the Studborne carriage.

  Twice, the coachman had stepped down to shovel away a particularly stubborn patch of snow from the road.

  Cornelia ought to admonish Nancy for grumbling but she understood her dismay. Though everyone below stairs at the abbey must be run off their feet, there had been an undeniably festive atmosphere. Cornelia knew Nancy had been excited to join the Studborne staff in their celebrations.

  However, within the hour, they should reach the cottage at Osmington, where her aunts’ housekeeper and gardener—the Applebys—were in permanent residence. With Nancy’s help, Cornelia hoped they’d soon have the place looking cozy.

  Above all, she’d be away from the abbey and away from Burnell.

  Lady Studborne had been extremely kind. Though she’d pressed Cornelia to stay, she’d accepted her decision without need for explanation. Moreover, she’d insisted not only that Cornelia make use of the carriage but accept a hamper of victuals to tide her over until a delivery could be arranged.

  She’d even promised her own lady’s maid to look after Cornelia’s aunts until they joined her.

  Though Blanche and Eustacia were both in good spirits, they’d come down with a cold and were now tucked beneath a multitude of blankets, surrounded by magazines and novels from the duchess’s own shelves.

  Fuelled by tea and hot toddies and plates of buttered toast, they seemed perfectly comfortable.

  Though their disappointment had been evident, they’d urged Cornelia to act as she thought best.

  Being anxious to leave as soon as possible, Cornelia had packed only the smallest of her trunks. The rest of her belongings could follow on later.

  Tugging at Minnie’s ear, she thought again of Lady Studborne and the budding friendship between them. Cornelia sensed the duchess had experienced heartache but it was surely that which gave her the empathy Cornelia so admired.

  Only by enduring unhappiness could a person understand how it changed someone deep inside. Only then, perhaps, could they offer others true compassion. Cornelia had read something similar in Rosamund’s Lady’s Guide.

  She ought to find herself a copy when she returned to London. Hatchards would be bound to track down a volume. If nothing else, browsing its pages would remind her of the duchess and the short, wonderful time she’d spent in Ethan’s arms.

  She gave a small sigh, knowing she must be sensible. She and Ethan were not destined to be, and there were so many things in life that brought her joy. She would concentrate on those rather than pinning outrageous hopes on romantic love.

  That way lay only madness.

  And yet, her heart pained her.

  Can I return to that old life?

  Can I make myself forget him?

  Chapter 19

  With the fire blazing and a side of ham baking in the stove, Nancy had perked up considerably. The presence of the Appleby’s rather handsome nephew, who had leave for a few days from his regiment, hadn’t hurt either.

  Under Nancy’s direction, he’d been sent to cut greenery from a nearby copse. Cornelia had left them securing garlands over the hearth mantel and each doorway, with Nancy paying particular attention to the positioning of the mistletoe.

  “I shan’t be long.” Wrapping up, Cornelia ventured into the garden.

  The Applebys had flown into a whirl of activity, preparing everything necessary, and Cornelia knew they’d appreciate having her out of the way for an hour.


  Besides which, she was rather longing for some tranquility, and the best place for that was the beach. This late in the afternoon, she and Minnie would surely have it to themselves.

  Taking the coastal path that ran from the rear of the cottage, downward, Cornelia let the sea breeze carry away her heavy heart. For now, she would forget what might have been and appreciate where she was—surrounded by shingle and sand, and the sea sparkling, and the golden hues of the great Osmington cliffs.

  Why had she stayed so long in the city?

  She’d a mind to write to Mr. Pettigrew, letting him know she’d be taking an extended sojourn from her work at the museum.

  Forget London, and Society, and the hurtful gossip.

  Here, she’d have the space to recover her equilibrium—and there were all sorts of things she might do that didn’t involve poring over crumbling fragments of pots.

  Kneeling, she took off her gloves. Taking handfuls of sand, she banked them into a pyramid, building it higher, shaping the graduated steps.

  This was how they’d played together, all those years ago, she and Ethan.

  She had a memory of her aunts sitting beneath the cliffs, a picnic blanket spread around them. The child she'd been was proud of her multi-turreted creation, with its moat and channel running towards the sea. Her mother and father hadn’t been there to see it, but her aunts had clapped their hands, calling brava.

  And then the boy had appeared.

  The sun had been in her eyes, but she'd seen he was very tall, and his hair curly. Reaching over her shoulder, he'd placed a large shell on the uppermost tower.

  Ethan.

  Encouraging her to get her skirts wet and her knees dirty. Cheeky and daring and with an answer for everything.

  He was infuriating at times, but he wasn’t responsible for the fears she’d been carrying around all these years. If anything, he’d forced her to face them.