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

by Anna Campbell

  In fact, he might turn it to his advantage very nicely indeed.

  Chapter 5

  Great Western Railway, heading to Weymouth Quay

  Several days later…

  Cornelia did her utmost to keep her eyes fixed on the passing scene, though it offered little in the way of variety—trees skeletal black, reaching through low-hung mist, and endless fields frosted beneath a violet-streaked sky.

  She was not looking at the long, muscular legs lounging almost directly opposite and crossed nonchalantly at the ankle; nor had she noticed the tightness of the breeches encasing those legs, disappearing into polished Hessian boots—as if the owner were ready to mount up and meet Napoleon on the field.

  Mr. Burnell could hardly be expected to know the latest London fashions but Cornelia did wonder how his tailor had led him to such choices. The outfit was from another age, complete with smoothly fitting riding coat and a cravat, crisply white.

  His dark, curling hair, as usual, hung loose, and his jaw bore at least a day’s stubble. Coupled with his untamed handsomeness, his attire proclaimed him uncaring of convention, which she supposed was intentional.

  There was no chance of him blending in with the other guests at Studborne Abbey but that had never been likely in any case.

  As the train lurched on its tracks, there came a sudden grunting snort from Aunt Eustacia, and Aunt Blanche mumbled from her own somnolence. Mr. Burnell’s nose twitched but his eyes remained closed.

  Everyone was napping—even Minnie, whom Cornelia had taken out of her wicker basket as soon as they’d exited Waterloo Station. Unaccustomed to being shut away, the terrier had executed a canine snit for several miles before allowing herself to be lifted onto the banquette. There, she’d soon nestled into Cornelia’s lap and had since been snoozing.

  Minnie was surprisingly heavy for her size but Cornelia was glad of her company.

  Following her aunts behaviour at the museum, practically inviting themselves to the Duke of Studborne’s residence, Cornelia had given them a stern telling off, but she was relieved that, in the flurry of notes consequent to Mr. Burnell’s telegram, they’d thought to ask if her beloved pet might join the party.

  “Oh, Minnie. Do keep still.” Cornelia winced as the terrier kicked out her hind legs in peddling fashion and gave a series of whimpers.

  The man opened one heavy-lidded eye. “Rabbit hunting, I’d say.” His voice was honey-rich, languid. “Was having a similar sort of dream myself.” Sitting up, he rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. “I never was keen on being cooped up so long. Makes a man eager to get his blood pumping.” The other eye opened and he fixed that on her too.

  Cornelia was suddenly aware of how close his knees were to hers. For perhaps the hundredth time, she recalled him lying on top of her. She glanced over at her aunts but they remained obliviously asleep.

  Mr. Burnell made no further foray into conversation—certainly nothing on the subject of what had happened on the first night of their meeting. He must have some suspicion, thought Cornelia, although he might not be sure that she and his assailant were one and the same. Perhaps he knew perfectly well but was choosing to be discreet. Either way, he’d avoided mentioning it, for which Cornelia was grateful.

  “I must thank you, Mr. Burnell, for interceding with your sister on Minnie’s behalf.” She stroked her fingers across the expanse of white-furred stomach. “She’s slept on my bed since she was a puppy, so I couldn’t bear to leave her.”

  “It’s no bother at all. My sister is crazy for dogs and always has been. Once Minnie meets the four-legged members of the Studborne clan she’ll feel right at home.”

  “Well, that’s very kind.” Cornelia turned once more to the speeding landscape. The overnight freeze had transformed the stream running alongside the tracks to a ribbon of ice, leaving the ducks to slide along its surface, unsure of their footing.

  She had to remind herself, this man wasn’t a complete stranger, though he was twice as tall and three times as broad as the boy from the beach long ago. For whatever reason, Fate had thrown them into one another’s sphere, and there was no reason for her to be less than civil.

  Of course, the weather was the safest topic.

  “You must be finding the British winter rather brutal after those warmer climes, Mr. Burnell.”

  He gave her a long, slow smile, stretching out his legs again. “The swamps surrounding Palekmul sure are sweltering. It takes a while to get accustomed to the heat and the mosquitoes, not to mention the termites and every other sort of insect wanting to crawl into your hammock of a night.”

  Cornelia bit her lip. The last thing she needed was to start imagining Mr. Burnell in his steamy night-time hammock.

  “And there’s the snakes. The deadly fer-de-lance and coral, along with fifty other serpentine species. There’s a bed-companion nobody wants snuggling up to them.” His mouth quirked. “Even the plants can be pretty ferocious. The chechen, for example, with its toxic sap.” He drew a finger across the edge of his jaw. “One scrape and the burning’s intense.”

  Cornelia closed her eyes. She refused to imagine how it would feel to have him graze that stubbled chin against the softness of her face. She swallowed hard.

  “Do tell me more of your travels, Mr. Burnell. Despite the deprivations, the experience sounds undeniably thrilling.”

  “That’s one word for it. There’s plenty of adventure, it’s true, but a lot of what’s necessary is routine hard work—from loading up the mules with tools and victuals, to hacking through the undergrowth.” He held up the palms of his hands, indicating the callouses. “Then, there’s boxes of glass plates and chemicals for photography, as well as sacks of plaster for mould-making—all to be carried in to the site.”

  “I did wonder about the plaster.” Cornelia leant forward a little. “I read that you’d taken more than a hundred impressions, in addition to sketching the designs engraved on the temples.”

  “Mostly hieroglyphics.” Shifting position, he crossed one leg over the other at the knee. “We haven’t worked out how to read the symbols yet but we’ll decipher them eventually. I wanted a good record for their study. I was careful not to remove anything from the site that was integral to the structure. Some ain’t so particular about dismantling ancient ruins but I consider it a crime to damage the heritage of another civilization.”

  Cornelia had no trouble agreeing with that sentiment. As great as her fascination was with all things ancient, she’d never been comfortable with the number of pieces within the British Museum that had been plundered without consent.

  She was about to say so when she noticed how he was looking at her. Not in a superior way, as many people did, but as if he were keen to hear what she thought. Something else too, though she couldn’t put her finger on it. Nothing about her appearance was designed to encourage a speculative male gaze, yet Mr. Burnell’s was unwavering.

  All at once, the train rocked. There was a rushing darkness as they plunged through a tunnel. The air changed, confined and compressed. She gasped, feeling dizzy, but just as swiftly they emerged again and she was blinking.

  As before, he was looking at her in that steady, unapologetic way, as if he had every right to do so, and she none at all to refuse him the pleasure. Was there a word for this; when a man looked at a woman this way? There ought to be one, and a word for how she was feeling too: far too hot, her chest tight and mouth dry. She made herself breathe deeply but the exhale emerged as a nervous laugh.

  “Mr. Burnell, I fear you must be fatigued—with the view from our window so unchanging. Perhaps you have a newspaper or something else to pass the time. I shan’t be offended if you read.”

  “I’m not in the least bit bored, and quite the opposite of tired. Just restless is all.” He cocked his head to one side. “And a mite curious.”

  Cornelia was aware of her heart beating a little faster. “Then, that makes two of us. If I may speak openly, until recent times, my aunts resided in t
heir own cottage near Osmington, barely four miles from Studborne, and though they maintained a cordial correspondence with your sister, they never before received an invitation.” She looked down at Minnie, still asleep but now licking her lips, as if the rabbits had all turned to sausages.

  She was aware that she sounded churlish—discourteous, even. One did not ask for invitations to be explained; still less so when they were issued by such illustrious hosts.

  He hesitated a moment before answering. “I admit to selfish reasons, Mrs. Mortmain. I feared, if I didn’t lure you to this house party, I might never see you again and, as you know, I’m curious about everything that seems puzzlesome.”

  “There’s very little to be curious about, I assure you. I live very quietly.”

  “Quietly, huh?” He folded his arms. “Except for when you’re taking down burglars in the night.”

  Something hard lodged in Cornelia’s throat. All this time he’d known, and had no doubt been laughing at her. It bothered her more than she expected.

  “Calm yourself, ma’am.” His eyes flashed with amusement. “No one needs to know about your alter-ego, though I’ve a feeling it would be a deal more entertaining if you let that side out to play now and then.”

  Cornelia disliked this sort of jesting, where one person made the other squirm. “If you’ve nothing else to say, Mr. Burnell, perhaps return to your contemplation of the countryside.”

  Her abruptness had him raising his hands. “Whoah there! I meant no offence. Only that there’s more to you than meets the eye. Most people would consider that a compliment.”

  Still peeved, Cornelia chose not to reply.

  “As I say, I’m curious, most especially as to why you haven’t found yourself another husband; after all, you’re not so bad looking.” From his grin, it was obvious he was teasing.

  “Your courtesy knows no bounds. If you really want to know, I’ve not ‘found’ anyone because I haven’t been looking. It is possible for a woman to have a fulfilling life without a man in tow, and there are a great many freedoms a widow may enjoy that a young unmarried woman may not.”

  He wiggled his eyebrows. “I hadn’t pegged you for that sort of widow.”

  “Really! If you’re going to be crude, this conversation is at a close.” Cornelia gave him the benefit of her most penetrating glare. She had an urge to turn the tables on him and see how he liked being under scrutiny. “So, what’s prevented you from finding wedded bliss, Mr. Burnell? Too much time spent with willing widows?”

  “Touché, Mrs. Mortmain, but I don’t suppose it would be difficult to find someone to walk up the aisle. A healthy figure at the bank is enough to ensure that for any man, and one thing I don’t lack is funds.” He lounged back in the seat. “But, seeing as you’ve asked, I’ll oblige you with an answer. My father and I didn’t get along. He wanted me to take over the business. I disagreed. Being the bastard he was, forgive my language, he said he’d cut me off unless I found a bride and provided an heir for his precious empire.”

  Cornelia chose to ignore the uncouth choice of words. Despite everything, her interest was piqued. “Most men would see that as a reason to marry, rather than the opposite.”

  “For some, maybe. I called his bluff and walked out the next day. I’d only been gone a few hours when the mean old devil had some sort of seizure.”

  Dear God! Cornelia’s hand flew to her mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

  Mr. Burnell had told his story without indication of distress; without any sign of emotion at all, his face expressionless. But, no-one could be so unfeeling. She understood he was an only son. As such, his relationship with his father must have been close, even if they had disagreed on various matters.

  But, he only shrugged. “I sold everything and I’ve been directing the proceeds into my work ever since. As for an heir, I vowed not to give him that satisfaction. As such, I’ve no interest in being fixed up with a bride. Rosamund’s intentions are good, but she was the one who escaped. I spent years living with the man who commanded my filial duty.”

  Cornelia was speechless. She knew people held grudges, with good reason on occasion, but she couldn’t imagine what had driven such a wedge between Ethan and his father; a hatred he was nursing long after his father’s passing.

  Better than anyone, she knew that painful memories ought to be let lie. No doubt, he’d regret telling her all this soon enough.

  “Anyhow.” He passed his hand through his hair, looking suddenly weary. “That’s something you can help me with, if you’ve a mind to. It’s true that I was curious about you, given the circumstances of our reacquaintance, but I’ve another motive—a proposal of sorts—which I’m hoping may appeal.”

  “A proposal?” The train gave another of its lurches, flinging Minnie unceremoniously to the floor. With an objecting yap, the terrier looked about her, evidently unsure of where she was or what was going on.

  Aunt Blanche’s head lolled from one side to the other and Eustacia gave another snort and a strangled squeak, but both appeared to continue sleeping, much to Cornelia’s relief.

  “There, there, Minnie. Up you come.”

  The terrier, not needing to be asked twice, leapt back onto the banquette, this time forsaking Cornelia’s lap to rest its paws on the window ledge, looking outwards at the dusky landscape.

  Mr. Burnell cleared his throat slightly. “A proposal, yes. One to our mutual advantage. It’s unconventional, to be sure, but I’m asking you to hear me out.”

  Cornelia was still reeling. Of course, he didn’t mean ‘a proposal’. Though he had the appearance of a romantic poet—one, perhaps, with a very hardy constitution and more musculature than was usual among that set—this was no sudden declaration of undying passion.

  Once again, Cornelia decided to take the high road. Reaching into her reticule she pulled out a handful of butterscotch. Whatever he was about to say, she would find it easier to hear with something sugary to suck upon.

  She offered him one but he shook his head.

  “Since there is another half hour until we reach our destination and little other distraction, my ears are yours.”

  “Half an hour?” His eyebrows rose. “Journey went a lot quicker than I was thinking. Suppose I’d better get right to it, while I have you to myself.” The grin he’d bestowed upon her previously reappeared. “I’m saying we’ll spin a story, since nobody else knows the history between you and I.”

  It was Cornelia’s turn to look surprised. “So trifling an amount of history, sir, that we might call it none at all.”

  He looked a little hurt, but ploughed on regardless. “We concoct details for what’s missing. All these years, we’ve kept up a correspondence.”

  “Even while I was married?” Cornelia frowned.

  “Nothing improper. Mostly the same as I’ve written to Rosamund. We were childhood playmates, remember? But, low and behold, I was back in London. Both being unattached, we promptly formed an attachment.”

  The butterscotch made a dive for the back of Cornelia’s throat, making her splutter in a rather unladylike way.

  “There’s bound to be speculation, of course, on whether we’ve shared more than a few tours of the British Museum galleries, but the upshot will be that those females Rosamund has lined up will see I’m taken. It’ll give me breathing space until I can get back where I want to be.”

  The sweet found itself crushed suddenly between Cornelia’s clenched jaws. “How very convenient for you, Mr. Burnell. So, you avoid being besieged by would-be-brides, while I get to look like a floozy. Worse than that, a rejected floozy, since the arrangement is designed to last no more than a week or so.”

  Mr. Burnell appeared to contemplate. “Two weeks at the most, and don’t worry about the part where we split. I’ll arrange it so that you appear the injured party. You can find me kissing one of maids or something and cast me off in righteous indignation. I’ll tell everyone I’m broken hearted; that you’re the best thing that ever happened to
me; that I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life.” Sitting back, he folded his arms, looking more than a touch satisfied with himself. “Nobody will blame you.”

  Nobody would blame her? Cornelia ripped the wrapping from another sweet. The whole plan sounded cockeyed. Besides which, she’d already been on the receiving end of idle judgement, and it was horrible. Utterly humiliating in fact. She was understandably tetchy. “I thought you mentioned mutual benefit. What exactly do I gain from this arrangement, besides yet more ignominy heaped upon my name?”

  “I’m guessing that some part of you is still hopeful of finding the right man to partner you through a lifetime of waltzing and polkas, and whatnot. You’re telling me you’re content to hang up your dancing shoes and live out your days as a spinster, but I’m not buying it.”

  Bloody presumptuous, thought Cornelia. As if I don’t know myself what I want.

  However, much as she hated to admit it, he wasn’t altogether wrong.

  “Alright, Mr. Burnell. I haven’t given up all hope of remarriage, but the chance of my soulmate appearing at this point seems extremely low.”

  He looked at her askance. “What makes you think so?”

  “My list of requirements is exacting.”

  “Exacting? Is that code for your wanting a man so persnickety perfect that he likely don’t exist?”

  Cornelia lifted her chin a little. “On certain things, I’m not willing to compromise.”

  “Because you’re so perfect yourself, of course.” He gave her another of those infuriating wide-mouthed smiles and she thought how very much she’d like to ball her fist and give him a good thump in the chops.

  She knew that she ought to ignore the comment, but she couldn’t stop herself and what she’d wished to conceal came tumbling out in an angry jumble. “My own merits are irrelevant, Mr. Burnell, thanks to the unjust bias that has attached to my name.”

  Mr. Burnell rubbed at his chin. “I did hear a little about that, and I can see why you’re sore about it.”