“Just for looking? Or were you ogling the poor girl?” Cornelia said with raised eyebrows.
He grinned. “I wasn’t actually looking at her. It was the meat pies she was carrying to market. I was really hungry, and they smelled delicious.”
They laughed, and, leaning over, he picked a few of the colorful flowers poking out from among the tall grass. “A bouquet for a lovely lady.” He smiled as he offered them to her.
“Why, thank you, Preston.” She took a deep breath of their scent. “I love the fragrance of a cornflower. Daisies not so much, although they are pretty. If you like you could bring me a few of those poppies—coquelicots, as Mother says. And some pinks and fairy flax too, if you please.”
He stood and extended a hand. “Shall we fetch some together?”
She smiled up at him and laid a delicate hand in his. Her fingers tightened around his and he couldn’t help but wonder what those fingers would feel like tracing lazy circles on his chest.
Half an hour later, they packed up the remains of their picnic and made their way back to the carriage, where the coachman waited.
“We could reach Brighton in two days if we speed up the pace,” said Preston as he helped Cornelia into the carriage. “How eager are you to reach the seaside?”
Cornelia sat down. “Oh no,” she said. “That is, of course, I shall be delighted to reach Brighton, but there’s no need to rush. Travel with you is not at all tedious, Preston. I haven’t enjoyed anything half so much in a very long time.”
Something in her tone caught his attention. Was she really enjoying herself as much as he?
He vaulted up into the carriage and pulled the door closed behind him, then sat down and looked at her. “Nor I.”
It was true, he realized in surprise. He was not at all eager for the journey—and their uninterrupted proximity to each other—to come to an end. He squeezed his eyes shut and attempted to reorient himself. What was happening to him? Surely, he wasn’t starting to care for her—not this strong, independent woman he had married only because she didn’t want a husband. He wasn’t such a fool as that.
Was he?
Chapter Seven
In all, their journey to Brighton took a total of seven days instead of the typical five—something Cornelia was loathe to admit she was glad for—as they stopped the carriage frequently to admire scenery, patronize some of the quaint village shops they encountered, and even went out of their way to visit a few popular attractions. Among them was Luton Hoo, a magnificent manor renovated by Robert Adam, with an extensive park designed by Capability Brown; and the Abbey Church in St. Albans. On the next-to-last day, they visited Knole House in Sevenoaks, with its remarkable art and furnishings, as well as a sizable walled garden.
Dusk approached as they departed Knole House, so Cornelia acquiesced when Preston suggested they spend their last night at the Royal Inn, a charming coaching inn on the outskirts of town.
“You look tired, my dear,” he commented as she picked at her food in the private parlor they had chosen for their evening meal. “Perhaps we walked too far today. I considered interrupting the old gardener’s lengthy monologue, but you seemed to find it appealing.”
Cornelia blinked. “Oh, but I did. I wasn’t at all bored with his commentary. And I am sure the exercise did me no harm.”
Preston tilted his head and studied her. “Then why do you seem so out of spirits tonight? Did you not sleep well last evening? The commotion in the public-room was excessively loud. I went down twice to complain about it to the innkeeper.”
Cornelia shifted in her chair, reluctant to admit the reason for her melancholy. What would he think if he knew how little she wanted their magical journey to end? He was her husband, but theirs wasn’t a real marriage. The last thing she wanted was for him to think she was beginning to experience more than cordial feelings for him. Their bargain did not allow for that.
“I suppose it must be anticipation of the long day ahead of us,” she prevaricated. “Fifty miles in one day is rather a lot, is it not? I don’t suppose we shall have time for a picnic?”
“We might fit in a very quick one, if the weather is fine,” he replied. “The Brighton Road is quite possibly the best in Britain, thanks to Prinney’s frequent jaunts there.”
“Speaking of the Regent, I suppose you will be frequenting the Pavilion a great deal once we are settled,” she said carefully.
Preston’s eyes met hers. “I thought I might attend upon His Royal Highness once or twice, to apprise him of our recent marriage and discover whether he might have an interest in a business partnership. But it would appear decidedly odd if I were to abandon my bride on my honeymoon, would it not?”
Cornelia smiled shakily. “I-I suppose it would, at that.”
He reached across the table and patted her hand. “I should not be surprised should the Regent request to be presented to you, Cornelia.”
Cornelia blinked. “Do you think so? We have met before, you know, at Carlton House. But I did not come prepared—” Her fork clattered on the plate when she unconsciously let it drop.
He lifted a brow. “For shame. You did not think to bring your court dress on your honeymoon? I should think every lady would have it at the top of her packing list.” His eyes twinkled with mischief.
She slapped his wrist. “What a tease you are.” Surely, he knew the court dress was universally detested by all ladies. The overly wide crinoline in combination with a high waist had the effect of giving a woman a huge, apple-like figure. She’d given hers away the day after her court presentation.
He grinned. “I confess, I do not comprehend the appeal. I am in awe of any lady who can maneuver her way through the doorway while backing away from the Queen. Must be damned uncomfortable.”
“There’s nothing comfortable about fashion. I daresay, if men had to wear corsets, the natural shape would become fashionable in no time at all.”
Preston shook his head. “Some men do wear corsets, my dear. Our esteemed Prince Regent, for one. So, you see, gentlemen as well as ladies are obliged to endure the discomforts of fashion.”
She made a face. “It is not the same thing and you know it.”
He nodded. “No, it’s not.” He laid his napkin beside his plate and pushed away from the table. “But in all seriousness, you need not fuss overmuch about your costume. You will find there is much less formality in Brighton, which the Prince considers his refuge from the vexations of Court.”
He rose and went to her side to assist her with her chair as she rose. “I am certain you will be admired in anything you choose to wear, Cornelia.”
The peach nightgown came to mind. Her face heated as the image came to her of accompanying her husband to the Pavilion clad only in the filmy silk. How mortifying. Why, she couldn’t imagine being seen in such a thing by her own husband.
Actually, she could. And she knew he would like it.
It was that image that kept her tossing and turning for hours until sleep finally claimed her.
* * *
Brighton, Sussex
Three days later
Preston glanced at the mirror one last time and made a small adjustment to his neckcloth before taking up his hat and tapping on the door to his wife’s chamber. There being no response, he opened it and regarded the empty room. Blast it. Had she already gone for the day? He should have left a message for her upon his return, but in the early hours of the morning, he’d been too exhausted to do more than collapse, fully clothed, into bed.
A passing maid carrying a load of linens peeked in from the corridor. “If yer looking for yer missus, she’s breaking her fast downstairs. An early riser, she is.” She gave him a cheeky wink.
He ignored the familiarity and thanked her. He was becoming accustomed to the nods, smiles and knowing looks of the inn’s staff and guests once they learned of the honeymoon couple in their midst. At first, he worried that that being known as a honeymooning bride might discomfit his new wife, but after the f
irst time or two, she appeared to have accepted the comments with the warmth and goodwill in which they were offered.
He dashed down the stairs and found her sipping coffee at the counter while chatting with the innkeeper’s wife. He was unsurprised. Cornelia took an interest in the lives of everyone she met, and, as a consequence, everyone liked her. He admired that quality in her, even though there were times he wished she were a bit more circumspect.
“Good morning, my dear Cornelia,” he said as he seated himself next to her and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Why did you not waken me so we could share a meal together?” In a private parlor, away from the ogling of other men.
She flushed. “You returned so late from the Pavilion. I expected tonight would be the same, so it was best to let you sleep.”
“And spend another entire day fawning over His Majesty and listening to his boring friends? Not a chance, particularly now that I have a lovely bride to entertain.”
She bit her lip. “But I thought… Did you not intend to speak to the Prince about business?”
He chuckled. “No need. The Prince is as purse-pinched as ever, according to a certain someone who would know.”
Her eyebrows drew together. “Oh, but that’s not good, is it? Will you not have to find another investor?”
He turned and smiled directly into her eyes. “It was merely a passing notion, my dear. I am not sorry that nothing came of it, because now we can spend our honeymoon together, as is fitting for a newly married couple.”
“But—“ she sputtered. “It is not a real—"
He gently squeezed her hand and nodded toward the innkeeper’s wife, who stood in the doorway to the kitchen. “Now what were you planning to do today, Wife? A walk along the beach? It looks like a fine day for it.”
She nodded, a soft glow in her eyes. “I brought a book to read, but I should much rather walk with you, Preston.”
He sat up straighter, feeling ridiculously lighthearted at the prospect of spending the day with his wife. “Pleased to hear it, my dear.”
“You’d best not miss the Ship Hotel,” advised the proprietress as she placed a plate in front of him. “Concerts and assemblies are held there, in the ballroom. His Majesty holds a ball there too, now ‘n again. Perhaps you’ll be invited and get to dance there with all the fancy.”
A “No!” came from two voices.
Both Cornelia and Preston looked at each other in surprise, then burst out laughing.
“Newlyweds,” muttered Mrs. Polk as she returned to the kitchen. “Not a bit o’ sense between the pair of ‘em.” But she was smiling when she returned with the coffee pot.
Portsmouth, Hampshire
Ten days later
“Mon Dieu! How shall I bear being apart from my children for so long a time?” Cornelia’s mother turned puffy eyes on her. “You must come for a visit.” She faced Preston. “Promise me you will bring her.”
Preston aimed a non-verbal appeal for help at Cornelia.
“Oh Maman…” Cornelia began.
Her father hugged his wife, nodding calmly at Cornelia and Preston. “Now Léonie, the time will fly by, you will see. It shall be as it was twenty-five years ago, when we were first married. A fresh, exciting adventure with just the two of us. A second honeymoon in a great new world. In any case, you will be far too busy reveling in your new status as wife of the Governor-General to pine away for your children.”
“Oh, but I shall not, Cornelius. My children are my very life.”
Cornelia bit back a laugh at the gleam in her mother’s eyes. “Think of the fine mansion you will have, Maman, and the houseful of servants who will address you as ‘Your Excellency.’ All the traveling dignitaries from around the world you will meet. This is truly the opportunity of a lifetime. Imagine all the stories you will have to tell us upon your return.”
Léonie clutched at her husband’s arm. “Mon coeur, I am not at all certain that I am suited for such a role. Après tout, I am only a merchant’s daughter from Toulon.”
Cornelia’s father chuckled. “Nonsense, my dear. You have never been ‘only a merchant’s daughter’ to me. Not since that first day when the men brought you aboard my ship and I knew you were unique.” He glanced at his watch. “Now, let us get on with our leave-taking before the Neptune sails without us.”
A horn sounded in the background, and Léonie threw her arms around Cornelia.
“Oh ma fille, I shall miss you every day, but I will be content to leave you in the care of this wonderful husband you have married.” She offered a hand to Preston. “You must write me immediately as soon as you have any joyful news to impart. I shall expect a delightful grandchild or two upon our return.”
Cornelia blushed. The thought of her parents returning to discover that their daughter and son-in-law were not even living together—and had not done so since the beginning—made her stomach roil. Oh Maman!
“We shall indeed, Mrs. Hardcastle.” Preston’s grin was half flirtation, Cornelia noted, and reflected again on her husband’s skill in the art of deception.
Léonie clutched at both of Preston’s arms. “Do not think I have not noticed how happy you have made my Cornelia. The moment you returned from your honeymoon, I saw the radiance in both your faces. The two of you were destined for each other. I shall be forever grateful to that Marriage Maker for bringing you together. He must be touched by angels to be so gifted.”
Cornelia blanched. Radiant? Both of them? Surely not. At least, she hoped she wasn’t displaying an excess of affection for her husband. The last thing she wanted was to give Preston any indication that she was beginning to develop feelings for him. They’d become great friends during their honeymoon, but she lived in fear that he would discover her feelings had gone beyond friendship.
Her father’s face trembled with emotion as he clasped her in his arms for the final time. “I shall miss you, moppet. More than anyone else. From the day the midwife brought you to me as a tiny babe, you have been my own little darling. While at sea, I thought about you every day and regretted that I was not able to watch your first step.”
The sight of his eyes filling with tears caused Cornelia’s eyes to burn.
“Your mama and I shall never cease feeling proud of the fine young woman you have become, Cornelia. Nor could we be more pleased with your choice of husband.” He nodded at Preston. “You make her happy, young man, or suffer my wrath when we return.”
Preston grinned. “You can count on me, sir.”
Cornelia couldn’t help a smile. He really does have the knack.
After their final goodbyes and bon voyages, Cornelia stood alongside Preston as her parents ascended the gang-board toward the deck of the Neptune.
Her heart twisted. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.
Preston slipped an arm around her waist and drew her close. The heat from his body sent butterflies skittering across the insides of her stomach.
“Your parents will be back, my dear,” he said. “I want you to know I meant what I said when I made that promise to your father. Your happiness is my highest priority.”
Cornelia’s heart raced. She said nothing as he led her away from the wharf.
Chapter Eight
A month later
Preston awoke as he always did at nine o’clock when the maid came in to open the drapes, followed by his valet with a cup of coffee and a damnably cheerful, “Good morning, sir.”
“What’s so good about it?”
Preston had never been fond of morning, but after a night of tossing and turning, he was in a particularly cantankerous mood. Cornelia had left three days ago to visit her friend in Hampshire, and the massive townhouse felt empty without her. He missed the lively morning chatter between Cornelia and her maid coming from the adjacent room. He missed the tentative raps on his door when she wanted to ask him something. He missed seeing the light in her eyes at breakfast as she recited her schedule for the day. He missed the tingling in his body when he
accidentally touched her ungloved hand or graceful neck. He missed her, period.
After they’d settled into the Hardcastles’ townhouse as master and mistress and she’d mentioned the possibility of the visit, he’d had no objection, seeing it as an opportunity to concentrate on his business. Having a wife around the house—even a convenient one—was proving to be exceedingly inconvenient. As much as they lived their lives apart—he at his office in town and she with her social affairs and the Foundling Hospital—they also spent time together, for meals and church—and with increasing frequency, drives in the country, with or without picnics, and peaceful hours reading in the library. He hadn’t expected to like having a wife. He was a free spirit, a man who could bid his friends adieu and move on wholeheartedly to the next adventure. Once she’d departed, he’d expected to revert to the happy-go-lucky man he knew and his world would be right again.
Except that it wasn’t.
Jackson—his new valet—helped him into a robe and Preston went to the table where the coffee awaited. He dropped into the chair. Preston caught the sideways glance Jackson cast him.
“Now, now, Mr. Warrington, the mistress will be back before you know it. You enjoy your coffee while I lay out your raiment for the day.”
Was his attraction for his wife so obvious that even the servants knew? He couldn’t be falling in love with his wife. What about his upcoming trip to India? His dreams of future trips to Asia, Australia, and America? The freedom to do whatever he wanted to do whenever he wanted to do it? Caring too much for Cornelia—for anyone—would take a good part of the joy out of his plans.
Worse, Cornelia didn’t want a husband. Not a real one. She didn’t care for him in that way—not if she could go off and leave him for an entire fortnight. He’d agreed to a marriage in name only and that was what he was stuck with.
“Damn it all to hell.” He pounded a fist on the table, causing the cup to rattle on the saucer. Coffee splattered.
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