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 didn’t think she’d be able to look at him again without 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.”
Cornelia was unsure quite what to say but, 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 was becoming.
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.”