From that first kiss, she’d let herself believe there was a true spark of 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.
But, if he couldn’t love her with his whole heart what choice did she have?
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 19
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 it had sat shut away all these years; 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 deserving a good pummelling. It was the least this vermin deserved. 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, Burnell, 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. “Vile toad 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.”