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. Giving the baron what was coming to him had been satisfying but it achieved nothing.
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!
The ache in 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…
The sun’s warmth was certainly making the snow recede. Only twice had the coachman needed to step down to shovel away a particularly stubborn patch from the road.
“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. “I just hope the lanes are clear enough and we don’t get stuck somewhere. I can’t say as it’s how I’d be hoping to spend Christmas Eve.”
Cornelia knew she 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’d reach the cottage at Osmington, where her aunts’ housekeeper and gardener—the Applebys—were in permanent residence and, 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 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 were well enough to join 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. The duchess had such a lively spirit. Cornelia sensed she’d 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 20
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 it been so long since she’d come here?
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. She was proud of her multi-turreted creation, with its moat and channel running towards the sea. Her mother and father weren’t there to see it, but her aunts were clapping their hands, calling brava, and then the boy appeared. The sun was in her eyes, but she could see he was very tall, and his hair curly. Reaching over her shoulder, he 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.