Eustace was beaming. “And this is our niece, your own playmate from those bygone days, our darling Cornelia.”
Jumping in, Cornelia reached for his hand and shook it. “I fear we’re over-bold, Mr. Burnell. You may prefer to call me Mrs. Mortmain. It’s a pleasure to meet again after all this time.”
His eyes held hers for a long moment. “The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Mortmain. Nigh on twenty years sure is a length of time, but I’d have known you among a million. Almost as if we met yesterday…”
Ethan knew that most of the people in the room didn’t give a rat’s ass about Palekmul, or about any other damned thing in the building—however rare or priceless. They were here because it was fashionable to appear interested in the mysteries of the ancients, and prestigious to have been granted one of a limited number of invitations.
There were a few dabblers of course, amateur enthusiasts who liked to think themselves knowledgeable, but even their engagement was superficial. This woman, though—the one who’d accosted him the other night (though she was doing her darndest to act like no such thing had happened) was different entirely.
From what he’d overheard, she’d at least done a little reading, and he’d been observing her throughout his presentation. Most of those in the room had given their cordial attention, of course. There was no heckling in a joint like this. No one had yawned even, which was always a relief. But she’d done more than listen politely. He’d been watching real close. Despite that ugly hat bobbing up and down, he’d noticed how she’d been following every little thing he said. Downright enthralled he’d say, and he was man enough to admit that it made him swell a little inside.
She was pretty as a peach too—a fact he’d taken note of when she’d been lying flat out underneath him on the gallery floor. Not showy in the way most women were. Heck, that buttoned up outfit she had on did her no favours at all, though it fitted right enough in the places that mattered. But there was no hiding the blush on her cheek and those sweet lips made for kissing. Those eyes were something else, too—so dark a blue that he’d had to look real deep to decide what colour they really were.
Her hair was that shade of brown most common but glossy as a beetle’s wing and soft looking. Holding himself above her, he’d had the worst urge to pull out all the pins and wrap a whole fistful round his palm. Not that he would’ve dared try it. He was too much a gentleman to force himself on a lady, even if it were just to bury his face in her hair.
Stealing a kiss had been out of the question, too. She’d have struggled like a wildcat before letting him do any such thing. Nevertheless, he’d also seen the way her lips parted and her eyes grew wide. He’d bet a year’s supply of bourbon, her heart had been pounding as fast as his, and it hadn’t been only fear driving her pulse.
Yes, siree, Mrs. Mortmain might be acting all prim and proper but there was something else altogether going on under that buttoned-up exterior. Somewhere underneath, she was still the girl who’d run barefoot and thrown seaweed at him when they hadn’t agreed on how many turrets their monumental sandcastle deserved. His Cornelia, with that chestnut hair flying in two long plaits and her skirts tucked into her bloomers so she could wade into a rockpool.
He hadn’t recognized her at first, though something had tugged at him that night and wouldn’t let up. Now, he could see as plain as day she was the girl from the beach. Heck, she even still wrinkled up her nose like she used to, and he knew what that meant. She was itching to give him a piece of her mind.
Laying eyes on her made him want to laugh out loud, pick her up and spin her sideways. He’d made an art of keeping his heart out of the way of the ladies, but Cornelia had nestled there far too early for him to unseat her. And, after all these years, here she was—conjured out of nowhere to cross his path.
Whoever this Mortmain guy was, he was a damned lucky fella. Though Ethan had his doubts he was making a good job of his marital duties. Cornelia looked to have enough passion brewing to keep any man on his toes, but there was a touch of sorrow about her too. He’d lay a row of dollars from here to Tower Bridge and back that she wasn’t happily wed, and that was a crying shame.
Her aunts were still yapping away, he realized. Something about Rosamund writing to them and how they’d been glad to hear of his sister’s marriage to Studborne. He didn’t doubt it for a minute. These old biddies were harmless enough, but he knew what women were like. No doubt, they enjoyed dropping into conversation the fact they were acquainted with a duchess.
“And are you spending the festive season with your sister, Mr. Burnell?” The one with the more mischievous twinkle smiled at him.
“Sure am, though I don’t know how well I’m suited to your English house parties. I wasn’t raised to play frivolous games or make endless small talk.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “I shouldn’t say so, I expect, but Rosamund is fixin’ to get me wed on top of it all, lining up a whole bunch of debutantes, as if picking a wife were as easy as deciding what flavour of pie I preferred.”
“Now, now, Mr. Burnell.” The other biddy waggled her finger at him, though the expression on her face was kindly enough. “In matters of the heart, women always know best. Your sister only wants you to be cared for. At least give her the chance to show you what you might be missing.”
Ethan grimaced. He ought to have known better than to mention it but he knew why he had—wanting to see what Cornelia would make of the idea, that was what. She’d been downright staring before, thinking he didn’t know it, but her eyes were doing the opposite now, refusing to meet his.
Hell, what was he supposed to do? She was a married woman, and he’d no right to go chasing her, but he didn’t want to just walk away either. If he did, he might never see her again.
Bringing the Palekmul artefacts to London had been necessary but he’d be gone soon enough. For all her crazy notions about getting him hitched, he knew Rosamund was the one person left in the world that cared a damn about him and, for that reason alone, he’d play along with her, but there was no way he’d be tying himself to some stranger just to make her happy. He knew darned well what she had planned and he was having none of it.
He’d make the best of the situation and that would be the end of it. Duty done, he’d be on his way.
The first old dame gave a wistful sigh. “And house parties can be rather fun—especially at this time of year. Charades and forfeits, skating and sledging; there’s no end of diversion. We shall be quietly at home, imagining all the delights of Yuletide at such a grand residence as Studborne Abbey, but we’ll think of you, Mr. Burnell, enjoying your first proper English Christmas.”
Even before she reached the end of her sentence, his mind was whirring. The Abbey was huge, with more guest bedrooms than were ever needed, and these old birds had kept in touch with Rosamund all these years. His sister was a good sort. If he invited them down with Cornelia in tow, she was sure to make them welcome. At least, then, he’d have the chance to shake off whatever this was that was pestering him and set his mind straight.
“Ma’am, you’re gonna think me mighty forward, but there’s nothing I’d like better than for you to join me in celebrating the festivities. I can telegram to check with Rosamund, but I know she’d be pleased to see you both after all this time.” He brought his gaze to Cornelia, willing her to look back at him; willing her to give some hint that the idea appealed. “And Mrs. Mortmain too, if her husband has no objection to joining the party.”