Sure enough, at the mention of her name, Cornelia’s head snapped round. Her nose was crinkling something bad, but she’d stopped looking elsewhere and was staring him down. “We couldn’t possibly impose on the duke and duchess, though it’s very kind of you to think of us, Mr. Burnell.”
Ignoring her, the two Misses Everly were positively cooing with delight. “Why, Mr. Burnell, we can’t begin to tell you what a pleasure that would be. If your sister is amenable, we’d be over the moon and, if dear Rosamund is eager to host us, there can be no impropriety in our accepting the invitation.”
“As for Mr. Mortmain, he’s no impediment at all and hasn’t been these five years.” The impish aunt gave Cornelia a nudge to the ribs as she made to protest.
“Sadly, passed on,” mouthed the other aunt before adjusting her volume to a feminine simper. “You know where to find us, Mr. Burnell. We’ll await your correspondence.”
With that, the two elderly ladies took an elbow each, steering Cornelia away.
Ethan caught a last glimpse of her, nose wrinkles and all, as she looked back over her shoulder.
He nearly barked his laughter out loud. No Mr. Mortmain?
Perhaps stealing a kiss wouldn’t be out of the question after all. Certainly, having Mrs. Cornelia Mortmain along for the ride would make that damn house party a deal more bearable.
In fact, he might turn it to his advantage very nicely indeed.
Chapter 5
Great Western Railway, heading to Weymouth Quay
Several days later…
Cornelia did her utmost to keep her eyes fixed on the passing scene, though it offered little in the way of variety—trees skeletal black, reaching through low-hung mist, and endless fields frosted beneath a violet-streaked sky.
She was not looking at the long, muscular legs lounging almost directly opposite and crossed nonchalantly at the ankle; nor had she noticed the tightness of the breeches encasing those legs, disappearing into polished Hessian boots—as if the owner were ready to mount up and meet Napoleon on the field.
Mr. Burnell could hardly be expected to know the latest London fashions but Cornelia did wonder how his tailor had led him to such choices. The outfit was from another age, complete with smoothly fitting riding coat and a cravat, crisply white.
His dark, curling hair, as usual, hung loose, and his jaw bore at least a day’s stubble. Coupled with his untamed handsomeness, his attire proclaimed him uncaring of convention, which she supposed was intentional.
There was no chance of him blending in with the other guests at Studborne Abbey but that had never been likely in any case.
As the train lurched on its tracks, there came a sudden grunting snort from Aunt Eustacia, and Aunt Blanche mumbled from her own somnolence. Mr. Burnell’s nose twitched but his eyes remained closed.
Everyone was napping—even Minnie, whom Cornelia had taken out of her wicker basket as soon as they’d exited Waterloo Station. Unaccustomed to being shut away, the terrier had executed a canine snit for several miles before allowing herself to be lifted onto the banquette. There, she’d soon nestled into Cornelia’s lap and had since been snoozing.
Minnie was surprisingly heavy for her size but Cornelia was glad of her company.
Following her aunts behaviour at the museum, practically inviting themselves to the Duke of Studborne’s residence, Cornelia had given them a stern telling off, but she was relieved that, in the flurry of notes consequent to Mr. Burnell’s telegram, they’d thought to ask if her beloved pet might join the party.
“Oh, Minnie. Do keep still.” Cornelia winced as the terrier kicked out her hind legs in peddling fashion and gave a series of whimpers.
The man opened one heavy-lidded eye. “Rabbit hunting, I’d say.” His voice was honey-rich, languid. “Was having a similar sort of dream myself.” Sitting up, he rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. “I never was keen on being cooped up so long. Makes a man eager to get his blood pumping.” The other eye opened and he fixed that on her too.
Cornelia was suddenly aware of how close his knees were to hers. For perhaps the hundredth time, she recalled him lying on top of her. She glanced over at her aunts but they remained obliviously asleep.
Mr. Burnell made no further foray into conversation—certainly nothing on the subject of what had happened on the first night of their meeting. He must have some suspicion, thought Cornelia, although he might not be sure that she and his assailant were one and the same. Perhaps he knew perfectly well but was choosing to be discreet. Either way, he’d avoided mentioning it, for which Cornelia was grateful.
“I must thank you, Mr. Burnell, for interceding with your sister on Minnie’s behalf.” She stroked her fingers across the expanse of white-furred stomach. “She’s slept on my bed since she was a puppy, so I couldn’t bear to leave her.”
“It’s no bother at all. My sister is crazy for dogs and always has been. Once Minnie meets the four-legged members of the Studborne clan she’ll feel right at home.”
“Well, that’s very kind.” Cornelia turned once more to the speeding landscape. The overnight freeze had transformed the stream running alongside the tracks to a ribbon of ice, leaving the ducks to slide along its surface, unsure of their footing.
She had to remind herself, this man wasn’t a complete stranger, though he was twice as tall and three times as broad as the boy from the beach long ago. For whatever reason, Fate had thrown them into one another’s sphere, and there was no reason for her to be less than civil.
Of course, the weather was the safest topic.
“You must be finding the British winter rather brutal after those warmer climes, Mr. Burnell.”
He gave her a long, slow smile, stretching out his legs again. “The swamps surrounding Palekmul sure are sweltering. It takes a while to get accustomed to the heat and the mosquitoes, not to mention the termites and every other sort of insect wanting to crawl into your hammock of a night.”
Cornelia bit her lip. The last thing she needed was to start imagining Mr. Burnell in his steamy night-time hammock.
“And there’s the snakes. The deadly fer-de-lance and coral, along with fifty other serpentine species. There’s a bed-companion nobody wants snuggling up to them.” His mouth quirked. “Even the plants can be pretty ferocious. The chechen, for example, with its toxic sap.” He drew a finger across the edge of his jaw. “One scrape and the burning’s intense.”
Cornelia closed her eyes. She refused to imagine how it would feel to have him graze that stubbled chin against the softness of her face. She swallowed hard.
“Do tell me more of your travels, Mr. Burnell. Despite the deprivations, the experience sounds undeniably thrilling.”
“That’s one word for it. There’s plenty of adventure, it’s true, but a lot of what’s necessary is routine hard work—from loading up the mules with tools and victuals, to hacking through the undergrowth.” He held up the palms of his hands, indicating the callouses. “Then, there’s boxes of glass plates and chemicals for photography, as well as sacks of plaster for mould-making—all to be carried in to the site.”
“I did wonder about the plaster.” Cornelia leant forward a little. “I read that you’d taken more than a hundred impressions, in addition to sketching the designs engraved on the temples.”