“There, there, Minnie. Up you come.”
The terrier, not needing to be asked twice, leapt back onto the banquette, this time forsaking Cornelia’s lap to rest its paws on the window ledge, looking outwards at the dusky landscape.
Mr. Burnell cleared his throat slightly. “A proposal, yes. One to our mutual advantage. It’s unconventional, to be sure, but I’m asking you to hear me out.”
Cornelia was still reeling. Of course, he didn’t mean ‘a proposal’. Though he had the appearance of a romantic poet—one, perhaps, with a very hardy constitution and more musculature than was usual among that set—this was no sudden declaration of undying passion.
Once again, Cornelia decided to take the high road. Reaching into her reticule she pulled out a handful of butterscotch. Whatever he was about to say, she would find it easier to hear with something sugary to suck upon.
She offered him one but he shook his head.
“Since there is another half hour until we reach our destination and little other distraction, my ears are yours.”
“Half an hour?” His eyebrows rose. “Journey went a lot quicker than I was thinking. Suppose I’d better get right to it, while I have you to myself.” The grin he’d bestowed upon her previously reappeared. “I’m saying we’ll spin a story, since nobody else knows the history between you and I.”
It was Cornelia’s turn to look surprised. “So trifling an amount of history, sir, that we might call it none at all.”
He looked a little hurt, but ploughed on regardless. “We concoct details for what’s missing. All these years, we’ve kept up a correspondence.”
“Even while I was married?” Cornelia frowned.
“Nothing improper. Mostly the same as I’ve written to Rosamund. We were childhood playmates, remember? But, low and behold, I was back in London. Both being unattached, we promptly formed an attachment.”
The butterscotch made a dive for the back of Cornelia’s throat, making her splutter in a rather unladylike way.
“There’s bound to be speculation, of course, on whether we’ve shared more than a few tours of the British Museum galleries, but the upshot will be that those females Rosamund has lined up will see I’m taken. It’ll give me breathing space until I can get back where I want to be.”
The sweet found itself crushed suddenly between Cornelia’s clenched jaws. “How very convenient for you, Mr. Burnell. So, you avoid being besieged by would-be-brides, while I get to look like a floozy. Worse than that, a rejected floozy, since the arrangement is designed to last no more than a week or so.”
Mr. Burnell appeared to contemplate. “Two weeks at the most, and don’t worry about the part where we split. I’ll arrange it so that you appear the injured party. You can find me kissing one of maids or something and cast me off in righteous indignation. I’ll tell everyone I’m broken hearted; that you’re the best thing that ever happened to me; that I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life.” Sitting back, he folded his arms, looking more than a touch satisfied with himself. “Nobody will blame you.”
Nobody would blame her? Cornelia ripped the wrapping from another sweet. The whole plan sounded cockeyed. Besides which, she’d already been on the receiving end of idle judgement, and it was horrible. Utterly humiliating in fact. She was understandably tetchy. “I thought you mentioned mutual benefit. What exactly do I gain from this arrangement, besides yet more ignominy heaped upon my name?”
“I’m guessing that some part of you is still hopeful of finding the right man to partner you through a lifetime of waltzing and polkas, and whatnot. You’re telling me you’re content to hang up your dancing shoes and live out your days as a spinster, but I’m not buying it.”
Bloody presumptuous, thought Cornelia. As if I don’t know myself what I want.
However, much as she hated to admit it, he wasn’t altogether wrong.
“Alright, Mr. Burnell. I haven’t given up all hope of remarriage, but the chance of my soulmate appearing at this point seems extremely low.”
He looked at her askance. “What makes you think so?”
“My list of requirements is exacting.”
“Exacting? Is that code for your wanting a man so persnickety perfect that he likely don’t exist?”
Cornelia lifted her chin a little. “On certain things, I’m not willing to compromise.”
“Because you’re so perfect yourself, of course.” He gave her another of those infuriating wide-mouthed smiles and she thought how very much she’d like to ball her fist and give him a good thump in the chops.
She knew that she ought to ignore the comment, but she couldn’t stop herself and what she’d wished to conceal came tumbling out in an angry jumble. “My own merits are irrelevant, Mr. Burnell, thanks to the unjust bias that has attached to my name.”
Mr. Burnell rubbed at his chin. “I did hear a little about that, and I can see why you’re sore about it.”
A rush of heat flooded Cornelia’s cheeks. He’d only been in London a few weeks. Part of her had begun to hope that her scandals were far enough in the past that people would have ceased mentioning them. Clearly, she was wrong.
But, he wasn’t gloating, or bestowing his pity. Instead, his tone was forthright. “It’s none of my business how your mother found her happiness. You don’t need to explain anything, but you still haven’t really answered my question.” He set his hands on his knees, looking at her earnestly again.
“Finding the right sort of man would be my problem, Mr. Burnell, not yours—and I believe it’s questionable whether my mother found ‘happiness’, as you put it.” She pursed her lips. If she carried on talking, she’d reveal far more than she wanted to. The past was the past, and she’d learnt long ago that it did no good to stew over what might have been.
“So, to recap, you believe that my association with you will cause a different sort of gossip, making me seem more…” She gave an exasperated sigh, unsure of quite the right word.
“More interesting? More bewitching? More…desirable?” He arched an eyebrow.
Damn him. He was definitely laughing at her. “Well, yes! I suppose so—although it’s not what I’d have thought advantageous.”
“You mean you want people to think you’re dull?”
“No, of course not. Not dull.” He was wilfully misinterpreting her. “I’m merely pointing out that being escorted about by you, however fascinating that may be…” she swallowed and looked out through the window again, anywhere but at him, “Might not attract the sort of man who’d make a good husband.”
“A good husband, eh? And what does one of those look like?”
Cornelia sat a little straighter. “Someone upstanding and good-hearted, whom I can rely upon. Someone content to live quietly. Someone who won’t mind that marriage to me will mean restricted invitations within Society.”
Someone not at all like Oswald, she might have said.
“Well, if that’s your idea of perfect, it’s all dandy. However, I’d say you’d be going about things the wrong way. When a man’s compelled to pursue a woman, it’s rarely because he thinks she looks dutiful and respectful. It’s because he sees the firecracker inside, however prim she might appear—a woman who knows she’s good enough just as she is, without needing to change for anyone. You ought to be showing them you’re a prize worth the challenge. I’ve a reputation for finding adventure. If my sister’s guests are convinced I’m besotted, believe me, you’ll have suitors flocking.”