It wasn’t fair on Cornelia, and it sure as hell wasn’t what he’d had in mind.
Half the wedding-hungry mamas and bright-eyed daughters Rosamund had invited had cried off, thanks to the weather, but his fooling around with the delicious Mrs. Mortmain hadn’t seemed to put off the ones who’d made it to the Abbey. Lady Pippsbury was like a rattler in the desert, fixing him with those snake-eyes of hers.
Meanwhile, the one seated on his other side at lunch had left him in no doubt that nothing was off the menu; strings free satisfaction, and no two ways about it. Hers was the sort of deal he’d have happily taken advantage of once upon a time. It wasn’t like this was his first rodeo.
But, for whatever reason, he wasn’t tempted.
Darn it! Truth was, he didn’t set his mind on more than one woman at once, and the one he was keen on wasn’t offering her favours quite so freely.
He hadn’t been lying about having his curiosity piqued. That little girl he’d scooted about with on the beach had grown into a damn fine woman and, for all that talk of her reputation being tarnished, she seemed a yard an’ a half more principled than most of the women he’d met.
If he was going to sweet-talk anyone into his arms, it would be her—at least for the duration of this interlude. But, he wasn’t promising anything, and he’d no expectations so, whatever happened, it would need to be at her instigation.
It was a relief in any case, to have set things straight with Studborne. He’d understood straight off. Rosamund was the best sister in the world, but she was misguided on the romance front. Not every man wanted to get hitched—plain and simple.
The duke had agreed to have a quiet word, downplaying Ethan’s interest. At the end of the festivities, he’d melt away, back to where he needed to be, and Cornelia could return to whatever she’d been occupying herself with before he rolled up.
It only remained to put her in the picture.
Chapter 9
Ethan took the door leading directly from the duke’s study to the library, emerging into a shadowed corner, furthest from the window. Ethan had to concede, this was one room in the house that had his admiration. It smelt of leather and tobacco and, needless to say, of books. There were no tapestries or oil paintings in here, only endless volumes—ranged floor to ceiling on sturdy dark oak shelves. The floor, polished to a high shine, was scattered with Turkish carpets, and a desk of mahogany, with a large, wing-backed chair behind, sat under mullioned windows. The only other furniture was clustered about the fire, which crackled cheerily in the grate.
As he stepped forward, he saw her head bent over her book. She was absorbed in reading, with legs tucked up beneath her and a green blanket wrapped around. For some reason, her coat was thrown over the back of the sofa and her outside footwear was kicked off by the hearth. Her dog, resting its chin on one boot, cocked its ears as he drew closer.
So engrossed was she that she didn’t stir at his approach. At last, he coughed discreetly.
“The illustrations in that one are particularly good.”
She looked up, blinking rapidly, as if surprised to be reminded of where she was, and to find that he’d crept up on her so quietly.
“Oh, it’s you.” Her brow creased; she sniffed, then composed her face into a more ladylike smile. “I thought you’d be here already. I’ve been waiting.”
“I was caught up with Studborne—longer than I intended—but I see you found something worthwhile to pass the time, and got yourself pretty comfortable, too.”
She closed the book—Catherwood’s Views of Ancient Monuments in Central America, Chiapas and Yucatan—and laid it aside. Stretching out her legs, she smoothed down her skirts.
He was well aware she’d been angry with him before but she was in a whole other mood now. She’d been crying for one thing; that he could see plain as day.
A heavy feeling pricked inside his chest. If he was responsible for her being upset, he deserved to feel bad. He’d treated this like a game, knowing he had nothing to lose. It wasn’t the same for women. That side of things needed a delicate hand, and he’d charged along like a bull following an irresistible flash of red cape.
He’d come clean and let her know they could laugh off the whole harebrained scheme. He’d play things however she thought best and do his utmost to make it right for her. He was tempted to dive right in and tell her so—that he didn’t need her to pretend anymore. But, he could see that might make her riled, after all the things he’d said about needing her help.
Better to put her at ease. Let her see that he valued her for something other than what she could do for him.
He nodded towards the book. “It’s a first edition I sent to Studborne a few years back. Twenty-five colour lithographs, if I recall, reproduced from the watercolours he painted during his expeditions.”
She glanced back at the cover. “They’re more accurate than Waldek’s. Though his are beautiful, they’re far too romantic and embellished. His illustration of the pyramid at Uxmal, for example, makes it look Egyptian, which I’m sure can’t be right. It makes far more sense for those temples and great cities to have been made by the native people of the area. It’s insulting, really, to attribute their construction to anyone else.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying for years.” Burnell took a seat in the armchair opposite. “Waldek was full of horseshit, if you’ll pardon my French. Some people only see what they want to see; not what’s right in front of them. He put out a story that he lived in the ruins of Palenque for three years, but everyone I’ve met insists it was more like three months, and he spent most of that lazing around with his mistress.”
Cornelia made as if to say something but her cheeks reddened and she looked away, making no reply to his coarseness.
He could kick himself. Being in the jungle for the better part of ten years was no excuse for being crude.
“I made a study of the site myself. It’s a fascinating place. As with the main pyramid at Palekmul, the steps number three hundred and sixty-five—the number of days in the Maya solar year. My theory is that the Maya viewed the summit temples as axis mundi, uniting the earth with heaven and the dark realm of the underworld. We know that human sacrifices took place, having found the bones, but there are sculptures too—depicting that very act—which bring to mind darker forces.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it’s possible.” Cornelia sat up a little straighter. “Mine is an amateur interest only, but one I’ve entertained since I was young, reading Maudslay’s exploration of Copan and Chichen Itza, then studying Mahler’s photographic records. I have copies of Lloyd Stephens, de Charnay and Holmes’ works. It’s clear that strict scientific methods are essential in excavating and documenting the sites, or the conclusions are mere fancy. And, I must say that I admire your efforts, Mr. Burnell, to preserve and protect your discoveries at Palekmul.”
Ethan inclined his head in recognition of her words. He remembered the way she’d looked at the exhibits back in London. Reverentially, yes—but also with a critical eye. Now, her tone was impassioned.
“But, it irritates me that women are so rarely mentioned, when they’ve clearly played their part—cooking and carrying and supporting the expeditions. The names of Livingstone, Stanley and Burton are well known around the world but, even in fiction, travel is seen through male eyes.” She paused only momentarily.