“Consider the watercolour by Catherine Frere, the daughter of the governor of British South Africa. Her work shows women standing alongside the men in Stanley's expeditionary force, which travelled through the heart of the African continent, from Zanzibar to Angola.”
Her colour was rising. Whoever had laced her stays needed to give her a bit more breathing room.
“And then there’s Isabel Arundell, Burton’s wife. Besides tending livestock, she learnt to strip and reassemble guns, and to fence, so she could defend them while in the wilderness together.”
“I take my hat off to them all, but particularly Isabel.” He could’ve told her a great deal on that subject, but he doubted she’d be comfortable hearing it. “Burton wasn’t easy to get along with, so I’ve been told. Isabel’s Catholic sensibilities were often distressed by his liberalism.”
“Oh, I know all about that.” Cornelia blushed again and bit her lip.
If she knew the half of it, he’d be surprised, but she’d clearly come across something relating to Burton’s translations. Perhaps her father had purchased them and failed to keep them effectively locked away.
The Thousand and One Nights had made Burton 16,000 guineas—much of that success down to him embellishing the parts that couldn’t be read aloud and, of course, there was his version of the Kama Sutra. Rumour had it that the long-suffering Isabel had burnt most of Burton’s translation of The Perfumed Garden within hours of her husband breathing his last.
Cornelia had perked up a little, anyway, and it was time for him to bite the bullet. Leaning in, he looked her right in the eye.
She’d been feeling horribly sorry for herself, and angry, and all sorts of other things she was in no mood for examining.
Burnell had led her into this situation—and was having a grand old time, while she was the one bearing the consequences. And, if there was one thing she was heartily sick of, it was being made to deal with other people’s expectations of how she ought to be conducting herself.
She was working up to telling him so—that he had some cheek using her as his ‘blind’, that any man worth his salt would be more considerate. However, before she had a chance, he jumped right in and said the one thing she couldn’t argue with.
“Mrs. Mortmain, I owe you an apology.”
Resting his elbows on his knees, he interlaced his fingers, looking as uncomfortable as any man did when admitting they’d been wrong.
“I got myself carried away, but I hope you’ll see your way to forgiving me. Under other circumstances, I’d likely be courting you for real.” His mouth quirked, but she only stiffened in response. It wasn’t a subject she felt inclined to joke about.
“I suggest we take a step back. I’ll make it clear that I hold you in the highest regard but that we’ve realized our situation is impossible. You deserve a man who’s happy to stick around and make babies, while my work takes me to the other side of the world—a place far too inhospitable for me to drag a wife, let alone a family.”
He gave a heavy sigh. “I’ll say I got carried away. Jumped the gun. Spoke without consulting you. That’s all mostly true, anyhow.” He had the grace to look sheepish. “And I’ll do whatever I can to help, if one of the other gentlemen catches your eye. That Lord Fairlea, for instance; he looks like someone you might want to know better. I’ve squared things with Studborne, so he knows our attachment was never real, and he’s promised to speak to Rosamund on my behalf, so she knows why I made the damn fool decision in the first place.”
Cornelia knew she should be relieved—ought to graciously accept Mr. Burnell’s apology, and be glad the pretence was over. But, all she could imagine was the delighted expression Lady Pippsbury would be wearing when she found out. She knew full well what the old dragon would say—that Burnell had come to his senses and had second thoughts, realizing that Cornelia wasn’t what he’d thought her. Perhaps, that someone had shared with him the sordid details of her past. Lady Pippsbury would gloat, her face triumphant, assured in her belief that Cornelia had never deserved such attentions in the first place.
She oughtn’t to be concerned by what Lady Pippsbury said, or anyone else for that matter.
But she was.
And the thought of them crowing over her failure to keep the regard of the man who’d professed to love her just hours ago was more than she could bear.
It had been one thing for Burnell to suggest her finding him in an indiscretion in the final days of the house party. At least, then, she’d have been able to assert that she held herself in too high regard to continue a liaison with a man whose attention was so easily swayed.
To end things now would smack of rejection—and she just couldn’t bear it.
“No!” The word came out far more forcefully than Cornelia anticipated. Minnie’s head jerked up, her eyes anxious, clearly wondering what she’d done. “There, there, not you Minnie.” Cornelia patted her lap, letting the terrier jump up to receive reassurance.
“I take it that word was directed at me, then?” Burnell looked just as surprised.
“Yes, it was.” Cornelia took a deep breath. “I appreciate your apology, and I agree you’ve been utterly selfish, and vexatious in the extreme, but I can’t have it end like this.” She set her face into determined lines. “I need you to carry on.”
Burnell couldn’t have looked more taken aback. “You want me to continue pretending I have the hots for you?”
“Well, I’d prefer it to seem a more elevated passion, but that’s the general idea, yes. It’s probably just as well you’ve let the duke and duchess know, as it wasn’t sitting well with me to deceive them, but I don’t want anyone else to realize that your regard is fictitious.”
Burnell raked his fingers through his hair, still evidently confused. "Am I allowed to ask what's brought on this sudden change of heart?"
“It’s really not complicated.” Cornelia lifted her chin. “For the moment, I've decided it suits me for you to be smitten. Just stop telling everyone ridiculous stories about me winning wrestling competitions with the swans in Hyde Park, or being the leading authority on taxidermy of arachnids, or whatever it is that pops into your mind at a moment’s notice.”
He grinned. “It won’t be nearly as fun, but I’m sure I can manage—and you’ll give me the nod when you’re ready to call off the game?”
“Yes, leave that to me.”
All that mattered, right now, was to make the others believe Burnell cared for her. She’d deal with the rest later. Playing along would still make her cringe but the vexation would be worth it to sock one in the eye to Lady Pippsbury.
Chapter 10
No sooner had Cornelia retrieved her boots and laced then up than she heard the door click open again. She whipped around, her pulse quickening, but it wasn’t him.
Rather, it was Colonel Faversham.
“Oh, Mrs. Mortmain. Hope you won’t mind. Your aunts have fleeced me of ten shillings; far too good at whist! Can’t deny it was fun, but must keep an eye on the pocketbook. Just need somewhere peaceful to sit, ’til it’s time to put on the bow tie, you know.”