Chapter Fifteen

C ornelius's heart twisted with misery as he watched her go. He had reached out his hand to her as soon as they halted, to try to repair the foolish breach that had opened so suddenly. But she did not even glance at him, so she didn't see. He knew he had hurt her appallingly, a snapped response to her implication that his poetry was the one thing in his life he could be proud of.

That had hurt too, to have his inferiority rammed in his face. He was merely the steward of his brother's lands, largely unpaid until he could make the estate profitable again. She was an earl's daughter, immeasurably above him. Even Roderick, with his commission in the army, and his new business ventures, had better prospects than Cornelius.

And yet he knew she had not meant that criticism. She said the wrong thing, as she often did when anxious or thrown off stride. He had frightened her, showing her the house. Had she guessed his dream was to live there with her? He had barely guessed it himself, so it was unlikely, but either way, it had clearly appalled her. And now he had let her go with no prospect of seeing her tomorrow.

Perhaps she would come to the chapel anyway. He would.

Forcing his mind to the tasks still to be completed, he turned away from the unbearable sight of her vanishing, somehow vulnerable figure, so straight in the saddle and yet so frail. He rode down to inspect the troublesome drainage in the bottom field.

By the time he reached home, he was tired and short-tempered. He wanted only to wash, change, eat, and write a letter to Alice, which he would try to induce the twins to deliver for him the following day. But a different letter entirely waited for him in the hall.

The handwriting looked familiar, though he could not place it, so he seized it on his way to the staircase and broke the seal as he entered his bedchamber.

Cecily . Of course. He groaned and read it hastily while unbuttoning his coat and tearing off his necktie at the same time. Almost hidden amongst a lot of conventional greetings, inquiries, and farewells was the urgent message that she needed to see him, and he should come to the hotel at his earliest convenience. Jack had apparently taken his mother to the theatre this evening, a treat from which Cecily had cried off with a migraine.

Cornelius groaned again, for he could not let her down. Besides, it was time to end the stupid charade. He should do what he had almost meant to and simply talk to Jack Morgan, for he had come to doubt the veracity of Cecily's claims. It would be like her to exaggerate a minor flirtation into a series of infidelities. But one way or another, they had to sort their own marriage out, as he would tell her, kindly but firmly.

Accordingly, he washed and changed, then made his weary way downstairs once more to tell Felicia he had to go out and would eat his dinner cold on his return. Since no one else had taken the carriage, he did—two horses were faster than one, and he might manage a nap during the journey.

Remembering discretion at the hotel, he first asked for Sir John Morgan and only then inquired if Lady Morgan would see him. A few moments later, a comely young lady's maid with sparkling eyes appeared to take him up to her mistress.

The maid led him into a sitting room, where Cecily was pacing the floor and instantly dismissed the maid to the bedchamber beyond. She looked very pretty and worried, he thought with unexpected dispassion. How often had she looked like that during the short weeks of their courtship? Once, it had moved him to do anything to remove that frown, to make her contented again. Now, he doubted it meant very much at all except a means to an end.

"Oh, Cornelius, I am so unhappy," she declared, rushing to him with both hands held out. "Jack has been siding with his dreadful mother and berating me for immodest behavior!"

"Well, you are saying the same about him," Cornelius said reasonably. "And our flirtation at the ball was hardly discreet."

"Yes, but he says he is taking me home!"

"Is that not what you want? Or does he mean to abandon you there and bolt to the fleshpots of London?"

Her eyes widened. "He did not say. But I am having such an agreeable time here in Blackhaven—"

"Do you never talk to him, Cecily?" he interrupted.

"Not if he scolds me," she said sulkily.

She sat down on the sofa, patting the place beside here.

Cornelius remained standing. "What makes you think he is unfaithful? Does he not come home at night? Do you smell other women's perfume on his person? Does he receive letters he hides from you?"

"A wife knows," she insisted.

"A wife who talked to her husband might," he replied. "I have given you the opportunity. I have played my part and flirted until he notices. The point was not to initiate another quarrel but to bring you closer together. If you cannot even make that much effort, I'm afraid your marriage is doomed. If you truly wish to save it, you must give something. Here endeth the lesson."

It won him the faintest, saddest of smiles, although the surprised irritation lingered behind her eyes. "It's clear you have never been married. Are you abandoning me, Cornelius?"

"I am wishing you well."

A look of genuine desolation filled her eyes, and vanished as she laughed. "I suppose I always want my cake and to eat it too. I wonder what marriage to you would have been like?"

"Poor," Cornelius said. "And deadly dull. You would have been driven to flirt with Jack and then make a huge scandal by running away with him. He is a good man, Cecily."

"And you are not?"

"I would not be good for you."

For a moment, she searched his face, then smiled again and rose to her feet. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she reached up and kissed his cheek. He pecked hers in return and was about to step back when the door opened and Sir John Morgan walked in.

Cecily made matters worse by starting violently and staring at her husband in horror. "Jack!"

Cornelius wanted the world to open and swallow him, for Morgan looked like a man whose world was collapsing. At the same time, it was quite funny to be discovered so innocently parting and exactly the wrong construction made. If it had been a farce on the stage, Cornelius would have laughed. As it was, he offered his former employer a tentative smile of rueful amusement. Which acted as a red rag to a bull.

"Get out, you treacherous dog!" Morgan said savagely, striding forward with clenched fists.

"Sir, you quite misconstrue the situation," Cornelius assured him as Cecily fled weeping to the bedchamber beyond.

"The only thing I ever misconstrued was your apparent friendship."

"You may still count on my friendship, as you always could."

"Don't make me laugh. What would I want with such a worthless thing?"

"It may be worthless," Cornelius said, "but it stands. My meeting here with Lady Morgan is entirely innocent and, in fact, in your favor."

"Innocent!" Morgan exploded again. "You deny she cried off the theatre with an imaginary migraine and summoned you while I was out?"

Cornelius hesitated. He could deny neither. "Lady Morgan asked for my help."

A harsh laugh broke from her husband. "Obviously! Name your damned friends."

Cornelius blinked. "You are calling me out?"

"I'll kill you."

"You don't want to fight me. I'm only a steward."

"Then what were you doing with your hands all over my wife?"

"Saying farewell as friends, which is all we have ever been to each other."

"Liar! But I suppose I can expect no better from you. You have no right to call yourself a gentleman."

"Then we had better not fight," Cornelius said evenly, through his tightening lips. "In any case, you know your wife is innocent."

"I know you are not!" Morgan drew back his fist.

So there was to be no elegant slap with a glove—which Sir John had dropped on the floor on his entrance. No doubt a good fistfight would be the best thing to relieve Morgan's anger so that he could see the truth presented to him.

But they were both strong, fit men. They would break up the room, bring hotel servants running from all over the building, gawped at by as many passing guests as could get there in time. And Cecily and the maid were in the next room. Speculation would be rife, scandal unavoidable, and Morgan was too angry and hurt to see that.

Cornelius sighed and set his hat on his head. He hoped Morgan would come to appreciate that it had, in fact, never left his hand since he arrived.

"You had better go through my brother Aubrey. And choose your own second with a care to his discretion. I believe one each should be sufficient in the circumstances. Good evening."

Somehow, he got out of the room, haunted by Sir John's bewildered, furiously pained expression.

What a damnably stupid mess. His second of the day. He should never have got out of bed.

*

To Alice's relief, by the morning of Helen's wedding, her sister seemed if not deliriously happy, then at least content with the situation. It was Alice whose nerves were in chaos, because she would see Cornelius.

The day before had been miserable. She had never imagined that twenty-four hours could stretch so appallingly to feel like weeks. But she had better get used to it. How had she allowed this feeling for Cornelius to get so out of hand? She had always been the sensible sister, her feet planted on the ground, her observation both acute and cynical. And yet with two words, he had reduced her to this.

She tried not to think of the years of loneliness ahead.

At least she would always have her music.

Not today, though. Today was for Helen. And if all Helen's sisters had their fingers metaphorically crossed to bring her luck, well, surely it would pay off. At least most of the castle guests had departed, including the Duke of Atherstone and his lugubrious chaplain.

Emotion almost overcame her in the church as Mr. Grant married Helen to Roderick Vale. She wondered if the gaggle of Vales on the opposite side of the aisle felt the same. She dared not look at Cornelius.

Mama had insisted on providing the wedding breakfast at the castle, and inevitably it was as magnificent as though she had spent months rather than days planning it. For Alice, most of it passed in a daze of worry over Helen's mechanical and yet somehow tragic smile, and her own misery over whatever it was she had lost with Cornelius. To make it worse, Lady Morgan, Mama's old crony, was present, though at least Sir John and Lady Morgan were not.

And then she found herself seated between Cornelius and Aubrey Vale for breakfast. Aubrey was a charmer. He was also an incredibly beautiful young man, though the shadows of too little sleep and too much brandy gave the impression of a fallen angel. Almost the complete opposite of Cornelius, he did not seem to be serious about anything, but at least he made her laugh, which relaxed her enough to talk in more than monosyllables and distracted her from the overwhelming presence of Cornelius on her other side.

Cornelius was turned attentively toward Serena as he laid down his knife and fork. His hands and forearm were all Alice could see of him. She loved his hands, their tender caresses…

As though he'd heard the improper thought, his hands dropped out of sight. While she smiled at Aubrey's nonsense, desolation swept over her.

Something warm and light as a butterfly wing brushed the side of her right hand in her lap. She wondered if she had imagined it, then she felt his fingers twist and curl loosely around hers.

Cornelius .

She clung to his hand, and he squeezed it in return before releasing her. The footman was about to remove his plate.

The incident was tiny, isolated, and yet it changed everything.

She smiled and meant it. Hope, intense and yet unspecific, surged once more. It meant that when Aubrey was in conversation with the lady on his other side, she could actually turn to Cornelius, although words eluded her.

He met her gaze, and it seemed that words were superfluous. She read the rueful apology in his eyes, and she smiled to give him hers.

He said, "Will you be at Felicia's charity card party tomorrow evening?"

"Is it Felicia's?" she asked in surprise. Her voice was mostly steady. "I thought Bernard had arranged it. Bernard Muir."

"Probably, but it is Felicia who is rounding up the Vales. And I believe the vicar's wife, Mrs. Grant, is playing hostess. So only Rod and Helen have an excuse for absence."

Before then, Helen would have had her wedding night. More than once, Alice had overheard her married sisters and Eleanor murmuring to Helen on the subject of tenderness and delights and trust. Until she had met Cornelius, Alice would not have believed a word of it. Her only experiences of an admittedly lesser intimacy with a man were slobbering kisses and violent, helpless suffocation, all of which she had found revolting. From her sisters' happiness with their husbands, she had known this was not a normal reaction, and so had assumed the fault to be her own.

Now, she felt a sneaking longing that it was not Helen and Roderick but Alice and Cornelius who would go home together to their own bed…

Her cheeks burned. Her whole body was in flames. She took a gulp of wine.

"Are you well?" Cornelius asked.

"Perfectly," she said hastily, and coughed delicately. "A mere tickle in my throat. Bernard has talked Mama into the card party since it is for charity—largely the hospital, I believe. I daresay we shall all play."

"Watch out for Felicia. She will win the clothes off your back."

At the opposite side of the table, the twins, on their best behavior, were clearly listening in, for they nodded proudly.

The company seemed jollier now, and Helen's marriage more hopeful, when Alice noted Roderick's gentleness and respect toward her. When the happy couple, apparently eager to get to their new home, set off from the castle, Alice waved from the steps, once more almost tearful because Helen had gone, moved on to her own life.

But it no longer seemed quite so sad. She would see Cornelius tomorrow.

*

Leaving the castle, Cornelius found Aubrey sloping off to the King's Head.

"I'll come with you," Cornelius informed him, falling into step beside him over the bridge.

Aubrey's dramatic black eyebrows flew up. "Why?"

"I'm curious about your ladybirds."

"Can't you find your own?"

"I haven't been looking recently. Too busy."

"I will be too quite soon," Aubrey said cheerfully. "I'm going to help Rod with his newspaper."

"You are a mine of information," Cornelius replied. "Second only to the twins."

"We don't want a scandal sheet, but we have to appeal to the ladies, too. Some poetry, maybe." Aubrey frowned, twirling a rather dandified walking cane as they walked down the drive to the gates. The occupants of the passing Vale carriages waved at them. In response, Aubrey grinned and pushed his hat up with the knob of his cane. "Is this Daubin fellow any good?"

"Rubbish," Cornelius said. "He's lifted most of the verse in his book—which he published himself—from Byron and Sacheverill and Shelley, even Shakespeare, with a few grating changes."

"Damn it. Don't suppose you could write us something? You're always reading the stuff, so you must be able to churn out the odd verse."

Cornelius opened his mouth to refuse automatically. Alice's face swam before his eyes, wise, forgiving, generous… "I might."

"You wouldn't have to sign it if you're shy," Aubrey said. "We can just call you a local gentleman. And Lady Braithwaite says she will write to that Sacheverill fellow, who might be induced to send us something new."

Well, that should keep me busy … "I need to talk to you about something else entirely."

"To me?" Aubrey said in surprise. "What have I done?"

"You look guilty," Cornelius retorted. "Though in this case you're not. I am."

"Really?" Aubrey grinned with delight. "What have you done?"

"Nothing except try somewhat recklessly to help a friend, and now her husband has challenged me to a duel."

Aubrey stared at him. "A duel? You? "

Unreasonably annoyed, Cornelius scowled at him. "Am I such a poor creature? So staid and dull?"

"I don't see that it's staid and dull to avoid pointless death. I should know, I've faced it often enough."

"We've all faced it with you," Cornelius said awkwardly. "Even if not always in your presence."

"I know," Aubrey muttered, coloring. "I wasn't playing for sympathy. Whose pointless death are you aiming at, and on the strength of what trivial insult?"

"There was no insult, only misunderstanding. And I'd rather it never went as far as measuring twenty paces. The thing is, I named you as my second, so unless Morgan's realized his error, you're likely to receive a call from his second."

"Morgan? Sir John Morgan, whose steward you were for two years? I thought he liked you."

"He did. The trouble is, he has a wife."

"Cornelius," said his little brother, gazing at him with new respect.

"Don't be an idiot. I never touched the lady, and if I did, it would hardly be worthy of your esteem!"

"Depends on the lady in question. Don't turn stuffy on me now. Better save the rest until we have brandy in front of us, though. Not sure I'm strong enough without."

Having found a quiet table in the inn's taproom, and sat down with pints of ale, Cornelius said, "So you will act for me?"

"As your second? Of course. Never been anyone's second before. Who will I deal with?"

"No idea who Morgan will choose. Do you know anything about the rules of dueling and your duties as second?"

"I read a book years ago." Aubrey, being a sickly child, had spent a lot of time reading. "There must be something in those local waters after all. Yours is far from the first recent duel in Blackhaven—I even heard the magistrate's son had called out Bernard Muir, who's the most amiable fellow you could meet."

"I've never drunk the wretched waters," Cornelius said impatiently.

"Maybe that 's your problem, then. Sure you want me as your second, though? Roderick, being a military man, has probably acted in lots. Might even have fought lots, for all I know."

"I don't think Roderick being around guns is a great idea just now. Even if he hadn't just got married. Besides, he and Julius would only tell me off."

"And you think I won't?"

"I never quite know what you will do, Aubrey, but I was fairly sure you wouldn't be appalled. On the other hand, I don't want to fight Morgan or anyone else, so be conciliatory. I never wronged him, but I am happy to apologize for looking the wrong way at his wife—whose name must not be publicly drawn into this."

"Heaven forfend. I doubt Alice Conway would approve of your fighting duels over other women."

Heat rose into Cornelius's face. "She has nothing to do with this."

"But what has she to do with you, most strait-laced of my brothers?"

"Nothing," Cornelius said ruefully. "What could I offer an earl's daughter?"

"Much the same as Roderick, with fewer nightmares and more appreciation of literature."

"Now that you're healthy," Cornelius said, "I am quite happy to thrash you."

"Best wait till you've thrashed Morgan. Oh, and if we have to go that far, we get to choose weapons, since he's the challenger. What will you choose? A farm implement?"

Cornelius aimed a halfhearted buffet at Aubrey's head, which his brother easily ducked.

Cornelius straightened in his seat. "Actually, that's not such a bad idea. Not the farm implements—they're damned dangerous—but why should we only consider pistols?"

"We can choose swords and first blood. Can't make it a killing affair." Aubrey frowned. "Can you even use a sword?"

"I can cut turnips with it."

Aubrey laughed. "Then let's hope Morgan's head is turnip shaped."