Caught in a Cornish Scandal by Eleanor Webster (top novels of all time .txt) 📗

heart thumping. He looked every inch the Corinthian. He was immaculate, handsome and fashionable, but not in a foppish way. Instead, his clothes merely enhanced his physique, his broad shoulders and long limbs. His dark hair, chiselled nose and jaw gave him the look of a classical statue, making her ache somewhere beneath her breastbone.

Merryweather had taken Sam’s outer coat and, for a moment, she had the luxury of observing him without being observed. Then, the moment was gone, as he glanced upwards. Heat surged into her cheeks. For a second, she thought she detected a reaction, a flicker in his gaze as he took in her hair and gown. However, he merely nodded politely in greeting and she discerned no other change in his expression.

She felt a flicker of disappointment, foolish in the extreme. What had she expected—that he would be entranced by a new hairdo and pretty dress? This was his world: a world of debutantes, dances and high fashion. Heloise had made a remarkable improvement, but she could not transform a Cornish waif into a London beauty. Besides, Millie had never aspired to the latter.

Indeed, this entire London trip was to help Frances and pave the way for Lil’s successful debut. Millie’s own goal was that of independence.

‘Miss Lansdowne, you look well,’ Sam said as she reached the bottom stair.

‘Thank you, you as well.’ So much for originality, wit and the avoidance of dull chit-chat.

‘Lady Wyburn asked me to show you into the salon,’ Merryweather interjected. ‘Dinner will be served shortly.’

‘Thank you, Merryweather.’ Sam offered Millie his arm and she placed her gloved hand on it, conscious of a nervous tremble.

They walked into the salon with its understated elegance. This man in these impeccable clothes seemed quite different from the half-drowned man she had rescued or even the casual gentleman of Cornwall. He belonged here, whereas she was an imposter, dressed in costume and suitably tongue-tied.

‘First and most importantly, my man of business spoke to Harwood. Or his solicitor. His health has declined. His offer of marriage to your sister was real, as he would like a legitimate heir, however, the promissory note is a forgery and need concern you no longer.’

‘Truly?’ Millie said, the sudden surge of relief making her clutch more tightly on his muscled forearm.

‘I promised to help.’ He glanced down at her and she felt a rush of embarrassment that she was clutching at him like an ill-mannered school girl.

‘Thank you, indeed, I am grateful for Lillian and myself. It makes my goal of independence the more possible.’

‘I am glad I could help.’

There was an awkward pause.

She was glad when he broke it. ‘I paid my respects to your mother before I left and she is well. She sends her best wishes,’ he said.

‘I am relieved she is still well. It is strange how one can worry about someone without even realising one is worrying. I am glad my mother is still better. Frances is also much improved. We go for walks frequently.’

‘Thank you.’ He smiled with that captivating dimple, which seemed to melt her into a mush of emotion.

This made her again speechless while also causing her to remember the touch of his lips, the eager movement of his hands pushing down her chemise, touching her thighs, pulling her close to him.

‘Truly, I mean it,’ he said, his words jolting her back, and she felt her cheeks redden, as though he might be able to read her thoughts.

‘It has been nice to see her getting better,’ she said, clinging to this safer topic. ‘She hasn’t been talking about her dreams and is taking more of an interest in everyday events.’

His lips lifted in that familiar half-smile and she found that the topic no longer felt safe. In fact, as she looked into his dark grey-green eyes, she could no longer remember the topic and was conscious only of the warmth which seemed to emanate from her core.

‘Frances wrote that you have helped her so much. I do appreciate it. You have a strength, a sturdiness of character.’

His words made her feel oddly flat and heavy.

‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly.

Sturdiness? She could not think of a single one of Lil’s books which spoke of a ‘sturdy’ heroine.

‘She wrote that she did not want to come tonight, but you will come? To the opera?’

He looked at her with those earnest eyes, as though it was important to him that she come.

And now her inners felt mushy. Gracious, she was a veritable collection of contradictions; hot, flat, mushy. Not to forget sturdy.

She must not, she reminded herself, read too much into his invitation. He was grateful for her help with his sister and wanted to ensure she had a pleasant time in London. It was the sort of thing that Lady Wyburn might do if any country cousins came to town. Kind, but nothing more.

She shook her head. ‘No.’

The ludicrous truth was that against all sense, all reason, she liked...cared for...was intrigued by...loved the man. It seemed that, despite her stern lectures, a foolish, unsupervised part of her had been building fanciful castles in the air. Going to the opera, sitting in his box, wearing a fancy dress that she could never afford was a pretence. And the longer she played along with this ludicrous pretence, the more she would be hurt when it inevitably ended.

For a moment she thought he looked disappointed.

‘But thank you for inviting me,’ she added, realising that she had been ungracious. ‘My sister and Lady Wyburn will attend.’

‘But not you?’

‘It might be too much like soirée.’

He laughed. ‘I smile more around you.’

Great—sturdy with comedic abilities.

‘And there I thought it was my lack of chit-chat,’ she said, perhaps the first spontaneous thing she had said since she’d encountered him at the bottom of Lady Wyburn’s stairs.

He grinned back. ‘I am grateful that we have thus far avoided an analysis of the weather.’

‘And sheep,’ she added. ‘Very overrated, although the British seem somewhat obsessed with the subject. The weather, not sheep.’

‘I recall