Nicola Cornick - The Notorious Lord

‘That would be pleasant,’ she said rapidly. ‘Excuse me, please…’ It came out like a plea.

Cory nodded slowly. He touched her cheek, his fingers cool against her hot skin, then turned on his heel and strolled back down towards the excavation. When he had gone five paces, he stopped and turned back.

‘Oh, by the way, Rachel,’ he said, ‘I have been giving some thought to what you said about Lady Sally’s book of watercolours and I think that you are right. I have been a little…ungenerous…in refusing to take part. I think that I might sit for my portrait after all.’

Rachel gave a little gasp. It was all that she could do to avoid looking guiltily at the paper she was clutching so tightly. She attempted a nonchalant tone, but it came out rather high and breathless. ‘Oh, do you think so, Cory? That would be nice.’

‘I am glad that you approve.’ Cory was smiling at her gently. ‘That is, of course, unless you would prefer to sketch me yourself? As you are taking a renewed interest in your drawing…’

Rachel clutched convulsively at her sketchpad and her pencil snapped, the two ends shooting off into the undergrowth. ‘I fear that my skill could not equal the subject,’ she said tightly.

‘No?’ Cory said. ‘If you are sure.’ He sauntered off down the path to the excavation and Rachel could hear him whistling under his breath as he went. She was sure that he knew exactly what she had been doing.

‘Ladies, please!’ Lady Sally Saltire clapped her hands together like a schoolmistress reproaching her recalcitrant flock. ‘How are we to discuss The Enchantress when you are none of you paying attention?’

The members of the reading group were seated on the lawn at Saltires, under a large white marquee. It was another scorching day and it was a pleasure to be out of doors where the faint breeze from the river brought at least a little relief from the blistering heat. The air was warm and full of the heady scents of an English summer: the sharp sweetness of cut grass, the dry, nose-tickling smell of lavender and the faint pale perfume of the pink roses that tumbled over the arbour to their left. It made Rachel feel very somnolent.

Lady Sally had arranged for iced lemonade and almond biscuits to be served to her guests and the ladies had settled into their chairs and opened their books at chapter twelve, beginning an animated discussion of whether Sir Philip Desormeaux was genuinely in love now, or whether he was merely infatuated. Lady Sally contended that their hero, like many a man, was fickle and afraid to commit himself. Lady Benedict chided her for her cynicism and Miss Lang said that, for her part, she found the book slow and wished the author would simply get on with the story.

It was at this point that a counter-attraction occurred and the attention of all the ladies was, to a greater or lesser extent, distracted. Rachel was the first to notice it. Around the side of the house had come Cory Newlyn, accompanied by Mr Daubenay. The artist set his easel up on the lawn facing the rose arbour and instructed his subject to stand on the step under the archway and adopt the attitude of a man scanning distant horizons.

Rachel smothered a giggle. Evidently the idea was to create the impression of a fearless adventurer striding out across the desert, but since Cory was standing in Lady Sally’s rose garden and one of her prized Austrian Copper roses appeared to be growing out of his head, the effect was decidedly more prosaic. Furthermore, she could tell that even at this distance Cory thought the whole thing ridiculous. There was something stiff in the way that he held himself, an impatience that was barely concealed. And when he saw the ladies watching him, he positively scowled.

They soldiered on for a while longer but when Cory, on the instructions of Mr Daubenay, took his jacket off and slung it casually over one shoulder, all concentration was lost. Helena Lang’s mouth was open and even Deborah Stratton had to be recalled to the discussion twice. Rachel was annoyed to find herself as culpable as anyone else. She tried to concentrate on Sir Philip’s infatuation with Miss Milward and only succeeded in finding her thoughts suspended as she considered Cory’s lithe figure. She looked up to find Lady Sally’s amused gaze resting on her.

‘I cannot tell you, Miss Odell,’ Lady Sally said, ‘how grateful I am to you for persuading Lord Newlyn to pose for my watercolour book. I do believe the credit must all be yours.’ She closed her book with a snap. ‘And the blame for disturbing my reading group must rest entirely with him. Johnson!’ She called one of the footmen over. ‘Pray ask Mr Daubenay to take his sketching elsewhere. His subject is distracting my ladies!’

It seemed, however, that the mood of the group was broken. Even after Cory and Mr Daubenay had walked away to take up another position in the walled garden-locked in and out of sight, Lady Sally said-the ladies could not settle back to their discussions. In exasperation, Lady Sally sent them all home to read the next few chapters on their own.

‘Pray be prepared to make more of a contribution next week,’ she said severely, on parting from her guests, but there was a twinkle in her eye.

Rather than take the path by the river, Rachel accepted a ride from Olivia and Deborah as far as Midwinter Mallow village. The movement of the gig at least set up a small, refreshing breeze, which was very welcome on so hot a day. As they drove the ladies quizzed her about her matrimonial affairs, in which they had taken a proprietary interest. Deb maintained that James Kestrel was Rachel’s most ardent admirer and, since Rachel had promised herself not to share the information of James’s flirtation with Helena, she could do nothing more than laughingly disagree.

‘Indeed, Rachel,’ Olivia commented, ‘you have quite a proliferation of admirers, do you not, just like Sir Philip Desormeaux in The Enchantress!’

‘And as is the case with Sir Philip,’ Rachel said, ‘I am not content with any of them. Mr Lang is a wastrel, Mr Kestrel is a bore and Sir John is an out-and-out rake. He tells me that he wishes to marry, and indeed he may do so, but I doubt that would encourage him to give up his other amorous pursuits.’

Olivia sighed and encouraged the fat pony to a faster trot. The gig gathered speed down the hill towards Midwinter Mallow.

‘That would certainly appear to put him out of the picture,’ she agreed. ‘Some women do not regard it, but I confess that it would not be to my taste for my husband to be unfaithful.’

Rachel shook her head despondently. ‘I do not understand why it is so difficult to find a respectable man in the Midwinter villages,’ she said. ‘All the gentlemen are completely unacceptable!’

‘Now if you were looking for a rogue and a scoundrel you would be positively overwhelmed with candidates,’ Deb said, laughing.

They rounded the bend at the bottom of the hill.

‘You may find,’ Olivia said shrewdly, ‘that these so-called rogues of yours are sound men underneath the surface.’

‘Oh, pooh!’ Deborah said. ‘Lord Richard Kestrel of steady disposition?’

Olivia gave her sister a speaking look and Deborah flushed under her scrutiny.

‘I am sure,’ Rachel said hastily, ‘that I understand what Deborah means, Lady Marney. I do not know Lord Richard well, but I can state with certainty that Lord Newlyn, for example, could never be described as of steady disposition.’

Olivia was smiling faintly. ‘Maybe not, but does he possess a sense of humour, Miss Odell?’

Rachel laughed. ‘Oh, indeed he does.’

‘And does he also possess sufficient humility?’

‘Not at all. He is quite arrogant at times.’

Now it was Olivia’s turn to laugh. ‘Yet that can be quite an attractive trait in a gentleman. Surely you would not deny that in comparison with Sir John Norton, for example, Lord Newlyn is charmingly self-deprecating?’

Rachel thought about it and she was obliged to admit that there was some truth in what Olivia was saying.

‘Well…’ she said cautiously, ‘it is true that Cory-Lord Newlyn-is not self-important in the same way as Sir John.’

‘And you think him attractive?’

Rachel blushed. ‘I suppose I can see that he is.’

‘That does not signify,’ Deborah objected. ‘One would have to be dead not to find Lord Newlyn attractive!’

‘Very well.’ Olivia conceded the point. ‘But you like him, Rachel? You esteem him as a man?’

Rachel frowned. She realised that her feelings for Cory Newlyn were becoming very complicated. She felt for him an emotion far stronger than mere esteem. She liked Cory tremendously. She always had done. The reason she had regretted their quarrel so much was because she valued Cory’s friendship highly and could not bear to lose it. In fact, she did not merely like Cory. She loved him…The colour flooded her face.

‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘I hold him in the highest esteem.’

‘So,’ Olivia said inexorably, ‘in point of fact, Lord Newlyn possesses almost all the qualities you would look for in a gentleman. Whereas Sir John and Mr Lang and Mr Kestrel are sadly lacking.’

Rachel was saved from replying, for the gig was pulling to a halt at the crossroads in Midwinter Mallow.

‘We should all go on a trip to the seaside,’ Deborah said, fanning herself lazily, ‘if the weather holds. Would you like that, Rachel?’

‘I would enjoy it extremely,’ Rachel said. She waved goodbye to them and watched as the gig turned down the track that forked right towards Midwinter Marney and the sea, then she prepared to walk the remaining mile to Midwinter Royal House.

The sun seemed even more intense out in the open. It dazzled the eyes and squeezed the head with lassitude until Rachel wanted nothing more than to lie down in the shade and sleep. By the time that she reached the square in Midwinter Mallow, she was already too hot and wished that she had taken advantage of Olivia’s offer of a ride in the gig all the way home. The village was quiet-even the birds were silent, weighed down by the heat. On impulse, Rachel crossed the dusty square and went under the lych gate into the churchyard. Here the slabs of the path burned the soles of her shoes, but the yew trees cast their shade on the uneven gravestones. She sat down in the shadow of the lych gate. That was better. Now she could draw breath and cool down, for she was unpleasantly aware of the sweat running between her shoulder blades and the flushed heat of her face. She did so hate to sweat; not only was it unladylike, it also caused more laundry.