Chapter Ten

After tea

 

“Are you certain you are not too tired for a walk?” Preston took the crimson silk shawl from Norton and draped it around Cornelia’s shoulders.

Cornelia sighed, glad to be finished with tea. “A good walk is just what I need after being confined in a coach for hours every day. And the weather is particularly fine for a stroll.”

They left the house via the terrace, arm-in-arm, sauntered past the pleasing floral groupings and stone urns of the parterre garden and down the gravel pathway through the wide expanse of grass and trees of Warrington Park.

Finally, Preston said, “She isn’t always so melancholy, you know. I’ve seen glimpses of the real Joanna from time to time, when the girls are around. We try to get her out of the house as much as possible. The doctor says it will take time for her to grieve her loss.”

Cornelia nodded. “Losing a child is a dreadful blow, let alone not being able to have more children. I can’t even imagine…” She wiped away a tear. “But Joanna is strong. She will recover. I will make sure of that.”

“We will, won’t we? Together.” His voice cracked, and Cornelia squeezed his arm. “Yes, we will.”

They walked in silence to the folly, a stone Temple of Venus built on a hill overlooking the lake. The still water sparkled with the reflection of the trees and the setting sun, and Cornelia closed her eyes and took a deep breath in an effort to absorb the tranquility.

“It’s so lovely here,” she said finally. “And yet you seem so eager to leave it.”

Preston ran a hand through his hair. “It is rather spectacular,” he agreed. “But it is William’s. He was the one with the duty to the title and the estate. My duty—well, I had no duty, as I saw it, except to please myself. It was a fair bargain, I thought.”

She frowned. “You risked your life on the Continent for King and Country. Surely you have not forgotten.”

He grinned. “How very like me to find an honorable way to indulge my inclination for excitement.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

He studied her. “What do you mean?”

“Your work with the Crown. My father told me you were responsible for saving lives, Preston. I don’t know the particulars; as you said, some things must be kept out of the public knowledge, but I won’t have you denying the truth of your noble and brave character, at least not in my presence.”

His mouth fell open. “Cornelia…”

She shook her head. “Nor is there any doubt that you feel just as intensely for your family and your heritage. You are a good man, Preston. Any woman would be proud to be your wife. I’m just sorry that…” Her voice broke off.

He took her elbow and guided her to a seat on the raised base between two of the columns. After a long sigh, he slipped an arm around her waist and quoted:

 

“The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men

Gang aft a-gley.

An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,

For promis’d joy!”

 

“Indeed, Robbie Burns had it right,” she murmured. “Preston, our bargain seemed so simple. In retrospect, I cannot believe I was so naïve as to think there would be no consequences.” Tears stung her eyes. “Do you think—is there any possible way this marriage can be set aside?”  

* * *

Preston closed his eyes, unable to envision a life without Cornelia. He loved her. He wanted nothing more than to be a true husband to her. Above all, however, he wanted her to be happy, and he would not obligate her to be his wife. Still…it appeared she liked him well enough. Successful marriages had begun on far less sturdier foundations.

“I believe the marriage could be annulled,” he said. “I will speak with my solicitor in London, but I suspect the repercussions would be exceedingly unpleasant.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose you might consider making ours a true marriage? I have come to believe that you and I would suit each other quite comfortably.”

Cornelia pulled from his embrace and jumped to her feet. 

Preston rose. “Forgive me. I should not have asked.”

She shook her head. “It isn’t that. I… My past, I—”

He started at the tears in her eyes. “Cornelia, whatever it is, you can tell me. Surely you know by now that I can be trusted.” Tears slid down her cheeks. He pulled his handkerchief from his inner pocket and handed it to her. “You have nothing to fear from me. I am not one to judge the past conduct of another, most particularly not of a lady I have come to admire.” He wanted to add “and love,” but sensed this was not the time for such a confession.

Cornelia covered her face with her hands and took a deep breath. Finally, she turned toward him and blurted, “I am the daughter of a rapist.”

Whatever he expected to hear, it was not that. The admiral… a rapist? Not possible. The Hardcastle family’s affection for each other was genuine—the natural instinct that had made him such a successful spy confirmed it. Furthermore, there was no denying that the bond between the admiral and his wife and daughter was a powerful one. That meant that the rapist who had sired Cornelia had come from outside the family.

He clasped her hands and smiled gently “There, you got it out. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

She tilted her head to stare at him. “You’re not—shocked? Disgusted?”

He looked directly into her eyes. “Surprised, yes, certainly. Disgusted? I don’t quite understand your meaning, Cornelia.” His eyes widened. “Unless you are thinking—surely not—that I could be disgusted by you.”

She burst into tears. He pulled her trembling body into his arms and held her close until she quieted and the tears slowed, eventually turning into occasional hiccups. When she raised her head from his chest, he said. “Shall we sit down? When you are ready, you can tell me what it is that has you so distressed.”

Dabbing at her eyes, she nodded and allowed him to guide her back to the stone seat.

“I must look a mess,” she said finally, in a shaky voice.

“You look beautiful.” He stroked gentle circles on her back.

She made a face. “Liar. I have seen my face in this condition before. Red eyes, splotchy cheeks, shiny nose. Definitely not pretty.”

In response, he turned her face toward his and captured her lips for a tender kiss. Her sweet gasp of surprise tempted him to deepen the embrace into something more passionate, but reined in his desire and broke the kiss.

“Do you still believe I was lying, my dear?” he said.

She swallowed. “Perhaps you are just being kind.”

If she did, indeed, need more convincing… He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her again, this time with more pressure. He drew back slightly and teased her lips with his tongue, probing between them. She gasped again, but pressed closer and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She smelled of violets and tasted like wild honey. He slid his fingers into her hair. Several pins loosened and dark locks spilled down her back. Preston plunged his tongue between her lips and coerced a timid response from her tongue. He slid his hands down her back and brushed the sides of her breasts before settling possessively at her waist.

My woman. Made for me. She has to know it.

When he pulled back, she looked down, flushed and breathing hard.

“Well?” he said when he found himself able to talk again. “Was that a ‘just being kind’ kiss, do you think?”

She looked up at him, eyes alight with a mischievous glow. “You proved your point. There was nothing ‘kind’ about it. I must allow that you are a magnificent kisser, Preston.”

His breath quickened. “There is nothing I would like better than to kiss you like that every day. Several times a day. I am convinced that we could have an exemplary partnership, my dear, if we were to make our marriage a real one.”

She drew in a breath. “What I said about my—er—real father does not cause you concern?”

He locked gazes with her. “Cornelia, the admiral is your father. Has he not proven it to be so?”

She bit her lip. “Indeed, he has. I could not have asked for a better father. I-I could not believe it when I discovered he was not—and that he knew he was not, all along.”

He slid an arm around her shoulder. “There. Does that not convince you, my sweet? Your father—both your parents—believe you are worthy of being loved. Why would you doubt it?”

She grimaced. “Because—because I know that my mother’s attacker is here, inside me. In appearance, I am like my mother, but I know I carry the blood of this—this creature who brutally forced himself on a young girl and murdered her family. It makes me feel unclean, and there is nothing I can do to scrub it out.” Her eyes filled with tears and she pressed her face against his chest.

“Ah,” he said as he kissed the top of her head. His chest tightened. She had suffered so long with this terrible knowledge.

* * *

Cornelia drew a deep breath and, at Preston’s gentle urging, began the story known only by her parents and her friend Freddie.

“My mother’s family lived in Toulon when the city fell back into the hands of the Republican armies. My mother’s home was attacked by a band of savage Republican soldiers.” Her heart squeezed and she couldn’t halt the tears. “The soldiers brutally raped my grandmother, my mother’s sister, and my mother—who was but seventeen. My mother was the last woman they assaulted. She hit her attacker with a bottle of wine and escaped into the woods. Behind her, she heard bullets and screams.”

Cornelia swallowed. “At that time, my father commanded the HMS Stalwart, one of the three ships assigned to rescue refugees. My mother was among those lodged in the hold. He probably would never have met her  had he not found her that evening, weeping on the deck, leaning over the rail so precariously that he feared she would topple into the sea.

“He’d avoided the leg-shackle of matrimony for thirty-two years, but, according to him, he fell in love at first sight, and took her home to his family in Sussex, to care for her until he could obtain leave to woo and marry her. The marriage almost didn’t happen when the pregnancy was discovered. My mother is very stubborn.” Cornelia gave a small laugh. “She staunchly refused to drag Father down into her ‘personal misfortune,’ as she called it. But my father promised to love her child as his own, that it would be his own, as far as anyone else knew, and that the babe would be named after him.”

She shrugged. “Neither ever planned on telling me about my parentage, but one day while searching for a miniature of myself as a child, I discovered my mother’s journal. And every day since, I wished I had not.” Cornelia looked up into Preston’s eyes. “But Pandora’s box, once opened, cannot be closed again.”