Chapter Three
Cornelius didn’t feel much like attending the rout scheduled for tonight that Johnathan had already committed to, and he certainly didn’t wish to cool his heels at the club.
Additionally, he was between mistresses, and the thought of snapping up the next woman on his list was too much effort.
Especially since his last one had begun talk of redecorating various rooms in his townhouse.
Which she had only seen twice. That had smacked too much of domestic involvement, so he’d broken things off with her.
She’d thrown a vase of flowers at him on her way out.
Now, here he was, walking through the business district of Mayfair because everything he usually filled his time with sounded so dull and pointless, as if he were existing merely for existing’s sake. There had to be more to life than what he currently had.
Hunching further into his greatcoat, he silently cursed the February cold.
Ordinarily, he didn’t give two figs about the weather, but the chill and frost in the air just sank into a man’s bones and made his joints ache to the point that all Cornelius wanted was his fire, a thick blanket, and a bowl of soup.
I have become an old man.
Well, that wasn’t quite true. He tightened his gloved hand on the ivory head of his cane.
Though he owned three, this one was his favorite.
To be fair, he didn’t truly need the cane to help him walk; one of the injuries he sustained only slightly inconvenienced him, but he suspected it gave him a sense of security to hold it.
I have turned into an old, grouchy man who wants nothing to do with anything.
He frowned as he passed someone on the pavement.
It wasn’t such a long walk back to his home in Manchester Square, but he wasn’t quite ready to go home just yet.
At least he was taking in exercise, and as his mother constantly said—when he wasn’t bedeviling him to marry—an idle mind and body were ones closer to the grave.
As he strolled, he peered into the windows of the shops that he passed while his breath clouded around his head.
Perhaps he needed to plan a trip somewhere, since the war had been over for nearly two years.
Somewhere warm with sunshine. Would that help lift the doldrums?
Doubtful.
Since it was nearing the dinner hour, most of the shops had already closed.
Pedestrians on the pavement had thinned, but there was still an echo of carriage wheels that rang off the building’s facades.
Fripperies and fans were displayed in one window while a lovely gown in red satin hung on a modiste’s dressmaker frame in another.
At a perfumery, ornate and beautiful glass bottles of fragrances had been arranged in the window to resemble the top of a lady’s dressing table.
An ink seller tried to entice shoppers to buy the latest and greatest in cut-crystal inkwells, while at a cigarmaker, the wealth of accessories and fine cigars was mind boggling.
It made him think of lands far away that didn’t have winter, where the sun shone down to warm skin and a fresh ocean breeze would rifle through hair.
Perhaps I should shop for a new head for this cane.
At the cul-de-sac at the end of the street, he peered into the bowed window of what appeared to be a bookshop.
The wooden sign above the door read “Chandler’s Books and Periodicals.
” It gently swung back and forth in the errant breeze, while a golden pool of illumination spilled from the lit candles within.
The place was one of the only shops still open, but he expected the proprietor to close at any moment.
But this window was different, for there was a woman there, arranging stacks of books as well as standing two lengthwise against the stacks.
Over the books, she’d draped a string of pink and white paper hearts in homage to the upcoming Valentine’s Day celebrations.
Finally, she added a cup and saucer of delicate pink ceramic near one of the books.
The effect was so lovely, he stopped to stare for the full effect.
As if sensing his attention, the woman straightened.
She glanced into his face and happened to meet his gaze.
It was difficult to discern the whole of her form since it was backlit from the candles in the shop behind her, but he would recognize the blue-gray eyes anywhere.
They had haunted his dreams for far too long, had guided him in perilous times while he’d been away in India.
Penelope.
It was his best friend’s sister. As he gasped from the shock, her lips formed an o of surprise. Did she know who he was as well?
“Cornelius!” He watched her lips form the word.
So then she did recognize him. Immediately, the old feelings he’d once held for her beset him, and it was as if the years between them had temporarily vanished.
A wave of heat slammed into him. He rested a gloved palm on the glass.
She lifted a hand, almost touched the glass on her side, but then apparently thought the better of it, for she snatched it behind her back, and what was more, she darted away from the window.
Seconds later, she drew a shade downward to block everything within from his view.
With the shade came a sudden surcease to the warm glow of the light from the shop.
He stood, shivering in the darkness of the February night, wondering what the devil had just happened.
Then, with the knowledge that he might have instantly gone insane, he crunched through the light dusting of snow to the door, put a hand on the latch, and with a deep breath, he pushed the wooden panel open.
The cheerful tinkle of a tin bell over the door gleefully announced his arrival.
As soon as it closed behind him, he paused with a frown as he gave his eyes time to adjust the lit room.
Why? Did he think to gather courage? To convince himself he was acting the nodcock and that he needed to leave?
He tightened his hand on the cane. And what the devil would he say to her after all these years, especially since the last time he’d been in her company, he’d done unspeakable things to her in that hedge maze?
“I’m sorry, but we are nearing closing time. You’ll need to come back tomorrow,” she said from behind a wooden counter to one side of the moderately sized room where she’d stooped to attend to books on a wooden cart.
A door behind the counter possibly led to a back room where she might find privacy or get a bit of tea while a few wooden shelves to one side of the room had been put together to form a wall of sorts.
Two other such “walls” were behind that one, presumably for customers to peruse the stacks as they were.
“I understand that, but I would rather stay and talk with you a bit… to catch up… Penelope.” Why he’d dared to utter her given name aloud, he’d never know, but once the words fell out of his mouth, there was no way to recall them.
Once again, she glanced at him, and her eyes widened.
“Cornelius, so it was you I saw on the street…” Then she shook her head as if to clear it.
“Er, I mean Major Montgomery.” She raked her gaze up and down his person, and then she looked again at him with a faint flush in her pale cheeks. “It has been ages since I’ve seen you.”
“Indeed, it has.” Where he once prided himself with the ability to charm any woman with witty and risqué dialogue, standing before here, tongue-tied, as if he’d never learned how to speak in the whole of his life.
She pressed the pillows of her lips together, and his gaze dropped to her mouth to stare and remember what those nearly full pieces of flesh felt like against his own. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, well, I was walking through Mayfair for the exercise. Didn’t wish to go home just yet you see.
When I happened to glance into this shop and saw you, I…
” What? Lost his mind? Was making a cake of himself?
Completely forgot he was a known rake in London?
He cleared his throat. “I saw you, and since we haven’t spoken in some time, I thought to come in and say hello.
Offer my belated condolences for the loss of your husband. ”
“Ah.” A frown tugged at the corners of her mouth, and he was far too distracted by those lips then he had the right to be.
“Well, uh, what is there to say? Weymouth died two years ago. In a hunting accident. Right before the Christmas season.” One of her hands paused on a stack of books on the wooden cart.
“Because apparently shooting the hell out of innocent animals is what men of the beau monde do as a hobby.”
From the annoyance in her tone, it was clear she despised hunting.
Not that he blamed her. Too often, men used the escape to their hunting boxes as an excuse to avoid their responsibilities.
Personally, Cornelius had never wished to be involved in hunting; he’d had enough shooting and tracking… and killing… in the war.
“Does your brother hunt? Did he go out with Weymouth?” As he spoke, he let his gaze ease over her form with all the familiarity of a lover. Had he been that to her all those years ago? Just barely, perhaps.
The fabric of her dress and shawl seemed expensive.
No expense spared by the marquess, no doubt, and the lavender hue hearkened back to her coming out of mourning.
Had she cared for her husband once upon a time?
His gaze lingered a tad longer on the curve of her breasts and hips.
Clearly, she’d come into her own since she’d married.
How much effort would it expend to try and charm that bodice down beneath the shawl?
Get your head out of your arse, Cornelius. She is not for you.