Page 19 of A Brush With Love at Brookview Hall (Noble Hearts)

Seventeen

CORNELIUS

F oolish woman. What had she been thinking?

And more to the point, how long had she been trailing him? What had she seen? Heavens, but there was a lot of damage to repair.

She barely protested as he pulled her back to the cottage and closed the door behind them. Her initial fear had since transformed into fury, and he could not blame her. But he could not have risked being discovered. Not now.

“Sit down,” he commanded, and then, recalling his manners, added, “please. If you can hold off berating me for a few minutes, I shall put on some water for tea.”

“The tea from the bag you have hidden? With the French brandy and the tobacco?”

He stopped his steps and let out a rush of air.

“You discovered that, did you? And when did I give you permission to search through my belongings?” His own anger was becoming more difficult to control. “Does a man not have the right to some privacy of his possessions?”

“I discovered them on one of the first times that you disappeared. I thought you might have taken ill, or had an accident. I was worried sick that I would find you clinging to life, or worse.” Her words were caring; her tone was sharp.

There was steel behind the words and fury in her eyes.

“What was I to think, Cornelius, when you vanished with no word? So yes, I entered your studio, but not with the intention of rifling through your possessions. That I happened upon some things while looking for some indication as to your whereabouts is nothing for which I feel any remorse. I did not seek to discover your secrets, but once found, how could I forget them?”

“And, of course, you immediately leapt to the wildest conclusions,” he spat back. “Dare I ask what crazy things you have come to believe of me, that you track me through the woods and hide behind trees?”

“I wished to believe nothing! I told myself that you had a bag of tea to brew a pot to enjoy, that you had the brandy to enjoy a glass in the evenings when you had put away your paints, that the bag had fallen.

I tried to think you innocent of every suspicion that your own behaviour aroused in me, but for every excuse I made, you did two things that proved the excuses mistaken.

“Who are those men? What are you doing?”

Her eyes blazed and her voice rang from the walls. Good gracious, she was magnificent.

The kettle on the iron stove forgotten, he strode up to her, where she stood by the window, hands planted on her shapely hips.

“Those men were acquaintances I made in the village. I had forgotten something in the tavern and they returned it to me. That is all.”

“Out in the far corners of the estate? Why would they not come to the house? How did they know to find you there?”

Oh. She had seen it all. Cornelius tried to think quickly, but Julia did not give him the chance.

“You have lied at every opportunity,” she cried.

“You have disappeared, hidden contraband objects in your studio, found yourself embroiled in physical altercations, and exchanged mysterious objects with strangers under mysterious circumstances. What am I to believe, other than that you are involved in something criminal? If I am wrong, tell me the truth now!”

He glared at her. He was inches away, his eyes boring into hers. Her indignation was no longer a spark behind that prim exterior, but a raging blaze. Heat of an entirely different sort coursed through his body, and he felt his control begin to slip.

He reached out to grasp her shoulders. There was no fear in her eyes, only righteous anger.

“Tell me, Cornelius!”

He opened his mouth, but he saw only her lovely face and two plump lips, reddened by her fury.

He found her gaze and could not tear his eyes away. Was that intensity he saw in her eyes equal to his? Did she feel that same irresistible pull? She was more potent than the strongest ale at addling his senses, and right now, he wanted nothing more than to drink deep from her cup.

“Tell me to go,” he ground out. “Push me away, run back to the house. I cannot resist you.”

The rage in her regard turned to surprise, but she stood there, unmoving.

There was no refusal. She made no attempt to escape. Her chest was heaving with her rapid breaths. Was it from anger or passion? Or were the two inseparable? One thing he was certain of, however: she was not objecting to his advance.

His heart pounding within him, Cornelius pulled her toward him and met her soft mouth with his own.

Colour! The world exploded in a symphony of colour.

It started as a chaste peck, the merest brushing of lips, but that first taste was not nearly enough.

Like a parched man offered a drink of water, he wanted nothing more but to lose himself in the depths of her.

His arms folded her into him, and hers, tentative at first, slid around his back to return the embrace as her lips, untutored but willing, responded to his kiss.

In moments, their previous anger exploded into passion, and the kiss blossomed into something Cornelius had not expected.

The spark he had seen in Julia was no mere glint of reflected light, but an inferno that promised to glow brighter still, and it ignited his own fire.

How brilliantly it burned, how glorious was this alchemy, for when their two souls met and combined, the result was nothing short of gold.

Every colour in the universe was created by that kiss, and every note of music and every starburst as well. Julia was his everything.

But as quickly as the passionate blaze was kindled, so it was snuffed out.

“No!” Julia gasped. She dropped her hands from about his neck and slid them up his chest to push him away. “I cannot… This cannot happen. I cannot let this happen again. And you, a criminal. No! I have too much to lose and nothing to gain.”

“A criminal?” Cornelius managed to sputter between his heavy breaths. “You do not think?—”

“I have to go. I cannot see you again. Let me leave.” Now there was panic in her voice, and the light in her eyes was that of urgency rather than ardour. “I have to leave.”

Cornelius stood stunned as she dashed from the cottage. His heart had been ripped from him, his entire being bereft.

What had he done? Perhaps his fervour had been more than Julia was expecting, but he had not pushed her harder than she was willing to accept…

had he? And a criminal? Did she really believe he was involved with criminals?

That—the knowledge that she thought so little of him that she could hurl such accusations—hurt more than her rebuff.

He had to prove himself. He had to act to show her that he was a man of principle and valour, and that he was a man worthy of her. Because having tasted her, he could not imagine ever loving anybody else.

He had to prove his worth, and then convince her that he was the only man for her.

Cornelius fretted about in his studio for the rest of the day.

It was growing too dark to paint, and his attempts at reading were hopeless.

No amount of tidying his chaotic desk or sorting through the pile of sketches he had made in Porthawen could settle his thoughts.

He examined the bottle that Rainham had given him once again, but could not recall a single detail of the label.

How could he seek out its brothers if he could not remember what it looked like?

What a grand thing he had given the drawings of that boat to Rainham, for had they asked him now what it looked like, he could not have told them a thing.

Instead of all this, it was Julia. Julia was everywhere. How could he repair this? How could he win her back?

No, not even win her back, for he had never had her.

There was still some terrible barrier she cowered behind, something in her past, that kept her heart locked away.

It had to do, Cornelius was certain, with a former admirer, the bestower of that first kiss that she recalled not with fondness but with alarm.

And the name, Lyddon, still nudged about hints of memories that would not manifest into anything intelligible.

It was a familiar sound, the suggestion of… something.

Had Hamilton received his letter? Had the man written back?

Cornelius had, after all, been in Porthawen for a week, and had been out tramping—and getting into scrapes—for some days before that.

Who knew what correspondence might have accumulated at the house.

It was time to present himself there, with a handful of canvases at that, to show to his employer as an explanation for his absence.

He would, of course, be expected to remain and dine with the family, and Julia would likely be in attendance as well. Did he hope she was there? Or did he dread the possibility?

There was nothing for it, though. She would, he knew, present the calm, stern facade she always wore while in her role as governess, but perhaps her eyes would speak to him in a language only he could understand.

Resigned to a most uncomfortable evening, Cornelius gathered the set of watercolours he had painted of the town and set off towards the house.

Mr Derriscott seemed quite unconcerned about his painting master’s absence, and instead gushed over the paintings.

“I shall buy them all from you, if you will sell them,” he declared.

Cornelius named a rather lofty price, which the man accepted with scarcely a blink.

“And I wish to use them as studies for a larger work in oil. I shall begin that at once, and bring you these watercolours once I no longer have need for them.”

His employer waved a hand in the air, looking for everything like an ancien regime French monarch.

“As you see best,” he replied. “I have engaged an architect to add another room on to the side of the house, past the library. That will be the perfect place to display these, but there is no hurry. I merely look forward to displaying the set.”

Derriscott’s income was surely quite considerable!

Much later, Cornelius retired to his comfortable bedchamber in the house.

Julia had not been at dinner, and Mrs Derriscott was present for the first time since Cornelius had been in residence.

Three families of suitable rank from the neighbourhood had been invited to dine and the conversation had been pleasant if not fascinating.

He had spoken at length about his upcoming exhibition and his joy at exploring the beautiful scenery in this part of Cornwall, and the hours had slipped by.

But it was the small stack of letters in his hand that now consumed all his attention, for one of them, a thick package sealed with a heavy black circle of wax, was the missive he had been hoping for from his old childhood friend.

Cornelius sat down in the chair by the lamp and prepared to read the response to his inquiries about Julia. He found his knife, cracked off the seal, and held his breath.