Beguiling the Beauty

by Thomas, Sherry

  She did not regret the pact: Theirs had been a complicated and unhappy situation; postponing the consummation of their marriage had simplified their lives and allowed them to deal with each other on practical, friendly terms.

  What she did regret was the length of their agreement. Had it been seven years, the bedding—and whatever its aftermath—would have been behind her. Had it been nine years, she’d still have more time to become accustomed to the idea.

  But they’d shaken hands on eight years, and eight years was expiring fast.

  Fitz trusted her. He liked and respected her. On some days, she’d even venture to say that he admired her. But he did not love her. If a man hadn’t fallen in love with a woman after almost eight years together, was there any chance that he ever would?

  “You must be cold,” said Helena, coming to stand next to Millie on the aft rail of the promenade deck. “You’ve been out here a long time.”

  “Can’t be that long—I’ve not frozen solid yet,” said Millie, with a smile for her sister-in-law. “How are you, my dear? How is the article coming along?”

  “Not too well,” said Helena.

  Would Fitz forget about their pact altogether if the situation with Helena proved too trying? He had no calendar on which he’d marked the date. He had plenty of women to keep his carnal urges satisfied. And by and large he treated her as if she were another one of his sisters. What if the day came and went and she remained alone in her bed?

  Would that please her or would that break her?

  Millie laid a hand on Helena’s arm. “Don’t worry too much about Venetia.”

  “I can’t help it. I hope she is not all alone, hiding in her stateroom.”

  “She could be having a torrid affair, for all we know,” said Millie.

  That was perhaps not the right thing to say—not when she had no intention of insinuating anything about Helena.

  Helena’s face took on an obdurate cast. “I hope she is. She is a grown woman who has made too little use of her freedom.”

  And are you a grown woman who has made too much use of her freedom?

  But what did Millie know of love that was ardently returned, love that yearned with a burning intensity across space and time, she who’d only ever been the destroyer of such love?

  What she did know was that Fitz would never have compromised an unmarried lady, as Mr. Martin had. Helena was galloping unchecked toward a precipice, from which none of them could pull her out, if she were to fall.

  She did not want anything to happen to Helena, who like Venetia had only ever been kind and accepting of Millie, especially in those days when Fitz could barely bring himself to speak to her. She wanted Helena to be happy. And if not that, at least safe from ruin and ostracism.

  She took Helena’s arm. “If you can’t concentrate on your article, what say you we take a long, bracing constitutional?”

  CHAPTER 9

  The western sky glowed. Fire burnished the edge of the sea. The last fingers of daylight caressed the long, feathery clouds and gilded them the golden peach of fine Calvados.

  Christian had never seen a more perfect sunset. The baroness, however, was not on hand to share this incandescent view—instead, she was in her room, attending to her toilette.

  It was their sixth day at sea. The ship was expected to call on Queenstown the next morning. The morning after that, Southampton. He had, therefore, gone to considerable trouble to convince her to attend the captain’s dinner this evening. She’d thought him mad, but he was very persistent. He wanted to show her that it was quite feasible for them to appear in public while her veil remained firmly in place. That the rest of Society would defer to his wish and accept her as she was.

  He would clear all obstacles. He would pave the way. And he would strew the path with the rarest fossils, for her to claim the place in his life that belonged to her and her alone.

  Venetia had begun to consider possible strategies.

  Perhaps the baroness would mention in a letter that her friend Mrs. Easterbrook lived in London. Perhaps Venetia, upon meeting Christian at some point during the Season, would let it slip that her delightful chum Baroness von Seidlitz-Hardenberg had mentioned that she, too, had recently traveled on the Rhodesia. And perhaps, before anything else, she ought to achieve calling terms with the dowager duchess—to such a degree that the latter would be willing to vouch for Venetia’s character.

  This was why, she thought ruefully as she tugged on her dinner gloves, sensible people did not lead double lives: There was no graceful way to collapse a bifurcated existence back into a single, uncomplicated one.

  Miss Arnaud had taken the sparkling paillettes from another one of Venetia’s dinner gowns and turned her veil into an accessory that, while still highly odd, exuded a certain glamour. Venetia stepped back from the mirror and turned in a circle. She wanted her presence to add to his stature, not detract from it. The cobalt blue dinner gown was certainly everything a frock ought to be—and would have matched her eyes if one could see them—

  She shook her head. The irregularity of the proceedings could not be helped; she could only follow his lead and hope to be remembered as agreeable.

  He awaited her at the newel post of the stairs leading down into the dining saloon, highly delectable in his evening formals.

  “You are the most sensational-looking lady tonight, darling,” he said as he offered her his arm.

  It always made her heart pound to hear him call her by that endearment.

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that. You do realize we are being very brazen, do you not?”

  “Brazenness is for lesser mortals,” he said. “The Duke of Lexington defines good form—or redefines it, if need be.”

  “At least you are diverting to be around.”

  He leaned close. “I’ll tell you a not-quite-secret: No one else says that, not even my stepmother.”

  She turned her face. They were very nearly nose to nose—brazenness indeed. “Good, keep it that way. I want to see you at your loftiest and most glacial tonight.”

  “For you, I will. But if I fail miserably—if I act with insufficient condescension or, God forbid, put anyone at ease—know that you and you alone are responsible.”

  “What a heavy charge: hundreds of years of unbroken hauteur at stake.”

  He squeezed her hand briefly. “At last you understand what you have done.”

  They were seated together, with a young American embarking upon his grand tour of the Old World to Venetia’s right. Someone had obviously informed him that she did not—or would not—speak English, for the young American, Mr. Cameron, greeted her with a “Guten Abend, Gnädige Frau.”

  His German had more courage than skill, but he was unconcerned about mistakes and game for conversation. They spoke of his planned itinerary. Rather than the relics of the classical age, Mr. Cameron was most excited to visit the Eiffel Tower and bestride that modern marvel. He informed Venetia, with charming frankness, that he hoped the top of the tower would sway majestically in a gust and that he, strong, sturdy man he was, would be just the person to catch a beautiful young lady fainting of fright.

  Christian, who had been engaged in conversation with Mrs. Vanderwoude, a Manhattan matriarch, turned and said, “Good luck, Mr. Cameron. I was there during the Exposition Universelle and the top of the tower was so crowded that an unconscious young lady would have remained upright until she came to on her own.”

  Mr. Cameron had a hearty guffaw at this. Venetia couldn’t help but smile at her lover. Of course he couldn’t see it, but he had an uncanny sense for when she smiled beneath her veil—and he smiled back at her.

  She felt as if she’d been hugging puppies all day.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said a young lady from across the table. She’d been introduced to Venetia as Miss Vanderwoude. “Are you by some chance the same duke who gave a lecture at Harvard?”

  Venetia stilled.

  “Gloria, must you speak in such stentorian tones?” Mrs.
Vanderwoude was not pleased.

  “Sorry, Grandmamma,” said Miss Vanderwoude. The volume of her voice, however, did not reduce at all. “But are you, sir?”

  “I am,” said Christian, taking a sip of his wine.

  “What a coincidence!” Miss Vanderwoude all but clapped. “My cousin and his wife, who came to see me last week, had been at your lecture.”

  “I’m glad to hear they hadn’t expired of boredom.”

  It was a droll comment, and Venetia meant to smile again. But she couldn’t. A chill spread between her shoulder blades.

  “They enjoyed your lecture very much. My cousin’s wife especially relished your anecdote concerning the beautiful lady who has the heart of a Lady Macbeth.”

  Venetia’s hand went to her throat. She couldn’t seem to pull in any air.

  “That would be taking it quite too far,” said Christian. “I’ve never accused the lady of either murder or accessory to murder.”

  That was hardly a defense, was it?

  “But if she drove her husband to an early grave—”

  “Miss Vanderwoude, events that happen in a sequential manner do not necessarily imply causation. The lady might have made her husband miserable, but it is the nature of marriage for its inmates to devastate each other at times—or so I have been given to understand. Neither you nor I know the details of said marriage. Let us refrain from ill-founded speculations.”

  Venetia exhaled.

  “But we are among friends here, aren’t we?” said the girl conspiratorially. “What say you, sir, that you tell us who the lady is. And my friends and I, we will find out exactly how culpable—or not, as it may be—the lady was in her husband’s early passing.”

  “Gloria!” protested her grandmother. “Your Grace, allow me to apologize for the child’s impudence.”

  Christian inclined his head, accepting the apology. Now he turned his gaze on Miss Vanderwoude. Her cheeky grin faded. She began to look left and right, as if hoping someone might shield her from his attention. When no one said or did anything, she tried to meet his eye, with a sheepish smile that died awkwardly.

  The nearby diners held their collective breath, waiting. They all believed he would mete out some terrible denunciation. But what if he did not find the idea lacking in merit, Venetia thought wildly. What if he only objected to the public nature of Miss Vanderwoude’s overture?

  “No,” he said. “That is not a good idea.”

  Venetia’s heart managed a weak beat. The occupants of the table exhaled at the propriety and restraint of his rebuke. Miss Vanderwoude’s lips quivered before she smiled tentatively. “I do believe you are right, sir.”

  Indicating that nothing more was to be said on the subject, he turned toward Venetia, “You don’t seem to have touched your prawns, baroness.”

  It was a little joke meant for her, as she never ate anything while she had on her veil. “I shall presently remedy this oversight,” she said, through numb lips.

  Mrs. Vanderwoude wanted his opinion on something. Venetia leaned in Mr. Cameron’s direction.

  “Miss Vanderwoude, is she headed to London?”

  “No, to the Continent, like myself. We disembark at Hamburg, head for Paris, and from there, for points east and south.”

  “And is she in any way serious about pursuing the identity of the lady she mentioned?”

  Mr. Cameron laughed softly. “I’d be surprised if by tomorrow morning she even remembers she’d ever had the idea. She is as impulsive and forgetful as a grasshopper, that one.”

  All the same, Venetia’s evening was ruined. The incursion of reality had been too strong. If Miss Vanderwoude, who had never attended the lecture, now knew of the scandalous story the duke had related, there might be others who would hear of it and would not need a detective to realize of whom he’d been speaking.

  On the other hand, what if he were to learn that Venetia—not the baroness, but Mrs. Easterbrook—had not only been in America, but had been in Cambridge, Massachusetts, at the exact same time as his Harvard lecture?

  One could only juggle sticks of dynamite for so long before they exploded one by one.

  I’m sorry, darling,” said Christian, as soon as he and the baroness were inside his rooms.

  She glanced back at him, the paillettes on her veil catching light like so many tiny mirrors. But the sparkle had gone from her voice. “Why do you apologize to me?”

  “I have upset you.”

  He’d upset himself—Miss Vanderwoude’s impertinence had been a grave reminder that his mistake had compounded far beyond its original dimensions. But the baroness’s distress was, if possible, more acute than his own. Afterward, though she’d gamely kept up a constant stream of friendly banter with Mr. Cameron, he’d barely tasted anything, knowing he’d sunken far in her esteem.

  She sat down on the chaise, the set of her shoulders both tense and weary. And something in the way her fingers clung to one another spoke more than just disappointment: She was afraid.

  “Please say something.”

  She tilted her head back, as if looking heavenward for help. “Miss Vanderwoude was willing to devote her own time and funds to muck about the private affairs of someone she’d never met and only heard of secondhand. It astounds me what you must have said to arouse such unseemly interest.”

  Her dispirited words were nails pounded into his heart. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.”

  “Indeed you shouldn’t. Your comments caused someone to be spoken of as undiluted evil.”

  He sat down next to her and took her hand in his. “I did not do it out of malice, if that is what concerns you. I relayed my anecdote less as an objective lesson for my audience than as a reminder to myself.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He would have to explain, to expose himself as he never had. But he cared little for his mortification. The only thing that mattered was that she must not turn away from him.

  “The woman I used as an example at Harvard—she was my elsewhere.”

  She yanked her hand from his. He gripped her arm before she could leap away. “Please, listen.”

  “My God,” she said, looking everywhere but at him. “My God.”

  If he could only pull out his heart to show her. But he had only words, slow, laborious, useless words. “The lady in question is bewitchingly beautiful. And for a decade, I was fixated by her beauty. I wrote an entire article on the evolutionary significance of beauty as a rebuke to myself, that I, who understood the concepts so well, nevertheless could not escape the magnetic pull of one particular woman’s beauty.”

  Her veil rippled with her agitated breathing. “And that was not enough, the article? You had to speak of it in public?”

  “My obsession was mindless. I had to stay away from places she frequented. If I saw her, it wouldn’t have mattered whether she hastened her husband’s journey to the grave. I’d have willingly married her just to possess her.”

  In her lap, her hands shook visibly. He, too, shook—but inside, where fear and regret threatened to drown the hopes that had been leaping and frolicking like pods of dolphins alongside the Rhodesia.

  “I’ve long been ashamed of this fixation, but it clung to me like a leech. And this time, I wouldn’t be able to stay away from her—she is a fixture at the London Season. I was troubled that I might give in and approach her, propriety and pride notwithstanding.” The dream, damn the dream. “Believe me, I’d never intended such a catastrophic lapse of judgment.”

  She yanked free her arm, rose, and walked away.

  Venetia felt blown to pieces, all the dynamite sticks she’d been juggling having detonated at once.

  She hadn’t been a random example, something casually plucked out of all his accumulated experiences to illustrate a passing point. Rather, she had been the bane of his existence.

  She could not grasp it. The reach of her mind had been diminished by her shock. She could only gape at the idea, as if it were a tentacled sea monster co
me to sink the Rhodesia.

  He said he’d been nineteen. She would have also been nineteen—very much still married, but with her erstwhile romantic illusions already dashed upon the hard rock of Tony’s indestructible self-love.

  One of the Harrow players couldn’t stop staring at you. If someone had handed him a fork he’d have devoured you in one sitting.

  He’d been that Harrow player. She’d been his despised obsession. And she was also his salvation—from herself.

  Panic swept in like a cyclone.

  Until now, it was possible to imagine her ruse being forgiven. Not anymore, not after he had exposed his Achilles’ heel to the last person he’d willingly give that knowledge.

  For that, he would not forgive her. Ever.

  He rose to his feet. “Please say something.”

  But she couldn’t speak. All she understood was a rising desperation: Their affair must end now, before things could get any worse.

  She turned her back to him. Her hands, braced apart, gripped the edge of the writing desk, as if she couldn’t quite support her own weight. He couldn’t breathe—to have caused pain to the woman who’d only ever brought him warmth and joy.

  He turned off the lamp, approached her, and removed her veil.

  She inhaled unsteadily. He set his hands on either side of hers and kissed her hair, holding the pristine, sweet scent of her deep in his lungs.

  “I love you.” The words had arrived on their own, like butterflies emerging from cocoons when their time had come. He, too, felt transformed, from a boy who mistook compulsion for love to a man who at last understood his own heart.

  She shuddered.

  “You are the one I’ve been waiting for all my life.”

  She spun around and covered his mouth with her hand.

  He moved her hand aside. “From the beginning—do you not remember the lift? You overtook my entire—”

  She kissed him, a rampage of lips and tongue. Relief flooded him—she would still have him. And such ardor, as if she could not bear the least distance between them. Her fever burned in him. He lifted her bottom onto the desk and pushed up her skirts. She tugged impatiently at her drawers. He would have gone down on his knees to worship her, but she refused to let their lips part.