Instead, she unfastened his trousers and, without further preliminaries, took him inside her. He was unspeakably aroused—the feel of her, the rain-clean taste of her, the urgency of her. She panted and trembled with her need, ravishing him, urging him to ravish her in return.
No more words were needed. She was the only thing that mattered. They were the only thing that mattered. The avalanche of pleasure to come would meld them into one seamless union.
There were no secrets left.
Nothing separated them now.
Christian awakened to an eerie stillness, as if the Rhodesia’s heart had stopped beating. It took him a disoriented second to realize that the engines had stopped humming.
The liner had dropped anchor in Queenstown.
Instinctively he reached for her, but she was not in his bed, to which they’d repaired for more lovemaking, forging ever greater pleasure and closeness for the better part of the night. He called to her, thinking perhaps she was in the parlor or the water closet. Silence answered him.
Alarm prickled his spine—she’d never left without a word. He grabbed his pocket watch from the nightstand. Five minutes to nine—quite late for him. Maybe she had not wished to disturb his slumber. He pulled on some clothes, dashed off a note explaining his possible late arrival for their walk, and rang for the suite steward to take it to her.
The suite steward returned as he was applying shaving soap to his face. “Sir, the baroness’s room steward told me that she has disembarked.”
Christian turned around. “For a tour?”
Ocean liners replenished their supplies at Queenstown. It was not uncommon for passengers to use the time for an excursion into the Irish countryside.
“No, sir. She asked for her luggage to be sent ashore.”
She was leaving. And last night, which he’d believed to herald a new era for them, had been but a long, wordless good-bye for her. She did not believe in his love. She did not trust that he’d left his former obsession behind. And she could not imagine any likely future for them.
All the possibilities that had come to life with her presence began to shatter, and his heart with them.
“She might still be in the disembarkation queue, sir,” said the steward. “Shall I go down for a look?”
The disembarkation queue. Of course, the Rhodesia had not docked. She was somewhere in the harbor. Passengers and their luggage must wait to be ferried in tenders.
Christian washed the soap from his face, threw on a day coat, grabbed his hat, and rushed down to the main deck. The sky was gray. The Atlantic was gray. Even Ireland, otherwise green and beautiful, was an unremitting spread of dreariness.
He pushed through the crowd, frantically searching for her familiar silhouette. The entire population of the ship seemed to have congregated near the tenders. Old ladies tottered about in pairs. Children were held aloft to see over the rails. Young Americans chattered about Buckingham Palace and Shakespeare’s cottage, while waving at a tender rowing toward the Rhodesia.
At last he spotted her standing at the rail. Relief swallowed him whole. As if sensing his urgency, the crowd parted, and those near her scooted away to make room for him. But she did not acknowledge his presence as he came to stand beside her. Her face remained bent to the waves that lapped at the riveted steel plates of the ship’s hull.
“Why? Why are you leaving?”
“I’ve reached my destination.”
“Is it because you think I still love Mrs. Elsewhere?”
“It is not that.”
“Look at me when you say that.”
Her face turned toward him. Her hand tightened on the railing, as if she were surprised by his appearance. He’d been perspiring earlier. But standing on the open deck without his overcoat—the cold was sudden and intense.
“It is not that,” she repeated. “You’ve always said that I could leave anytime. I am leaving now. I don’t need another reason.”
He shivered. From the cold or her words he did not know. “Does it mean nothing that I love you?”
“You don’t love me. You are in love with a creature of your own imagination.”
“That is not true. I don’t need to know your face to know you.”
“I am a fraud, remember? There is no Baroness von Seidlitz-Hardenberg.”
“You think I have forgotten that? I don’t need you to be a baroness. Who you are is more than good enough for me.”
Her laughter sounded bitter. “Let’s not argue a moot point.”
He placed his hand on her arm. “I won’t, if you stay.”
She shook her head. “My luggage is already on the dock.”
“It can easily be brought back on board.”
She shook her head more vigorously. “Let it be. Some things are lovely precisely because they are brief.”
“And other things are lovely because they are rare and beautiful—and should be given a chance to stand the test of time.”
She was silent. His heart thumped wildly. Then she reached up and kissed him on the cheek through her veil. “Good-bye.”
It was the end of the world, nothing but wreckage where entire cities of hope once stood, their spires shining in the sun. Disbelief and despair gripped him turn by turn. Chaos reigned. He was cold, so very cold, the wind like knives upon his skin.
Then, just as suddenly, the confidence he’d taken for granted in his youth reasserted itself. Or perhaps it was only a gambler’s acceptance of all possible outcomes, as he laid his cards on the table.
“Marry me,” he said.
She swayed. She’d swindled a declaration of love, and now a proposal of marriage. He would despise her so much it would make Sodom and Gomorrah’s fate seem like a fairy tale.
Irony—for it was exactly what she had wanted in the first place.
“I can’t,” she said weakly. “No marriage between us would be considered valid.”
“Let’s meet again and discuss what we need to do to make it valid.”
She’d been shocked, when he first found her, to see him unshaven, without his collar, his necktie, his waistcoat, or his overcoat. And his agitation had, if anything, exceeded his dishevelment. But now he radiated mastery and purpose. He’d made up his mind, and nothing was going to dissuade him from his choice.
She, on the other hand, had become all jitters. “What can we possibly discuss?”
“Your circumstances, obviously. Some dilemma prevents you from using your own name. When we meet again you will do me the courtesy of giving me a frank account, nothing held back.”
He might as well hand her a bucket of tar and the innards of a duvet. “It will be no use. Nothing will change.”
“You forget who I am. Whatever your difficulties, I can help you.”
“Even the Duke of Lexington cannot wave away every impediment in his path.”
“Not when you won’t tell me anything, I cannot. But we will meet. And you will tell me what is holding you back—you owe me as much.”
She could see the headline: THE DUKE OF LEXINGTON STRANGLES SOCIETY BEAUTY.
“You want to come with me on my expeditions, don’t you?” he said softly. “Have I ever told you that I’ve a small museum at home? And drawers upon drawers of enormous fossilized teeth that I’m sure will interest you greatly?”
Why must he do this to her?
“There is also an abandoned quarry on my estate, with beautifully differentiated geological strata and an abundance of fossils. Marry me and it’s all yours.”
Throw aside you veil, shouted a voice inside her. Throw aside the stupid veil. End this right now.
She couldn’t. She couldn’t face his wrath. Nor the very large likelihood that his love would not survive his first look at her face. Was it wrong to preserve their affair as it was, to let nothing blemish its perfect memories?
“Lady, are you ready?” one of the tender’s crewmen called.
The tender that had been rowing toward the Rhodesia had disgorged the newcomers
and was loading the final batch of passengers to be taken ashore.
“I must go,” she murmured.
“The lady will need one more minute,” said Christian.
His tone allowed no dispute. The crewman touched brim of his cap. “Aye, sir.”
Her lover took her hands in his. “I will say good-bye now, but I expect to see you in London. At the Savoy Hotel, ten days from today. Bring the engraved pen for my birthday and we’ll drink to our future.”
She expelled a long, long breath. She’d say yes to anything now, to get away. “All right.”
But he didn’t let her go so easily. “Your word, do I have it?”
Perhaps no one else cared whether a beautiful woman was also honorable, but she had never gone back on her word. She shut her eyes tight. “You have it.”
He leaned in and kissed her cheek through the veil. “I love you. And I will wait for you.”
Well after the great ocean liner had disappeared beyond the narrow mouth of Cork Harbour, Venetia still remained on the pier.
She needed to locate a ticket agent to secure passage to England, cable Fitz to inform him of her time of arrival, not to mention find porters to haul the quarter-ton slab of stone that was Christian’s gift to her. But to tackle any of those tasks was to signal the end of her last hour as Baroness von Seidlitz-Hardenberg.
The end of the happiest week of her life.
She didn’t know how long she stayed in place. She didn’t even notice that it had started to rain until a porter came to offer her an umbrella. She thanked him and allowed herself to be escorted away from the pier, toward shelter, toward the perfect life of the beautiful Mrs. Easterbrook.
CHAPTER 10
My Darling,
The Rhodesia is a wasteland without you.
I spent most of the day at the aft rail, though Queenstown long ago receded from the horizon. My corporeal self is here before the writing desk—upon which we made such memories last night—but the rest of me is in Ireland, with you.
It will be a long night ahead, in these rooms that have known you so well. The very air sags from your absence; my blindfold is a tired scrap of silk that has lost its purpose in life.
Has Queenstown been hospitable? Have you been provided with a hot supper and a warm bed? Men have laid cables and connected continents separated by vast seas; would that the engineers discover a way to connect two people thus. I’d empty my coffers—and borrow extravagantly besides—to be never again without your news.
Your servant,
C.
My Darling,
I have arrived at my house in the country, the home I hope to share with you in the not-too-distant future.
Be advised that the manor had been conceived primarily as a showpiece, to awe and overwhelm. It is not and will never be a cozy, intimate residence. The height of the ceilings is such that no matter how diligently the coal scuttles are replenished, many of the public rooms remain unremittingly frigid in winter. Thankfully the family wing provides better warmth and comfort, and thus far no one has suffered chilblain—yet.
The grounds are large and very English in the arrangements of woods and gardens. Have you ever visited the Englischer Garten in Munich? If that is to your taste, then you will derive much pleasure from the estate.
But of course it is the quarry that you will enjoy the most. I paid a visit to it this afternoon, checked the digging implements stored in a nearby shed, and ordered a sharpening of the chisels. They will be ready for you when you come.
Your servant,
C.
P.S. I’d thought our separation would be easier to bear on the second day. I could not have been more wrong.
My Darling,
I write to you from my stepmother’s house in Cheshire. I find the dowager duchess and Mr. Kingston in admirable health and spirits. My own flagging spirits revived somewhat in their excellent company. Would that I had you with me: They are the most sensible, amiable, and agreeable of friends.
And you’d have thoroughly impressed them with your presence, your warmth, and your wit. I would have been the proudest man alive.
Your servant,
C.
P.S. I grow accustomed to the ache in my chest.
My Darling,
The dowager duchess asked earlier this evening to whom I was writing. Fortunately Mr. Kingston spoke to her at the same time. I switched to a new sheaf of paper, and by the time she remembered to ask me again, I was able to answer truthfully that I was replying to a German geologist by the name of Otto von Schetterling.
I wonder, had Mr. Kingston not said anything, whether I’d have confessed. Very likely so: I have a terrible, almost irrepressible urge to speak of you. To boast of my remarkable luck in happening upon the same ocean liner as you.
So far I have restrained myself. For how much longer, I do not know.
I have never known such happiness, shot through with such misery. Only four days have passed, they tell me. But that is not true. It has been decades since I saw you last.
You will find me a stooped old man when we meet again. Perhaps I might even need a pair of spectacles to recognize your veil.
But I remain always,
Your servant,
C.
My Darling,
Today the dowager duchess gave me a list of young ladies she considered suitable to be my duchess. I very nearly informed her that I’ve already pledged my hand, but, with much difficulty and regret, refrained: She might worry that I am chasing a mirage.
But you are not a mirage. You are a true oasis, worth this wandering in the desert, this anxiety of never finding you again.
Tomorrow I depart for London, to arrange for our dinner at the Savoy Hotel. At last, something for you—for us.
I have an odd, giddy sensation that I will run into you. If you should see me, please come and introduce yourself, so that I may at least give you my letters. And if you will also take my name, I will be the happiest man who ever lived.
Your servant,
C.
P.S. It has been, admittedly, peculiar to be in a one-sided correspondence, but I feel closer to you when I put pen to paper. Needless to say, I will do anything to be closer to you.
CHAPTER 11
Who is he, Venetia?”
Venetia started. She turned toward her brother. “Why are you shouting in my ear?”
An approaching train—likely the one carrying Millie and Helena home—whistled in the distance. The rail guards moved the crowd on the platform away from the tracks, to make room for those who would soon disembark.
“Because, my dear,” said Fitz, in a more normal voice, “I’ve asked you the same question three times and you have not heard me.”
She smiled weakly. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
“Who is he, the man you are thinking of? I’ve watched you since you came back. You hardly eat. You never put more than two stitches in your embroidery. One minute you smile into your lap; the next you are trying not to cry. And let’s not forget, this morning I stood by your chair for a good five minutes—and you hadn’t the faintest idea I was there.”
He’d eventually tapped her on the shoulder, yanking her out of an extraordinarily vivid daydream in which the first course of Christian’s birthday dinner grew cold while they devoured each other on the table.
Had Claridge’s not been demolished for renovation, she’d have hired a residential suite there for the Season, and Fitz wouldn’t have been privy to the symptoms of her heartsickness. But with the hotel still building—and the need for an extra pair of eyes on Helena—she’d accepted Fitz’s invitation to stay at his town house.
“It’s all this trouble with Helena. I’m distracted,” she said thickly.
Fitz was right about one thing: Every other minute she was close to tears.
Sometimes the crossing on the Rhodesia seemed as distant as the antiquities—when the great lighthouse at Alexandria still guided sailors. Sometimes she wondered if she hadn’t
imagined the man who adored her for who she was, instead of what she looked like.
Nightly memories of his every kiss burned within her. Each morning she’d reach for him, only to remember that he would never be hers again. Solitude, so long a tolerable state of being, had begun to smother her like a fast-growing vine that strangled its host.
As if he hadn’t heard her, Fitz said, “I know he is not American—you’ve been looking at Millie’s old copy of Debrett’s.”
She could recite from memory the long entry on the Duke of Lexington.
“So who is he? And why hasn’t he broken down my door to offer for you?”
She did not want to lie to Fitz. But neither could she reveal what had happened on the Rhodesia.
“Millie and Helena will tell you soon enough what is the matter with me. It is not what you think.”
She had suspected that Millie would have already said something to Fitz in their nearly daily exchange of letters, as Fitz had not once asked Venetia why she’d abandoned the rest of his womenfolk and returned solo.
Fitz placed his hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry it is not what I think. I like the idea of you in love. You’ve shut yourself off for far too long.”
Her eyes prickled. She blinked back the tears. “Oh look. I believe that’s their train.”
It was Venetia’s idea for them to all take luncheon at the Savoy Hotel. A sadistic notion: Now she’d be able to re-create in excruciating detail the dinner she’d never share with Christian.
And since there were a number of private dining rooms at the hotel, someday she’d ask for a tour of the one he’d specifically chosen for her, so the setting of her imaginary repast would not only be precise, but historically accurate.
Beguiling the Beauty Page 12
