Beguiling the Beauty

CHAPTER 13

Millie sliced open the first letter in her pile of morning post.

“My dear, I have it on good authority,” she said, still scanning the page, “that you broke poor Letty Smythe’s heart.”

Venetia and Helena had asked for breakfast to be sent up to their rooms. Millie and Fitz had the breakfast parlor to themselves, allowing for a more private conversation.

“That is a vicious and groundless rumor,” answered Fitz, smiling. “I have, however, stopped sleeping with her.”

“Exactly what I meant.”

“Rather unfair of the rumormongers, don’t you think, to always cast me in the role of the unfeeling villain? It was a pleasant interlude that ran its course.”

“Does Mrs. Smythe think so?”

“Mrs. Smythe will come to agree with me.”

Millie shook her head, as if they were but discussing a misbehaving puppy. “I am not one to gloat, but I told you that you shouldn’t have taken up with her.”

“And I should have followed your advice.”

“Thank you. May I suggest Lady Quincy? She is pretty, well-spoken, and, most important, sensible: She will not make a fool of herself when your affair ends.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Is there something you find objectionable about Lady Quincy?”

“Nothing. But my affairs run what, three, four months? It would be disrespectful of me to come to you while I am also enjoying another lady’s favor.”

The pact. It was the first time in years the subject had come up. She spread a heaping spoonful of marmalade over her toast and hoped she looked as nonchalant as he did. “Oh piffle. We are an old married couple. Go ahead and have your fun. I can wait.”

“I disagree,” he said evenly. “Duty first.”

Their gaze held. A sharp bolt of heat struck her. She looked away to the pile of letters still to be opened and picked up the one on top. “Oh well, as you wish, then,” she said, slicing the envelope open with a flick of her letter knife.

At first she only pretended to read. But the words somehow leaped off the page and forced her to pay attention.

She read the letter once, twice, three times before letting it drop.

“I am afraid I have some bad news, Fitz.”

Venetia could not remember the last time she’d vomited.

Yet just now, the smell of a slice of buttered toast, an item that had featured daily on her plate since she first sprouted teeth, had thrown her insides into such a state of convulsion that she’d hastily retreated to the nearest water closet and there spent a wretched few minutes surrendering the contents of her stomach.

She scrubbed her mouth and washed her face. When she came out of the water closet, she nearly collided with Millie. Millie, the mildest person she knew, grabbed her by the arm and pulled her along.

“What’s the matter?”

“We’ll talk in your room,” Millie said, opening Venetia’s door.

They were greeted by the sight of Helena frantically searching Venetia’s armoire.

“I gave your jacket to your maid,” Venetia said. “She’s probably cleaning it.”

“I’d better go take a look.” Helena headed toward the door. “She might not know the proper way of doing it.”

“Forget your jacket for now, Helena,” said Millie, closing the door. “Venetia, you might like to sit down.”

Venetia did—something in Millie’s voice unnerved her. “What is it?”

“Lady Avery was at the Duke of Lexington’s lecture.”

Venetia gripped the arms of her chair, light-headed with horror.

Helena braced a hand on Venetia’s bedpost, as if she had trouble supporting her weight. “The one at Harvard?”

Which else?

“She was in Boston the same time we were, attending the wedding of her son’s American brother-in-law,” said Millie. “She returned day before yesterday. Last night she dined at her niece’s place and told everyone at table what the duke had said.”

And the ladies at dinner would have gone on to the night’s dances and balls, the gentlemen to their clubs, and word would have spread like the bubonic plague.

The nausea came again. Except this time there was nothing left in Venetia. She clenched her teeth until it passed. “Do they all think he was speaking of me?”

“Many do.”

“Do they believe him?”

“Not everyone is convinced,” Millie said carefully.

That meant some were.

“He is the most eligible bachelor in the realm,” continued Millie. “You are our most beautiful woman. For him to accuse you so—even the possibility of it is beyond sensational.”

Venetia felt as if she were chest deep in quicksand.

Helena looked as miserable as Venetia had ever seen her. “This is all—”

She stopped short of saying this was all her fault. To do so would have been to admit that her sisters had cause to take her out of the country.

Venetia rose. “He was quite indiscreet in Boston—perhaps he thought he could afford to be, since he was far from home. But I’m sure he has since realized his error. A man such as he has no interest in brewing tempests in teapots.”

“That’s quite a complimentary view you take of him,” said Fitz, who had come into the room to stand beside his wife.

“My opinion of him should have no bearing on my assessment of the situation. I believe he will be almost as displeased about the rumors as we are and will do nothing to add to them.”

“His silence will be just as problematic,” Helena pointed out. “He has to denounce the rumors as untrue.”

“That will require him to lie. He will not do that for me.”

“Then what?”

“This will be a test to see whether my friends are truly my friends. If they are, they will close ranks around me and not allow anyone to question either my conduct or my moral fiber.”

“I will make sure my friends fall in line,” said Fitz quietly.

“It is rather last-minute, but we should have no problem giving a dinner for forty tomorrow night—a rallying of the troops,” added Millie.

“Good,” said Venetia. “The Tremaines are hosting a ball tomorrow night. After your dinner, we will all of us attend.”

“And between now and then, we should make sure to be seen as much as possible,” said Helena. “And don’t forget to visit your modiste. You will want to devastate everyone in your path—in the most enjoyable manner, that is.”

“Yes, I believe I’ve just the thing,” Venetia murmured.

She’d discovered during her marriage to Tony that looking perfect was often enough to convince people that she was happy. Her appearance tomorrow would leave no doubt that she was in command of every aspect of her life.

A silence fell. Millie and Fitz were certainly each thinking of the specifics of what they needed to accomplish. As for Helena, Venetia had no idea what went through Helena’s mind these days. She hoped Helena wasn’t again blaming herself. If anything, she was grateful for Helena’s indiscretions—it had brought her the most wonderful week of her life.

“I’ll be all right,” she said.

Hell-bent on escape, she had not quite realized it at the time. But the worst had already happened: She had lost the man she loved.

Everything else was but ashes from the fire.

Because Christian did not frequent the London Season, Society had an exaggerated idea of the amount of time he spent gallivanting abroad. But he was rarely away more than four months out of the year. The rest of the time he looked after his inheritance.

The de Montforts had been a lucky clan. Other families just as prominent now held land and properties worth next to nothing. But the de Montforts happened upon quarries, mines, waterways, and tracts coveted by generations of builders. Directly and indirectly, through older holdings and newer ventures, Christian was responsible for the livelihoods of six hundred men and women. He educated their children and supported longtime retainers in their retirement.

His income was tremendous, but his expenses were also breathtaking. For that reason, he’d always approached meetings with his agents and solicitors with the utmost alertness. Today his attention lasted long enough to approve of a plan to petition the Shah of Persia for a concession to search for petroleum on the latter’s land.

After that, he barely heard what the roomful of men had to say.

The dream had come again—Mrs. Easterbrook dressing leisurely after their lovemaking, while he gazed upon her with infinite pleasure. This time, however, when she’d turned around, she’d spoken in German—in the baroness’s voice.

The worst part was that he’d awakened happy.

A knock came at the door. McAdams, the solicitor, cast a displeased eye toward it.

“Sir,” said Richards, his butler, “the dowager duchess would like to see you.”

Her Grace had never before asked to see him in the middle of a meeting with his men of business. Was something the matter with Mr. Kingston? He’d been in perfect health when they’d left him yesterday morning.

She was waiting for him in the drawing room and closed the door the moment he was inside. “The news is all over London, Christian. Lady Avery reports that at the lecture you gave at Harvard University, you accused Mrs. Easterbrook of killing her husbands with her greed.”

Time slowed with the utterance of the word Harvard. The dowager duchess’s lips moved at the speed of a glacier. Each additional syllable took an eon to arrive.

But he didn’t need to hear the rest. He already knew. His mistake had come to deliver its costly consequences.

“Lady Avery was at the lecture herself?” He heard his own voice, detached, remote.

Her face crumpled. “Oh, Christian, please tell me it isn’t true.”

“I never named Mrs. Easterbrook.”

“But you were speaking of her?”

He could not admit it, not even to the woman who had been both a mother and a sister to him. “It does not matter of whom I spoke. Rest assured I will do what I must to rectify the situation.”

“What has happened to you, Christian?” Her face sagged with worry. “First a public affair and then this. This is not like you at all.”

“I will take care of everything,” he promised her. “I will make everything all right again.”

At least on the outside.

Amazing how much one could do on an empty stomach when much needed to be done.

Venetia made sure she was seen everywhere: at the park, at the theater, at the latest exhibit of the British Museum. During Millie’s dinner she smiled and chatted as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Following dinner, she donned her armor and set out for the balls.

The armor was a ball gown of crimson velvet, cut very low and very tight. She’d had it made two Seasons ago on a whim, but she’d come to her senses and never worn it—her function at balls was that of a chaperone and a facilitator, not someone who called attention to herself. But tonight she meant for all eyes to be upon her, as she danced and laughed as if she’d never heard of America, let alone the Duke of Lexington.

By the time she arrived at the Tremaine ball, her third and last, it was well past midnight. Lady Tremaine met her at the head of the stairs and gave her an approving look.

“Brings back fond memories of when I last made a dramatic entrance—also in red velvet, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You are not mistaken at all,” said Lord Tremaine, who was never far from his wife’s side. “And the memories are indeed very fond.”

Venetia shook her head. “You will please stop flirting in public with your wife, sir. The mind quite boggles.”

Lady Tremaine laughed. “Well, in you go, Mrs. Easterbrook. They say Byron would claw his way out of his grave to rewrite ‘She Walks in Beauty’ if he ever saw you coming down a staircase.”

Venetia possessed one of the best descents. She didn’t often employ it—again, not her place as a mere chaperone—but when she did, her head tilted just so, shoulders back, arms limber, the slightest of a smile playing about her lips, both men and women had been known to drop their drinks at the sight.

Tonight the entire ballroom held its breath at her entrance, then came a scramble for places on her dance card.

But this was never about the gentlemen: A beautiful woman was always assured of some masculine support. Society, however, was run largely by women and for women. And women were far less forgiving of other women.

The younger girls were excited—and some, quite unnerved—by the possibility of great conflict. Some matrons regarded her with a mixture of coolness and what felt to be—she hoped she was wrong—bloodlust. They were too prudent to immediately pounce upon her and declare her a husband-killer, but they, or at least a few of them, would like to, for the sport and spectacle of it, if nothing else.

And it was they, in the end, who must declare her once again fit for Society.

At present, her allies circulated the ballroom and, subtly but firmly, let it be known that they would not stand by for her to be ostracized—that they were prepared to sever ties with the one who dared to cast the first stone.

She was grateful. But she was also a realist. If this dragged on, her reputation would diminish daily. In the end, it would not be necessary for anyone to step up and denounce her. The collective caution—and desire to not be associated with someone dubious—would be quite enough to relegate her to the fringes of Society, still received in a few households and unwelcome everywhere else.

Breathless and a little dizzy from dancing Strauss’s “Wine, Women, and Song” with Lord Tremaine, she almost did not hear the announcement of the arrival of the Duke of Lexington.

The ballroom had thrummed with exiting dancers, laughing from their exertion. Now it fell as quiet as the Reading Room at the British Museum, with all eyes upon the duke, descending the grand staircase behind his stepmother—gentlemen of a party always entered a ball behind the ladies—and a man Venetia assumed to be Mr. Kingston by his side.

Lord Tremaine had been about to deliver Venetia to Fitz and Millie, but now he changed course and guided her toward his wife. The two of them flanked her—so there could be no mistake of their backing.

Christian, with his characteristic directness, headed straight for the Tremaines—and Venetia.

The air drew taut. This was not to be an overtly hostile encounter—the presence of the dowager duchess was a guarantee of civility on her stepson’s part. Yet Venetia felt as if she were a novice gladiator about to be thrown into the coliseum for the first time against a seasoned combatant, with the entire audience braying for her blood.

Lord Tremaine exchanged a pleasant word with his guests, extended his welcome, and then, turning a little, as if just discovering Venetia beside him, said to the dowager duchess, “Your Grace, may I present a good friend, Mrs. Easterbrook?”

The Dowager Duchess of Lexington was very gracious, if a little struck, as people often were when first meeting Venetia.

“Mrs. Easterbrook,” Lord Tremaine continued, “allow me to present His Grace the Duke of Lexington and Mr. Kingston. Gentlemen, Mrs. Easterbrook.”

Venetia inclined her head. Christian looked at her the way his Norman ancestors might have scrutinized a troublesome Anglo-Saxon, and returned a cursory nod.

Well, that was it. He had allowed the introduction and would henceforth count her as an acquaintance: as open a rebuke to Lady Avery’s account of events as anyone could want. He would now politely disengage himself, perhaps dance with a suitable young girl who had the favor of his stepmother, and then depart.

For a moment, it seemed that was precisely what he meant to do. But the dowager duchess placed a hand on his elbow. An unspoken message passed between them.

With a determined set to his jaw, he said, “It is expected, is it not, upon being introduced to a lady at a ball, to ask for a dance?”

Had she not ventured aboard the Rhodesia, she’d have taken the opportunity to let him know that their new acquaintanceship meant as little to her as it did to him. That he, for all his title and wealth, was the last man she’d allow to put his arm about her.

But she had ventured aboard the Rhodesia, had spent a week falling in love with him, and every minute since thinking about him. She’d crouched in a soggy-smelling hansom for hours outside his house, like an ill-trained private investigator, just so she could see his face again.

This Venetia was not going to turn down an opportunity to dance with him, no matter how churlishly his inquiry was worded.

“The pleasure would be mine,” she said.

The moment Christian saw her, the rest of the ballroom disappeared. It could have been set on fire, with beams collapsing and guests fleeing, and the only thing he’d notice would be the reflection of firelight in her eyes.

His stepmother had to nudge him before he remembered to ask her to dance.

Mrs. Easterbrook smiled at him, a smile as lovely as sunrise, as dangerous as a bullet.

More than at any point since his return, he yearned for the baroness. The world might think him mad, but to himself he never needed to justify his love for her. Everything was founded on substance. There was nothing shallow or shameful in what he felt about her.

There was everything shallow and shameful in the reactions Mrs. Easterbrook bullied from him.

The musicians struck up the first strains of “Vienna Sweets.” He held out his arm, and she placed her hand on his elbow, her motion as beautiful as her person—a creature born to be heedlessly adored.

It wasn’t until they were walking side by side toward the center of the ballroom—when he wasn’t directly looking at her—that an odd sensation stole over him. Surely they’d never touched before, yet her fingers upon his sleeve carried a disquieting familiarity.

After the introspective opening, the waltz suddenly turned bright and cheerful. It was time to dance.

The shape of her hand in his, the feel of her back beneath his palm, the pressure of her body as he swept her into a series of turns—the sensation of familiarity only doubled, when he should be surprised that she was not as exaggeratedly voluptuous as he’d always imagined, but more lithe and willowy, reminiscent of—

No, he must not draw any similarities between them. The last thing he wanted was for his mind to start pasting Mrs. Easterbrook’s features onto the baroness’s still-blank face.

Then she would never live up to his expectations.

This stray, too brutally honest thought infuriated him. It did not matter to him what his beloved looked like. All the better if she looked nothing like Mrs. Easterbrook.

“Did I see Your Grace at the Natural History Museum the day before yesterday?” murmured Mrs. Easterbrook.

Some despised part of him was thrilled that she’d remember him. “You did.”

It occurred to him that he’d accepted her unexpected appearance the other day as a given, as part of the trials and tribulations he must overcome before he could be reunited with the baroness. But why had she been inside the Natural History Museum at all? And wasn’t it more than a little odd that the previous time he’d seen her, five years ago, it had been just outside the museum?

The etiquette of the waltz called for him to keep his gaze over her shoulder, but he was glad for the excuse to look at her. The déjà vu sensation of the contours of her body was becoming too strong for comfort, and his mind, never his own to control when she was around, insinuated that he’d know exactly where and how to touch to make her melt with desire.

Their eyes met. But her beauty, instead of derailing his current, highly untenable train of thoughts, only reawakened a primitive possessiveness: He wanted to lock her in his manor and allow no one to gaze upon her but himself.

She smiled again. “You enjoyed your visit, I hope.”

He looked away. “I liked it well enough. And was your visit ever able to recover from the hideousness of the giant reptiles?”

“I’m afraid it never did. I don’t know why I subject myself to such unpleasantness.”

“Why did you, then?”

“The whims of a woman, what can I say?”

Why did he want this insipid creature? Why did he want this dance to go on and on, when he ought to be thinking of someone else?

Not too much longer now before their appointed meeting. And this time, he would not let her go again.

“How do you find London after a long absence, sir?” she murmured.

“Troublesome.”

“Ah, on that we agree.”

The timbre of her voice—where had he heard her speak before?

“I will call on you tomorrow afternoon, Mrs. Easterbrook,” he said. “And if it is agreeable to you, we will take a ride together in the park. That should be sufficient to quash the rumors.”

“And will you stop calling on me after that?”

“Naturally.”

“A shame,” she said. “Are Your Grace’s affections engaged—elsewhere?”

Was it his imagination or had she paused deliberately before saying “elsewhere”? The word in English was nothing like its equivalent in German but somehow still managed to sound uncanny.

He looked again at her. She stared straight over his shoulder. She was slightly easier to take without the effect of her direct gaze, but still she was unbearably beautiful. The gods would have wept.

“That is none of your concern, madam.”

“No, of course not, but one does hear rumors. Very prudent of you to stop calling on me once we have detracted Lady Avery. Your lady would not be too pleased were you constantly seen with me. I have, shall we say, a certain effect on men.”

He hated her smugness. “My lady has nothing to worry about.”

She flicked him a glance that would have made Achilles put down his shield and forsake all the glories of Troy. “If you say so, sir.”

They danced the rest of the waltz without speaking.

Venetia was relieved that she didn’t need to go on saying things that made Mrs. Easterbrook sound the exact opposite of Baroness von Seidlitz-Hardenberg. But she missed hearing his voice, even if he now spoke an icy English instead of an affectionate German.

This was her beloved, back in her arms—a terrible miracle, but a miracle nonetheless. She found it difficult to restrain herself, to not let her left hand trace the contour of his shoulder, her right thumb caress the center of his gloved hand, or her head lean forward and rest upon him.

She wanted the dance to never end.

But all too soon, the waltz drew to a close. The dancers all around them pulled apart. The duke, too, made to separate from her. But Venetia, immersed in memories of their closeness—did not let go.

She realized her mistake after only a second. But a second was a very long time for such a faux pas. She might as well have unbuttoned her bodice; it would not have shocked him more.

And shocked he was. He regarded her with the extreme severity one reserved for those who’d trespassed against not only morality, but good taste. As if she were a common streetwalker who had marched into the ball uninvited and accosted him.

The silence, as he escorted her off the dance floor, was excruciating.

He is not here,” said Hastings. “The wife’s mother is ill. He has dutifully gone to Worcestershire to attend her.”

Helena did not need to ask who “he” was. At first she’d been too anxious about the reception that awaited Venetia. But now that the duke had come and gone after a surprising and surprisingly effective maneuver, she’d allowed herself to scan the crowd for a sign of Andrew. His mother’s family was very well connected and he could be counted on to have invitations to the more sought-after functions.

“Do you think I should be paying my addresses to Mrs. Martin, my dear Miss Fitzhugh?” he whispered. “Martin doesn’t look the sort to have enough stamina to service two women. And goodness knows you could probably exhaust Casanova himself.”

Again this insinuation that she must be a sufferer of nymphomania. Behind her fan, she put her lips very close to his ear. “You’ve no idea, my Lord Hastings, the heated yearnings that singe me at night, when I cannot have a man. My skin burns to be touched, my lips kissed, and my entire body passionately fondled.”

Hastings was mute, for once. He stared at her with something halfway between amusement and arousal.

She snapped shut her fan and rapped his fingers as hard as she could, watching with great satisfaction as he choked back a yelp of pain.

“By anyone but you,” she said, and turned on her heels.

For the ride in the park, Christian trotted out his grandest landau—so he could sit as far away from Mrs. Easterbrook as possible.

Which was not quite far enough to avoid the tangible pull of her beauty.

Unlike the baroness, she did not twirl her parasol, but held it perfectly steady. Her entire person was as still as Pygmalion’s sculpture, cool, heartless, and nevertheless lovely enough to derange a man.

Her rose-colored afternoon dress cast a subtle blush upon her cheeks. Her eyes, in the shade cast by her cream lace parasol, were aquamarine, the exact color of the warm Mediterranean that had so enchanted the secret voluptuary in him. Her lips, soft, full, perfectly delineated, promised to taste of rose petals and willingness.

It was only when she spoke that he realized he’d already begun to mentally undress her, ripping off the silk-covered buttons of her bodice like so many currants from the stem.

“You are immersed in thought, sir. Anticipating your dinner with your lady, perhaps?”

His attention snapped to abruptly. How would she know anything of his dinner? And, an instant later, great, terrible guilt: On the eve of his much hoped-for reunion with the baroness, his mind was eagerly committing an act of infidelity.

He wanted to blame it on Mrs. Easterbrook’s conduct, the way she’d held on to him at the end of their waltz: She might as well have given him the key to her house along with a wink and a blown kiss. Her intentions had smoldered in his blood ever since.

On the other hand, would he have desired her less if she’d proved herself utterly indifferent? Would it not have simply whet his appetite and made her even more coveted a prize?

“One hears talk that you have commissioned quite the grand repast for tomorrow evening at the Savoy,” Mrs. Easterbrook continued.

Had she been any other woman he’d have told her in no uncertain terms to mind her own affairs. But here it was imperative that he spoke of the baroness in as warm a tone as publicly permissible.

“Yes,” he said. “I look forward to a delightful evening tomorrow.”

If she came.

She must. She could not desert him in his hour of need. But—the thought suddenly occurred to him—if she’d already arrived in London, would she not somehow hear of his imbroglio with Mrs. Easterbrook? And would she not interpret the public attention he was paying Mrs. Easterbrook quite the wrong way?

Mrs. Easterbrook smiled slightly. “She is a very fortunate woman, your lady.”

“I am a very fortunate man, rather.”

To judge her expression was like trying to gauge the variation in the sun’s intensity by staring directly into it. But he thought she looked wistful. “And this is the last time I will see you, I take it?”

“Which I’m sure must be a relief to you.”

She arched a brow. “You presume to know how I think?”

“Very well, then. It will be a relief to me.”

She tilted her umbrella slightly away from her person. “There are those who like me for the way my nose sits on my face—a ridiculous reason to like someone. But it’s also a fairly ridiculous reason to not like someone—as it is in your case.”

“I disapprove of your character, Mrs. Easterbrook.”

“You don’t know my character, sir,” she said decisively. “The only thing you know is my face.”