Beguiling the Beauty

CHAPTER 16

Madam,

This is to inform you that I have the special license in hand. We will marry at ten o’clock tomorrow morning at St. Paul’s Church in Onslow Square.

Yrs.,

Lexington

Sir,

This is to inform you that I have decided to take up residence in your house after all. Pray have it in a state of readiness for my arrival.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Easterbrook

Madam,

I will be removing to Algernon House tomorrow afternoon.

Yrs.,

Lexington

Sir,

Of course, a country honeymoon. I approve.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Easterbrook

P.S. In the country I require a fleet, tireless, and a mild-tempered mare and lavender-scented sheets.

Venetia had kept the blue brocade gown she’d worn to marry Mr. Easterbrook, but she did not dare leave the house in something that was so obviously not a promenade dress.

She still did not quite believe that the duke would marry her. The terrible thing about having lied so overwhelmingly to him was that now she did not feel that he owed her any truth. That if he were but playing a cruel prank, she had no one to blame but herself.

She arrived at the church fifteen minutes early. He was already there in the pews, sitting with his head bowed.

At the sound of her footsteps, he slowly rose, turned around—and frowned. He was in a morning coat, the most formal item in a gentleman’s wardrobe for daytime, the thing to wear to one’s own wedding. She, on the other hand, looked as if she’d been taking a stroll in the park and had but stopped by to satisfy her curiosity concerning the interior of the church.

“Well, I’m here,” she said. “And I didn’t make you wait.”

His countenance darkened. Belatedly she remembered how gladly he’d waited for her on the Rhodesia—she was beginning to display quite a talent for saying all the wrong things.

“Let’s proceed,” he said coolly.

“Where are our witnesses?”

“Arranging flowers in the vestry.”

The clergyman was already standing before the altar. He stared at Venetia as she approached. She recognized the signs of danger. When she’d said to the duke that she had a certain effect on men, she hadn’t been exaggerating. It was not every man and it was not all the time, but when the effect happened, proposals flew like confetti and all parties involved usually ended up feeling quite mortified.

Perspiration beaded on the man’s forehead. “Will you—”

“Yes, I do consent to be married to His Grace,” she said hastily. “Won’t you please call our witnesses?”

This didn’t seem quite enough. “I know we’ve never met,” said the clergyman, “but ma’am—”

“I’m very grateful that you can marry us on such a short notice, Reverend. Please, if there is anything we can do for your parish and for this lovely church, you must let us know.”

The man cleared his throat. “I—uh—I—uh—yes, pleased to oblige, ma’am.”

Venetia breathed a sigh of relief. She sneaked a peek at the duke. His face was impassive: She might have stopped the clergyman from making a fool of himself, but the duke had guessed quite well what the man had been on the verge of doing.

And he blamed her for it.

The witnesses were called. The clergyman, having recovered his wits, now looked anywhere but at Venetia. He rushed through the prayers and asked her to repeat the vows after him.

As she followed the mumbling clergyman, she couldn’t help a shudder of misery. What was she doing? Was she still clinging to some illusion that one day he might again become the lover he had been on the Rhodesia? And betting the rest of her life on it? Even a marriage begun in hope and goodwill could turn terrible. What hope did this union have, sealed by such antagonism and distrust?

The duke recited his vows with remarkable dispassion—Venetia had heard Fitz memorize his Latin declensions with greater feeling. Where was the man who wanted to spend every waking minute with her? Who was willing to brave every obstacle to be closer to her?

The worst thing about this forced nuptial was that they had been their true selves on the Rhodesia. And yet the two people tying the knot today were but their facades, the Great Beauty and the haughty, unfeeling duke.

Would she ever see his true self again? And would she ever dare let him see hers?

Helena was going out of her mind.

The cost of paper had gone up again. Two manuscripts she’d been waiting on continued to make her wait. Susie, her new jailor, sat outside her office embroidering a stack of new handkerchiefs with the patience of a hundred-year-old tortoise. Yet Helena would have been all right had Andrew come for his official appointment this morning at Fitzhugh & Co., to receive the first copy, fresh off the printing press, of the second volume of his History of East Anglia.

Three weeks it had been since her return to England, three long, frustrating weeks, especially after she received his last letter, the day after the ball at the Tremaines’s. He’d been abjectly apologetic, claiming that he’d seen the error of his ways and would no longer do anything to endanger her reputation.

Damn her reputation. Would no one think of her happiness?

Andrew’s mother had fully recovered from the bout of fever that had everyone worried—Helena even saw her at a function, looking frailed but determined. He, however, continued to be absent from all social milieus. The only time she’d run into him had been on a drive with Millie, and she hadn’t dared more than a smile and a nod.

And now this canceled appointment.

She paced. But that only made her more agitated. So she sat down, glanced through a batch of letters, and sliced open a manuscript package. The manuscript was for a children’s book. Fitzhugh & Co. did not publish children’s books, but the illustration of the two small ducks on the first page was so charming that against her will she turned the page.

And fell into an hour of pure magic.

The manuscript of a dozen stories featuring the same cast of adorable animal characters. She loved them all. But they were not arranged in quite the right order. With a few nudges and adjustments to the stories, they could be presented in a seasonal, chronological sequence. She would publish the first story on its own in September, then one book a month for the eleven months to follow. The stories would build in popularity and demand, and she would publish them in a handsome boxed set for the following Christmas.

She burst out of her inner sanctum into the reception room beyond.

“Miss Boyle, I want you to immediately send a letter to”—she glanced down at the manuscript in her hand—“Miss Evangeline South and offer her one hundred twenty pounds for the copyright of her collection. Or our usual terms of commissions. Ask her to reply at her earliest—”

Hastings was seated by the window, drinking tea.

“What are you doing here?”

“I volunteered to come and fetch you—Mrs. Easterbrook has convened a family luncheon,” he answered. “You should have a telephone installed, by the way, so I needn’t come all the way.”

“You needn’t—that is the very definition of volunteerism, is it not?” she retorted. “And why are you involved in a family luncheon?”

“I didn’t say I was attending the luncheon, only that I would deliver you to Fitz’s house.”

“But Miss Boyle and—”

“I have ordered a basket of foodstuff from Harrods. Your employees will have a very fine luncheon. Now shall we? My carriage awaits.”

As she had no good objections that could be voiced before her maid and her secretary, she finished giving directions to Miss Boyle, buttoned her jacket, and preceded him out of the door and into the carriage.

“A hundred twenty pounds for the copyright, which you will hold for at least forty-two years—that is a miserly offer, is it not?” asked Hastings as he signaled the coachman to start.

“I will have you know Miss Austen received all of one hundred ten pounds for the copyright to Pride and Prejudice. And that was at a time when the pound sterling was quite weak due to expenditures of the Napoleonic Wars.”

“She was robbed. Will you similarly rob Miss South?”

“Miss South is free to write me with a counteroffer. She also has the option of publishing by commission, if she does not want a sizable sum up front.”

Hastings grinned. “You are a shrewd woman, Miss Fitzhugh.”

“Thank you, Lord Hastings.”

“Which makes it even more incomprehensible what you see in Mr. Martin.”

“I will tell you what I see in him, sir: an openness of spirit, a capacity for wonder, an utter lack of cynicism.”

“You know what I see in him, Miss Fitzhugh?”

“No, I do not.”

“Cowardice. When you first met, he wasn’t even engaged.”

It was just like Hastings to find the sore point in everything. “There was an expectation of long standing.”

“A man should not live his life by the expectations of others.”

“Not everyone lives his life solely to pursue his own pleasures.”

“But you and I both do.”

A year ago, she’d have categorically rejected that statement. But to do that now would make her a hypocrite. She turned her face to the window and wished again that she had pushed Andrew to defy his mother.

Her failure to do so had changed her. In many ways for the better: When she came into her inheritance, she did not hesitate a moment before using it as capital for her publishing venture—she would never let another one of her heart’s desires get away from her. Once she had her arrangements in place, she’d refused to let Andrew keep his manuscript locked away. The reviews he’d received upon the publication of the first volume had him walking on air for months, thanking her profusely every time he saw her.

But at the same time, the loss of Andrew had closed an invisible door in her. The happiness they’d once shared became sacrosanct. No other man could come close to replacing him; no man ought to even try.

She wanted only what she should have had, in an ideal world.

Fitz whistled as he skimmed the report in his hand.

Millie had never known him before he was saddled with a crumbling estate. For a man whose hopes in life had been brutally suffocated, except for one brief period, he’d conducted himself with unimpeachable dignity, burying his disappointment and devoting himself to his duties.

Not that there was anything undignified about a man whistling in the privacy of his own home—she only wished it had happened sooner. That he hadn’t needed a letter from Mrs. Englewood to inspire it.

She’d thought they’d had some good times, too. The Christmas gathering had become a lovely tradition at Henley Park. Their friends eagerly anticipated their annual shooting party in August. Not to mention all the successes they’d had with Cresswell & Graves, nurturing the near-moribund firm into the brawny enterprise it was at present.

Except, none of these achievements had ever made him whistle.

Nor was it just the whistling. It was the faraway look in his eye, the secret smile on his lips. It was that his entire aspect had changed, from a conscientious married man who dealt with accounts, tenants, and bankers to an unburdened youth with only dreams and adventures on his mind.

The boy he had been, before Fate had shown its harsh hand.

And that was something Millie could never share with him, that glorious, carefree adolescence he had known before she’d arrived in his life, marking the beginning of the end.

“I hope I haven’t inconvenienced everyone greatly, calling for a luncheon out of the blue.”

Millie was startled out of her thoughts. Venetia sauntered into the drawing room, looking ineffably lovely. “No, of course not,” Millie said. “I was already home and the company is most welcome.”

Fitz tossed aside the report and grinned at his sister. “Have you missed us since breakfast or is there another reason for …”

He fell silent. Millie saw it at the same time: the ring on Venetia’s left hand.

“Yes,” said Venetia, looking down at her wedding band. “I’ve eloped.”

Flabbergasted, Millie glanced at her husband, who looked not quite as staggered as she’d have expected him to.

“Who’s the lucky chap?” he asked.

Venetia smiled. Millie couldn’t tell whether it was a happy smile, exactly, but it was so dazzling it left her with little dots dancing on her retinas. “Lexington.”

At last Fitz looked as shocked as Millie felt. “Interesting choice.”

Helena swept into the room. “Why are we speaking of Lexington again?”

Venetia extended her left hand toward Helena. The gold band on her ring finger gleamed softly. “We are married, Lexington and I.”

Helena laughed outright. When no one else joined her, her jaw dropped. “You are not serious, Venetia. You can’t be.”

Venetia’s cheer was undampened. “Last I checked, today is not the first of April.”

“But why?” Helena cried.

“When?” asked Fitz at the same time.

“This morning. The announcement will be in the papers tomorrow.” Venetia smiled again. “I can’t wait to see his museum.”

It took Millie a moment to remember Lexington’s private natural history collection and the enthusiasm Venetia had expressed for it. But that was a continent away and all playacting. Was Venetia’s seeming pleasure all playacting, too?

“But why so soon?” she asked.

“And why didn’t you tell us anything?” Helena was beside herself. “We could have prevented you from making this terrible decision.”

Fitz frowned. “Helena, is that any way to speak to Venetia on her wedding day?”

“You weren’t there,” Helena said impatiently. “You didn’t hear all the hateful things he said about her.”

Fitz considered Venetia. His gaze dropped to her waist. It was a quick, discreet look—had Millie not been paying close attention, she wouldn’t have noticed.

“Tell me the truth now, Venetia,” he said. “Did you enjoy your crossing?”

The question seemed a complete non sequitur. To Millie’s surprise, Venetia flushed.

“Yes,” she answered.

“And you are sure of Lexington’s character?”

“Yes.”

“Then congratulations.”

“You can’t congratulate her,” Helena protested. “This is all a horrible mistake.”

“Helena, you will refrain from speaking disrespectfully of our brother-in-law in my presence. If Lexington has risen enough in Venetia’s esteem, then it is time you set aside your prejudices and accept her decision.”

Fitz rarely stepped into the paterfamilias role, but his quiet rebuke brooked no dissent. Helena bit her lip and looked aside. The glance from Venetia was grateful and surprised.

“Will you be leaving on your honeymoon very soon, Venetia?” Fitz asked.

“Yes, this afternoon.”

“Let us not stand around, then,” said Fitz. “You will have a thousand details to see to between now and then. Shall we start with the luncheon?”

As gentlemen did not wear wedding bands, Christian was not immediately accosted by questions from his stepmother. But she had to know that he would not have asked to see her alone unless he had something important to say.

They both bided their time. He inquired into the comforts of the house she and Mr. Kingston had hired for the Season. She spoke of the delightful little garden that had come with. It was not until they’d come to the conclusion of the meal that the topic turned to his private life.

“Any news concerning your lady from the Rhodesia, my dear?”

He stirred the coffee that had been put down before him. “Stepmama, you know how I feel about those who do not keep their words.”

She had sent a note the morning after asking about the dinner, and he’d told her the truth—that he’d been disappointed. He’d also said in the same note that he planned to find out the reason behind his lady’s nonattendance and would let the dowager duchess know as soon as he learned anything. On this latter promise he had not quite followed through.

“Was that all it took to turn your affection? Did you not find out why she broke the appointment?”

“Yes, I did, as a matter of fact.” The coffee, a very good brew, tasted far too much like the cup he’d been sipping when Mrs. Easterbrook had strode to his table that first night on the Rhodesia. Such an erotic charge she’d brought with her. He hadn’t been able to taste black coffee since without feeling a surge of the same anticipation.

He poured a liberal amount of sugar and cream into the coffee. “Unfortunately, what I’d thought of as a life-changing event was but a game to her.”

The dowager duchess pushed away the remainder of her Nesselrode pudding. “Oh, Christian. I’m so sorry.”

You have no idea. “Let’s speak no more of it. It’s water under the bridge.”

“Is it?”

The passage of time had not dulled the pain and humiliation of it. If anything, now that the shock had worn off, now that he knew exactly how she had executed her plan, every memory was an open wound.

“She used and discarded me; I’ve nothing more to say of her.” Except he had to go on speaking of her. “I meant to tell you: I am married.”

“I’m sorry, I must have heard you wrong. What did you say?”

“Mrs. Easterbrook became my wife this morning.”

She stared at him, her incredulity giving way to shock as she realized he had not spoken in jest. “Why was I not told? Why was I not there?”

“We chose to elope.”

“I don’t understand the haste—or the secrecy. In the time it took to obtain a special license you could have very well informed me of your plans.”

She was the closest thing he had to a mother. He had worried her and now he’d hurt her, all because he’d been too stupid to know he’d been had. “I do apologize. I hope you will forgive me.”

She shook her head. “You have not offended me, my dear—I am thunderstruck. Why this cloak-and-dagger elopement? And why Mrs. Easterbrook? I was not under the impression that you were particularly fond of her.”

“I am not.” At least that was the truth.

“Then why marry her? You have made your choice as if wives were items on a menu, taking the fish when there is no more steak left. I’m—you have baffled me completely, Christian.”

And disappointed her. She did not need to say those words, he knew. For him to exclude her from one of the most significant events of his life, and to have entered into marriage so cavalierly—or at least give the impression of having done so—he must come off as someone she scarcely knew.

He hardened his tone. “I’ve done my duty, Stepmama. I’ve married. Let us not inquire too deeply into the reasons.”

She gave him a saddened but no less astute look. “Are you all right, Christian?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said. Then, correcting himself, “I am fine.”

“And your wife? Does she know about your lady from the Rhodesia?”

He could not quite disguise his bitterness. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Does she mind?”

“I do not believe she cares at all.”

“Christian—”

“I hate to be so rude, Stepmama. But my duchess”—saying the word felt like swallowing sand—“and I are departing for our honeymoon posthaste. I cannot linger.”

“Christian—”

He closed his hand over hers. “I am now the most envied man in all of England. Be happy for me, Stepmama.”

Christian had no sooner seen off his stepmother than his butler inquired, “Earl Fitzhugh is here, Your Grace. Are you at home to him?”

Of course, his new bride’s brother, here to make noises of displeasure at how unceremoniously he’d carried off the beautiful Mrs. Easterbrook. The former Mrs. Easterbrook. “I’m at home.”

As Fitzhugh was shown in, he was struck by the family resemblance. What had she said? A brother and a sister—twins—both two years younger than I am. He should have suspected then and there—he knew very well the composition of her family. But the former Mrs. Easterbrook had been the furthest thing from his mind when she’d been lying directly beneath, beside, or on top of him.

“Will you take some cognac to toast my wedding?” he asked as he shook Fitzhugh’s hand. He had no cause to be uncivil to this new brother-in-law.

“Spirits interfere with my digestion, alas. But I’ll take a cup of coffee.”

Christian rang for the beverage to be brought in.

“We were all taken aback,” said Fitzhugh, making himself comfortable in a high-back chair. “Had no idea you’d been wooing my sister.”

Neither did I, as a matter of fact. “We kept it quiet.”

“I find it interesting that you said a great deal that was less than complimentary about her. Yet of the two of you, she is not the one who is angry; you are.”

He didn’t have the luxury of a near-perfect vengeance. “You will forgive me for not discussing personal sentiments with a virtual stranger.”

“Of course I did not expect you to confide in me, sir.”

The earl’s eminently reasonable manner was beginning to surprise Christian.

“My sister, too, prefers to keep personal sentiments personal. But sometimes a brother sees things and draws his own conclusions. Of course, without her express permission, I am not at liberty to discuss private particulars of her life, but I will step on no one’s toes in saying a few things about Mr. Easterbrook’s passing.”

Mr. Easterbrook, her wealthy second husband who had died alone. “What of it?”

“According to what Lady Fitzhugh has related to me, you seem to be under the misapprehension that my sister abandoned her husband on his deathbed. I was there that day. I assure you nothing could be further from the truth.”

“You will have me believe she was at his bedside, holding his hand as he drew his last breath?”

“Nothing of the sort. She was downstairs, along with my wife, holding his family at bay, denying them permission, as the lady of the house, to move a single step beyond the drawing room.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Because by his bedside, holding his hand, was someone Mr. Easterbrook desperately wanted to be present as he drew his last breath. His family would have removed said person and denied him his dying wish. Venetia was very loyal to Mr. Easterbrook. We all were. Lord Hastings and my younger sister were stationed on the staircase and I myself directly before the door of Mr. Easterbrook’s bedchamber, in case anyone got past Venetia.

“Mr. Easterbrook’s family was not pleased. Afterward, they made a concerted effort to smear my sister’s good name. To protect Mr. Easterbrook even in death, she allowed it.”

Christian set one finger at the midpoint of a fountain pen lying on his desk. “Mr. Townsend—are you not going to say something about him?”

“He falls under those private particulars that she will not wish me to discuss.”

“Did he kill himself?”

“As I said, it is not my place.”

The coffee tray arrived, but Earl Fitzhugh had already risen from his seat. “I should not take up any more of a man’s time on his wedding day.”

They were all so young in the photograph—except the dinosaur skeleton, which was terribly old. Helena, at fourteen, had been the tallest of them all—this was before her twin had shot up and overtaken her in height. Fitz looked as if he was trying hard not to laugh—his pictures from those years were all full of the suppressed mirth of a boy who enjoyed everything about life. Then there was Venetia, as proud as a general who had won a decisive battle, her bare hand braced—perhaps somewhat indecorously—upon the remains of the Cetiosaurus’s rump.

Had she been headed anywhere else, she would not have hesitated to take the photograph—she’d have packed it before anything else. But she was not sure whether she wanted it in Christian’s house. He would not appreciate the reminder that he’d so enthusiastically encouraged her—the baroness—in her pursuit, or that he’d offered her a place on his next expedition.

She set the photograph facedown and turned around. Cobble, Fitz’s butler, stood in the open doorway of her bedroom, waiting to speak to her.

“Yes, Cobble?”

“The Dowager Duchess of Lexington to see you, ma’am.”

So the duke had informed his stepmother. One could only wonder at her reaction.

“I’ll be down in the green parlor presently.”

Time to play the Great Beauty again.

Sweeping into the green parlor, she smiled. “Your Grace, what a pleasure.”

The Great Beauty had her desired effect. The dowager duchess hesitated—and squinted, as if too bright a light had been thrust into her face.

Venetia took her seat with a flourish of skirts gracefully flounced aside. “Have you come to congratulate me, ma’am? I am beyond thrilled to be married to Lexington.”

This, however, had a sobering effect on the older woman. “Are you, duchess?”

Duchess. Venetia was now the Duchess of Lexington.

“I enjoy fossils, especially those from the Cretaceous Age. The duke has quite a collection of them. I am excited to visit his private museum—and to perhaps someday curate it.”

This was not an answer the dowager duchess had expected. “You married him for his fossils?”

“Have you seen my dinosaur at the British Museum of Natural History, ma’am? A magnificent specimen. I’ve waited more than a decade for the chance to discover another one. By becoming Lexington’s wife I will be able to go on expeditions with him, something I’ve wanted to do my entire adult life.”

The dowager duchess’s fingers dug into her skirts. “What of your bridegroom? Do you also care for him?”

Venetia was at her most charmingly flippant. “How can I not love a man who will take me fossil-hunting?”

The dowager duchess rose and walked to the Japanese screen at a corner of the parlor. A lady in a flowing kimono sat beneath a cherry tree in full bloom, her face in her hand, her melancholy as heavy as the flower-laden boughs that drooped almost to the bare ground.

Tea was brought in. Venetia poured. “Africa, I do believe, shall be our next destination. The Karoo beds are a treasure trove for reptilian remains, from what I hear. Sugar and milk, ma’am?”

The dowager duchess turned around. “Does it not matter to you that he has recently expressed some terribly unfavorable opinions of you?”

“It was certainly heartening that he came to see the light so quickly.”

“Even though he is in love with someone else?”

Venetia set down the teapot and extended her hand toward the creamer. All the years of not digging for fossils had left her fingers slender and lovely. She made sure she showed them to their best advantage. “If you speak of the lady on the Rhodesia, I believe she has disappointed him terribly.”

“And you are content to be his consolation prize?”

If only she were any kind of prize to him. “That is for me to decide, ma’am, and I’ve already decided.”

The dowager duchess at last took her seat again. The bewildered kinswoman, however, had disappeared. The woman who faced Venetia was a lioness. “He is much more than a mere collector of fossils, duchess. He is one of the best men I’ve ever met, and his happiness matters intensely to me. If you want him only for his ability to take you to the Karoo beds, well, most of the year he will not be anywhere exotic or exciting. Like any other good squire, he will be looking after his land and its people. And that is what he will require of you. Are you prepared to be a good wife to him?”

Venetia felt a great tension in her draining away. Here was someone who loved him as fiercely as she did. Someone for whom she need not play the Great Beauty.

“I’m sorry I have been so terribly flippant,” she said quietly. “In truth I am heartsick.”

She could see her reflection in the large mirror above the mantel. She looked very much like the kimonoed lady on the Japanese screen, burdened and forlorn.

The dowager duchess’s hands locked in her lap. “Are you?”

“He hasn’t changed his mind about me at all—but I’ve fallen in love with him.”

“I see,” said the dowager duchess, her tone politely incredulous.

“Yes, it’s quite awful. Not to mention that he’d have preferred the lady from the ocean liner.” Venetia looked the dowager duchess in the eye. “I cannot promise to make him happy. But I can promise you, unconditionally, that his well-being will always be foremost on my mind.”

The dowager duchess’s gaze turned thoughtful. “Those opinions he’d expressed at Harvard …”

“About my late husbands? He is misinformed. But I’m afraid his mind is set.”

The older woman made no response. They drank their tea in silence. Elsewhere in the house Venetia’s trunks were being lugged down the stairs. The brougham had already pulled up by the curb. Through the open window came her maid’s voice, cautioning the menservants to have a care with her mistress’s things.

“I must not impose on you any longer,” said the dowager duchess, setting down her teacup.

“Would you like me to give him your regards when I see him or would you prefer that I keep the meeting between ourselves?”

“You may give my regards to him—he must know that I would not have sat on my hands after he gave me such news.”

“Of course. It’s what we do for those we love.”

They rose and shook hands.

“If I may give you one piece of advice,” said the dowager duchess. “If you believe the duke is wrong about you, you must let him know. He can be quite formidable, but he is never closed-minded and never resentful at being corrected.”

The baroness would not have hesitated; Venetia was not sure she had that sort of courage. But she nodded. “I will remember that, Your Grace.”

There was a reason adolescent dreams usually remained in adolescence: They were extravagant and frankly dangerous at times.

She—or rather, the possession of her—had been his adolescent dream. What did it matter that she was already married? In fantasies a husband was no barrier at all. He began to abandon the dream only after his fateful exchange with Anthony Townsend. And even then, not entirely, and not instantly.

The events he’d narrated that day at Harvard University were the stages of his own disenchantment. The incredulity of listening to Townsend, the anger brought about by his untimely death, the disillusionment at her very advantageous second marriage.

But it was not good enough for her that one man out of ten thousand dared to criticize her. No, for his transgression he had to pay with his heart.

And now at this late date she had become his, by law and by God.

His most costly possession sat opposite him in his private rail coach, immensely and imperturbably lovely. He could not imagine that he had held her, touched her, and joined his body to hers. Her beauty was staggering, excessive, as if she were not quite flesh and blood, but an artist’s conjuration, born of a bout of fevered ecstasy.

A beauty with a gravity of its own that bent light. Sunlight slanted in from only one side of the coach, yet she was most assuredly lit from all sides, an even, soft illumination such as a painter might arrange in his studio when he wished to depict an angel—or a saint who came with her own personal nimbus.

For some time she had been as still as an anatomy model; not a ruffle moved on her striped white and gold dress. But now she laid her hands upon the table that separated them and undid the first button on her glove. A blatantly immodest gesture. Or was it? They were not in public, and he, the only other person in the private coach, was her husband.

Her husband. The words, like her beauty, didn’t seem real.

Slowly, almost teasingly, she parted the glove at the wrist, exposing a triangle of skin—skin he had caressed at will on the Rhodesia. And then, with infinite leisure, she pulled at each finger of the glove, easing the kidskin from the hand it encased. Next she removed her other glove.

It would seem only fair that she should have a defect somewhere. Blunt fingers would be a good place to start; knobby knuckles were not too much to ask. But no, her hands were trim, the fingers long and attractively tapered. Even her knuckles were comely.

She raised those bare, winsome hands and untied the hat ribbons beneath her chin, shaking her head slightly as she removed her hat. All of a sudden it was too much. He was again struck dumb by her, unable to breathe, unable to think, unable to do anything but want—her presence tore him apart; and the only way to be made whole again was to consume her, body and soul.

The next minute he realized what had happened to him, but not before she’d caught him staring.

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.

She knew. With surgical precision, she had peeled back his layers of defenses, until his heart lay bare before her, all its shame and yearning exposed.

He could have lived with this if only he’d kept his secret whole and buried. But she knew. She knew.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he said. “I may yet divorce you after the child comes.”