Beguiling the Beauty (15 page)

He understood her exactly. When he visited his stepmother and Mr. Kingston, their fulfillment made his lack of hopes for the future all the more acute.

“Have you become less lonely in the years since?”

“My brother gave up the love of his life to marry an heiress. His wife, I suspect, has been in unrequited love with him all along. And my sister, God help us all, loves a married man. Compared to them, my loneliness seems terribly tame, something to be borne cheerfully.” She drew little circles on his arm—or were those hearts? “What of you? Have you ever been lonely? Or have you been too self-sufficient to notice?”

He reached up and played with the lobe of her ear. “I don’t think anyone has ever asked me such questions.”

She stilled. “I beg your pardon. I did not mean to pry. Sometimes I forget that of the two of us, only I enjoy the luxury of anonymity.”

It was easy to forget a great many things in the intensity of their affair. Sometimes he felt as if he’d never known anything but the sea, the
Rhodesia
, and her. “Please don’t apologize for taking a personal interest in me—it reassures me you are not merely exploiting me in bed.”

The sound of her laughter registered as a burst of brightness in the night. It still amazed him that she not only laughed, but laughed often. It amazed him even more that he’d been the one to elicit the laughter. When she laughed, nothing was impossible. He could climb Mount Everest, cross the Sahara, and raise the lost realm of Atlantis all in a day.

“The English aren’t in the habit of inquiring into one another’s happiness,” he said. “Not that we do not know what is going on; we simply do not speak of it. My stepmother, for example, has never asked why I am sometimes in a black mood. But she makes sure to invite the best company for dinner and uncork Mr. Kingston’s finest bottles from the cellar. Or we go for a long walk and she tells me all the latest gossip among her circle of friends.”

“You like gossip?”

“Half of the time I have no idea who she is talking about, and most of the time her stories go in one of my ears and out the other. But I like being made to feel that she’s been waiting for my return so she can tell me everything. I like remembering that even though I can’t have everything I want, I’m still an extraordinarily fortunate man.”

“Would you mind if I asked what it is that you can’t have?”

He couldn’t tell her before, but now that barrier had come down. “When I was nineteen, I fell in love with a married woman.”

“Oh,” she murmured. “So … when you said being with other women made you wish you were elsewhere, she was that elsewhere?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Easterbrook had been the miasma of an opium den, calling out to an old addict.

“Do you still love her?”

“I haven’t thought of her once since I met you.”

In the silence there was only the soughing of the sea and her quickened breaths.

He put the question to her once more. “Are you sure you must disappear when we touch land?”

And she, bless her, at last spoke the words he’d been longing to hear. “Let me—let me think about it.”

M
illie, Countess Fitzhugh, stared at the disappearing American continent.

Once she reached England, hardly any time remained before she was at last to become Fitz’s wife. In truth.

How had the years gone by so fast? Eight years. To a
sixteen-year-old girl, eight years comprised half a lifetime, a stupendously long span that would end in a future as distant as the stars. And yet here it was, close enough to breathe on her.

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?”

T
he 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.

V
enetia 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.

H
e 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.”