Beguiling the Beauty (27 page)

“No. I will obtain a special license. We will marry before the number of witnesses as required by law. If you wish to bring members of your family, suit yourself—but I will leave mine out of this disgrace.”

“And afterward? Do we go our separate ways?” Her tone was light and sarcastic.

“I will leave that to you. You may return to your own
residence or you may take up residence here. It makes no difference to me.”

“How tempting. I’m sure I’ve never been proposed to more sweetly.”

The muscle to the right of his eye leaped again.

She set her hand on the door handle. “You have a fortnight for the license, Your Grace. Afterward I’ll let it be known that I am in need of a husband.”

V
enetia 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?

H
elena 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.

F
itz whistled as he skimmed the report in his hand.