A Dangerous Beauty (10 page)

Rosamunde crossed the deck and reclined on an empty lounge chair. Luc St. Aubyn stood at the helm just a few yards away, silent and watchful, Mr. Brown at his elbow. She stared into the whitecaps, which sparkled in the bright sunlight.

She had been wrong about him. There had been hints of his real character beneath the layers of biting cynicism. She tried to picture him as a young boy, lost within the pages of a book, and shook her head. Was that what he was doing beyond the door to his study—lurking behind great tomes of poetry? She had always thought he was drinking himself into a stupor. She could picture the latter quite easily.

As if he could hear her thoughts, she heard him mutter, “Mr. Brown, it seems you’ve forgotten the brandy.”

“I never forget anything, Captain.”

Rosamunde opened her eyes and turned her head slightly. He was staring at her when he unscrewed Mr. Brown’s flask and sloshed back the contents. It was almost as if he was trying to comfort her with the illusion of his black soul. It was much easier to trust in the innate evil of a man. She turned away from him and tried to concentrate on the view in front of her.

Never had she been on a ship like this. Huge sails soared overhead, shadowing the starboard side, where she sat. As the coast became smaller Rosamunde found a peace unlike any she had known.

The expanse of the sea made her realize her own insignificance in the grand scheme of life. And for some reason it calmed her. Oh, there was no doubt there would be more dark days ahead, but facing the horizon, she took courage and realized she would make her way in the world.

She had decided she would ask the duchess to help her find a post somewhere, perhaps as a companion to an older lady, or even a governess. She would have liked to have had children, but it had never happened. God had punished her further by making her barren. In retrospect, perhaps it was for the best.

She had thought to speak to Ata after the wedding, but now wished she had done so sooner. She would not go to London. She could barely tolerate the knowing looks here in Cornwall. And she knew the
haut ton
would only be more harsh in their assessments. The disgraced and disowned daughter of an earl could expect censure to be at its zenith in the capital of Christendom.

But before she found a post for herself, she thought as she watched her sister and a group approach, she would help find a portion of happiness for Sylvia.

“The Cornish have a saying, Sir Rawleigh, that those who will not be ruled by the rudder must be ruled by the rock,” Sylvia said shyly.

His open expression looked back at her sister with something more than mere kindness. “And here I thought all men were ruled by their stomachs.”

Sylvia laughed, bashfulness and sweetness in her face.

The enticing aromas of hot Cornish pasties, cold asparagus and gooseberry tart wafted in the air when Sylvia handed her a plate with a sampling of each.

“You’ve not had any of the picnic foods, Rosa.” Her sister perched on the end of her long chair.

“And you will catch your death without a shawl, Sylvia.”

Charity giggled. “Do you always mother hen each other?”

Sir Rawleigh shrugged out of his black clerical coat and draped it across Sylvia’s shoulders. Sylvia blushed and tried to refuse but he stopped her. “No, I insist. You must allow me the pleasure. Besides, it matches your gown.” His eyes were so friendly and Rosamunde was struck anew by how handsome and charming he was. He was the perfect complement to her sister.

Sylvia returned the vicar’s smile and Rosamunde positively ached for her sister’s happiness.

Grace Sheffey set aside her plate and withdrew a small leather-bound book from a hidden pocket. The
countess’s pale curls danced in the breeze below a fashionable hat made of brown straw and pheasant feathers. She was the picture of dainty English femininity as she turned a page, glanced at the duke, and settled more deeply into her chaise.

Grace was the only one of the widows with whom Rosamunde had been unable to form a certain level of friendship. It was no wonder. The countess rarely mingled with any of the other widows. She was always in the company of Ata and sometimes with the duke. But that was to be expected, since the lady had known the family for many years if what Georgiana Wilde had told her was true. And Rosamunde didn’t doubt it.

There was something about the way Grace Sheffey looked at the duke that made Rosamunde know there was something between them. What, she didn’t know. Grace always seemed to smile a bit wider and her eyes sparkled just a little brighter whenever he entered the room. And he was unfailingly polite to her in return.

Rosamunde picked at the delicious food and watched the crew at their labors. The tasks were performed with precise movements at the command of the duke. When she dared, Rosamunde snatched glimpses of him each time he barked an order.

While he was not as classically handsome as Sir Rawleigh, his sleek and brutally powerful physique made her feel as gangly as a newborn colt. His hawkish features elicited sensations within her that reminded her of the feelings she had had for his brother long ago. Only this time it was worse. And again it could only lead to disaster. Her heart was barely working, as it
was. It had been torn apart and mended with guilt and harsh trials, and it could not take any more strain.

“Mrs. Baird,” he called out. “Would you care for a turn at the helm?”

She couldn’t maintain a refined and cool response. She simply jumped at the chance. Literally.

She dipped into the breach within his wide stance, then carefully poised her hands on the wheel’s spindles below his own strong, scarred hands. His whispered instructions in her ear made her shiver. Holding the power of the ship within her grasp filled her with the same sort of excitement as two tons of horseflesh beneath her during a hunt with the hounds at full cry.

Ata tottered up and almost tripped on her skirts. Mr. Brown caught her at the last moment.

“Your Grace, I’ve told you. You can’t wear those high-heeled boots o’ yours on the ship. You’ll go right overboard one o’ these days, see if you don’t.”

“Well at least I won’t have to worry about your plaguing me to death about my footwear anymore, if I do, you impudent man,” she muttered. She refused to look at him and instead spoke to her grandson, “When are you going to do something about him?”

Luc St. Aubyn chuckled. “I don’t know what makes you think I can control him. Brownie was capable of holding a ship full of three hundred cutthroats, and starving impressed men from mutiny on the promise of imaginary pork chops and wine for a solid week. I rather think you don’t stand a chance, Ata.”

“Well!” the duchess huffed.

Mr. Brown grinned. “By the by, Captain, I’ve never known you to let a lady take the wheel.”

“Well, Mrs. Baird seems born to it, don’t you think? Not the delicate, refined sort at all.”

She didn’t know whether to feel insulted or the opposite.

“You’ve never let
me
take the helm,” grumbled his grandmother.

“You’d never be able to see over the wheel,” chided Mr. Brown.

“Look who’s talking, you old badger.”

Rosamunde could feel Luc’s chest rumble with pent-up mirth.

“And,” Ata continued, “I was addressing my grandson, not someone so far beneath my notice.”

Luc cut in. “Are you ever going to forgive him, Ata?”

“Why I’ve no notion what you’re talking about.”

“About your mysterious past history.”

“If you say another word, my darling, you’ll find yourself regretting it.”

“Hmmm,” he responded.

“Indeed,” Ata replied. “I find I have much time on my hands since Madeleine will soon be out of the nest. I might just set my sights on you.”

The rumbling from his chest stopped. “I hadn’t thought the years in your dish were scrambling your wits, Grandmamma.”

Ata harrumphed and teetered to the rail.

Suddenly, Rosamunde noticed that Luc’s shadow behind her disappeared. He was walking to the other
group. Grace Sheffey moved the ruffled edge of her skirt off the end of her lounging chair and he sat beside her.

The countess’s pretty face lit up with pleasure, and his harsh expression eased in response. They perfectly complemented each other—he so dark and she so blonde. He said something to make her laugh. Rosamunde forced herself to watch them.

Grace Sheffey was reading to him and his hand touched hers when the wind blew back a page. And suddenly, Rosamunde could envision it all, the young, serious boy he had been, the way books had probably allowed him to forget any unhappiness life had brought him. And obviously, quite obviously, elegant and refined Grace Sheffey was someone who knew how to make him feel lighthearted, something he needed. She looked away.

“You must keep a steady eye on the horizon, ma’am,” Mr. Brown said to her. “It takes some practice.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t mention it.” His gnarled hand, covered in age spots, gripped the spindle above hers and corrected the direction. “You’ve a talent for this, lass. And I don’t doubt Luc sees it too.” He sighed deeply. “Your husband leave you much of anything?” he tried to ask casually.

Rosamunde started. What on earth? “Why, not a farthing.”

“Pity,” he shook his head. “’Tis a great pity. But,” she thought she heard him mutter under his breath, “we’ll just have to find another way.”

The man had apparently consumed more spirits than his master.

“The captain asked me to give you this a while back. Said you won it off him fair and square, something about archery.” He placed a leather pouch that jingled in her pocket. “Asked me to give it to you all mysterious-like. But,” he said with a small cough, “there’s no way this old head of mine can think of passing it off without you figuring it out. I’m thinking you’ve got too much brains in that pretty head of yours.”

His foolish compliment warmed her. “Why, Mr. Brown, His Grace doesn’t owe me anything.” She tried to reach into her pocket but he stopped her.

“Now, ma’am, the first rule is you can’t take your hands off the wheel. These here are treacherous waters. And don’t go making my life any harder. Why, he would have my head if you don’t take your winnings. And you’ll be doing me a favor if you don’t tell him I couldn’t figure out a way to slip it to you.”

“You’ve known the family a long time, haven’t you?” she asked.

“Since that stubborn little duchess was a wee lass of six and ten,” he said, his Scottish burr suddenly making an appearance and gliding over his words. “And I was the brawny son of a laird with few coins in my pocket but lots of hair to make up for it. She was the daughter of an earl. Yes, there was a time when I enjoyed her smiles much more often than her frowns.” He removed his tarry hat and scratched his balding head. “Och, but it was a long, long time ago.” He looked up to the sails and Rosamunde barely heard the words he
said under his breath. “Long before she begged me to watch over her bonny grandson.”

Rosamunde glanced at Luc St. Aubyn and saw him watching her. A ray of light passed over his face, revealing the shocking blue of his eyes against his bronzed skin. His magnetism was mesmerizing. He was, quite simply, the most purely masculine and enigmatic man she had ever known. And suddenly she knew she wanted him, quite desperately, but in a way that was nearly impossible to explain. It was the most selfish thought she had had in a decade, primal to the bone in nature.

Now what she would do if she ever had him for herself she didn’t know, for while she wanted his admiration there was no question she couldn’t ever face anything beyond his kiss. She had promised herself after Alfred’s death that she would never ever suffer the pain and humiliation of marital relations ever, ever again. Even a life spent in a workhouse was more appealing. And if she had endured such pain with Alfred, a man half the size of the Duke of Helston, she would never be able to tolerate the act with this man. She looked at the sheer size of his physique and shivered. He was so strong.
So male
.

She felt the deck creak beneath her feet, and continued to stare into his compelling eyes.

Alone,
adj.
In bad company.

—The Devil’s Dictionary, A. Bierce

T
he wedding morning dawned as fair and bright as the bride’s face. There was not a cloud in her veil of happiness, not a seed of doubt to her future well-being.

She was a giddy fool, thought Luc as he kissed Madeleine’s cheek and made his promises to return for her in two hours. He closed the door to her chamber and removed to his library.

At least she was marrying a man as irrationally good-hearted as she. They would probably be disgustingly happy for a solid year before all the well-known eccentricities would creep in on stealthy feet, bringing boredom to the marriage, followed closely by quarrels, a slow descent into indifference, and in many cases much worse. His parents were the definitive example.

He sat at his desk and weighed in his palms the sex
tant from a looted French privateer’s ship. The only reason Luc had agreed to allow Landry to marry his sister was because he could keep an eye on them. And Landry knew without a doubt that Luc would make good on his promises to hurry his sorry arse off this world if he was ever stupid enough to cause Madeleine a moment of distress.

Luc glanced down at the manuscript before him and reached for a freshly trimmed quill. His publisher, that shrewd Scot John Murray, intent on milking Luc’s abilities—and the voracious new appetite of a fickle public in the process—had asked to see Luc’s almost-completed manuscript about Trafalgar.
Just as Brownie had suggested.

In fact, Luc didn’t doubt the two of them had cooked up the idea together. Only now, the publisher wanted him to start each chapter with witty definitions such as the ones in
Lucifer’s Lexicon
. Luc also didn’t doubt they were plotting to let slip his secret identity in the process. The publisher had hinted he wanted to use the public’s curiosity to sell more books. Luc didn’t even want to think about how Mr. Murray had managed to whip up such a frenzy.

But like a moth to a flame, Luc couldn’t seem to harness the desire to thwart them. He knew exactly what he was doing and where this would end, just as Christ had gone to the cross. And there was no doubt Judas had taken the ridiculous twin forms of Mr. Brown and Mr. Murray.

Well, at least this work on Trafalgar wouldn’t be mistaken for the work of a girl.

Luc opened an inkwell and dipped the quill into the hell pot. He wrote at the top of the first chapter, “Captain,
n
. The gentleman onboard who drinks the best wine in exchange for the privilege of leading boarding parties and having his brains blown out first.”

He fingered an old scar on the back of his neck and chuckled. This was going to be easier than he thought.

He turned to the second chapter and continued, “Admiral,
n
. A gout-ridden plotter in London who collects full pay whilst other poor bastards carry out the proper action without ever seeing Fatty’s orders. Admiral Nelson, of course, being the exception.” He bit back a smile and scratched through the words twice, the ink pooling. He’d never be able to face his former commanding officer again if that was in print.

Thoughts of having to offer up his sister’s hand were putting him in a black frame of mind, it seemed. It always was easier to write when he was in a mulish, ugly mood.

And thoughts of Rosamunde’s exquisite, wind-whipped face from yesterday made him even more blue-deviled. He ramrodded thoughts of her back, but just like a cannon’s recoil, the feeling of her body against his, her lips against his own, and even the clean soap scent of her skin kept kicking back into his gut. He’d been rigid in his efforts to keep his distance for the past week. He had succeeded until inexplicably he’d found himself inviting her to take the helm. What had come over him?

It was that look of starkness he saw in her eyes from time to time. The look of wistful longing for excitement. She was made for adventure.

She was the most passionate woman he’d ever known. Oh, she kept it simmering beneath the surface when they were surrounded by others, but she couldn’t hide it when she rode his horses, scaled insanely high cliffs, and sailed for the first time.

What it would be like to dance seduction with her dogged his last waking thoughts each night, and left his body aching for release. But sampling more than her kiss was the worst possible idea. And it would take hours to invoke trust, hours to bring mutual pleasure, then many more hours of regret. But above all he could never pay the price to satisfy her resulting guilt.

Marriage
.

She was not a female with whom to trifle. She was not like so many ladies in town. He only accepted the invitations of rich, secure, knowing women who welcomed flirtation, sought out seduction, and knew how it would end with him.

For he never had any woman twice.

It would only encourage expectations. And Lord knew he could only be counted on to do the exact opposite of what was expected of him.

His behavior, he knew, had quite perversely worked in his favor. It sealed his fate as a prize for the women who wanted a night of sin. But one night only.

Between the sheets, ladies whispered in his ear the moniker they had for him, Lord Fire and Ice. Fire within his arms, ice the morning after. Some had tried
to thaw him, but none had succeeded.

But this spring, the allure of it had waned. It was easy to figure out why. There was no chase. It was too easy. In fact it was worse than that. He had begun to feel like a prize stallion when the ladies slipped notes in his pocket or proposed a secret rendezvous.

And he knew his desire for Rosamunde was precisely due to the fact that she was the first female who presented a puzzle. She had not propositioned him, had not used her feminine wiles. In fact she was more like a young girl who knew less than nothing of seduction, and certainly didn’t welcome it.

She was a challenge.

But he knew how to walk away from a challenge. He had learned how to do that when he was seventeen years old, when he had walked away from…

He beat back the thought he locked behind every door in his mind. He would pack Rosamunde Baird off to London with the rest of the widows after Madeleine’s wedding today. Somehow, like every season before, Ata would find a way to bring peace and happiness to her as well as each of the other widows. And he would do what he knew best. Walk away. It would be the right—

A knock sounded at the door. Who would dare…?

Knocking again.

“Come,” he barked.

His groin lurched when the very woman he was thinking about came through the door.

“Yes?” he asked more harshly than he intended.

She glanced at his desk in embarrassment. He swept
the disordered pages into a pile and weighted it with the brass sextant.

“I’m sorry, I was told your grandmother was here with you.” She held an exquisite bouquet of flowers, ivy trailing the ground. “These are for your sister.”

“They know better than to disturb me here.” He narrowed his eyes.

She backed toward the door, and he forced himself to swing off his leather chair and go to her.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Baird.” He had deliberately gone back to using her formal name this past week. “You’ve caught me in the middle of contemplating my sister’s future.”

She stopped and a flicker of a smile crossed her features. “Ah.”

“Well said.”

“While I know I am wasting my breath, and presuming too much, I think you needn’t fear for your sister’s happiness.”

“Really. I had thought you a tad more enlightened in the area of female enslavement.”

“No. Just more practical. While I would never marry again, your sister appears to have chosen well.” She set the bouquet on an end table and closed the distance between them. Clearly she was not going to leave him in peace. “Most women have little choice in the matter of marriage as well you know.”

“I’m familiar with most females’ point of view on the matter.”

She tilted her head and looked like she was pondering her next words. “Women know men have al
together different thoughts. Your sex grumbles about taxes and marriage, but in the end both are seldom avoided.”

He chuckled. “You have a certain flair for words.”

“As do you.”

He stopped short. “Who told you that?”

“No one had to.” She looked beyond his shoulder to his desk. “What do you do in here all day? You can’t be reading.” Her arm swept past the meager number of books on the shelves and he quickly covered his ink-stained thumb and forefinger with his other hand.

A crystal shot glass beckoned along with a decanter of brandy inside the side desk drawer. He filled it and threw it back. Anything to keep him from taking three long strides toward her and taking those beautiful lips and crushing himself against them.

“Ah, yes, of course,” she murmured.

“And here I’d thought you were quite intelligent when in fact you’re remarkably slow, my dear,” he drawled. He poured another drink.

“Perhaps.” She took several steps to his desk and ran the edge of her index finger along his desktop. “But perhaps not. For some reason you seem to enjoy giving the illusion you are Lucifer himself, but I know you are anything but.”

He sputtered. “Have you forgotten my name?”

“What has that—”

He stared down at her, her eyes just inches from his own. She was one of the tallest ladies he had ever encountered. “My given name happens to be Lucifer
Judas Ambrose St. Aubyn, or Helston to my more intimate friends.”

Her eyes glittered with emotion. “For some reason, you want everyone to think you a scoundrel. But I believe the first truth: Actions speak louder than words. And I’ve never seen you act unkindly to anyone less fortunate. You are just the opposite. And I know many who speak kindly but act horridly. Your words are often harsh, but there is nothing behind them.”

He felt heat claw at his belly. “You think me a good man, do you?” he whispered.

“I do.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

“Oh, there’s no doubt of that. I’ve had eight years to learn the price of being a fool. But I think I’ve learned how to judge the measure of a man.”

“You know nothing about me.”

“I know enough.” She glanced at the whiskey. “And I know a prop when I see one.”

His laughter began as a chuckle, but grew loud and cynical to his own ears. “And what else do you know?”

He watched her throat convulse in a swallow. “I know you were once a boy who loved books and learning. And I knew your father. I can only imagine how a boy such as you fared under his thumb.”

“My dear, you really must do better. Your deduction skills are not as refined as you think.” He stared into the depths of her ethereal eyes.

She refused to blink or look away.

He wanted to see the look of revulsion fill her eyes.
Wanted her to be afraid of him. Wanted the truth to be bared once and for all.

He finally spoke, so quietly she had to lean in to hear him. “My father loved me in the only way he knew how, with moderation and at a distance. And he might have been severe but he had my best interest at heart. As the second son, I was groomed to become an officer, and a bookish boy would not do.”

“But you were too young to go. Most are allowed to finish university. Why did your father force you away?”

He rubbed his temples. “For many reasons.” He was silent.

“Tell me,” she said.

“Perhaps because my success overshadowed my brother’s, and that wouldn’t do. The heir must be the more intelligent one. Perhaps it was the only way he could force me to become the man he wanted me to be.”

“My father always encouraged my brothers to pursue their different interests,” she whispered.

The intensity of the moment was such that Luc could have sworn he could feel heat radiating from every pore of his body. “Your father wasn’t like mine.”

She shook her head. “You’re right. But then in other ways he was worse. Because I thought his love was everlasting, impervious to anything that might happen in my life. And I was very wrong.” She looked at her hands. “But we were talking about you.”

He would tell her. If only to make her take a deep and abiding disgust of him, and never tempt him again.

“Did you never meet my mother?”

“Your mother?” She was thinking. “Why, yes I did. She was quite beautiful, I remember.”

“She was more than beautiful. She was goodness, sweetness, and the mother every child dreams of having. And my father made her miserable. Oh, she tried very hard not to show it, she was very good at acting. She always smiled and did everything my father asked and more. She was the glue that bound our family together, making it seem almost normal. But I could see beyond her false smiles. The only time she was truly happy, as were we all, was when Father was gone to town and we were alone with her—just Henry, and me, and later Madeleine. But I…”

“Yes?” she prompted when he stopped speaking.

“I was her favorite. And I loved her more than anyone or anything.”

“And?” she prompted again.

“And, ultimately, I couldn’t save her.”

“From what?” she whispered.

“From my father and from unhappiness.”

There was a long pause.

“What do you mean?” she asked softly.

“I was a coward. I wouldn’t do the one and only thing she ever asked of me.”

“What did she ask?”

His eyes focused on a point above her shoulder, and his vision blurred.

“To take her away from him.”

“What?” She asked so loudly it brought him back to his senses.

He walked to the door and opened it. “Mrs. Baird, forgive me. I don’t know what I’ve been thinking. Please, I must ask you to leave.”

She walked to him and forced the door closed before he could stop her. She twisted the key in the lock.

He uttered a growl but she interrupted. “Tell me.” She shook her head vehemently. “You must. You and your grandmother have done so much for us. You need to tell someone. And it cannot hurt me. It is only fair, you forced me to tell you about your brother. Now it is your turn.”

“Dukes don’t have to take turns,” he said dryly.

“This duke should, this one time,” she insisted.

He swallowed and walked to the window. He couldn’t bear to look into her eyes.