A Dangerous Beauty (21 page)

Suddenly she realized why she had turned to nature and flowers in her misery. It was because her husband had denied her music. Her soul and her senses had craved beauty and the garden was the only place she had been able to find it.

Coming almost full circle, her gaze rested on Luc St. Aubyn, the Duke of Helston, where intelligence and complete awe warred with the harsh kindness radiating from his face. His was a different kind of raw beauty she craved now more than any other thing in the world.

A face beyond his shoulder, beside the ballroom doors, came into focus and her voice almost faltered.

Her father…and beside him Phinn, Fitz, Miles, and even James. Oh, it was just like outside the church on Madeleine St. Aubyn’s wedding morning. He was going to turn and walk away from her. Pain radiated through her chest until she saw the sheen on her father’s cheeks. He was crying.

And in that moment her voice grew stronger and she held an impossibly long, rich note, all the while staring back at her father, his image growing blurry through her own tears. At the end she reached one arm toward him. The song begged him to find the love they had lost. The music abruptly ended; flute, harp, and song echoed through the dead-silent ballroom.

Rosamunde closed her eyes and bowed her head. A thick fog of loud whispers grew and enveloped her. She finally opened her eyes, tears spilling over wet lashes, and saw Luc, very pale, staring at her, shocked admiration on every feature. He seemed frozen, his hands locked behind his back.

With every emotion yearning for acceptance, she glanced to the edge of the vast ballroom but couldn’t find her father as the crowd surged and roared its approval, the flames of all the hundreds of candles flickering with the movement.

Luc seemed to wake from his trance as he escorted her down the three steps. Mr. Brown led six harried musicians, their wigs askew, to the stage.

Rosamunde fought the crush of people, each trying to say a word. She had to get to her father. Had to tell
him she was sorry for disappointing him, had to hear his voice. Oh, how she longed to hear his voice.

“Luc,” she said. “Please help me. I have to get to the door.”

His eyes questioned her words.

“My father…” she begged.

He understood and forced a path through the waves of people like the masthead of a warship. In their wake, Rosamunde barely heard the words of wonder and praise.

It seemed forever before they reached the spot where her father had been standing. Now only Fitz and James stood by the double doors. James crushed her to his chest as only a brother could do, before she pulled away. “But, where is Fa—”

“He’s gone. Forced Phinn to go with him.” Fitz hurried with an explanation. “You know how he detests scenes, Rosamunde. He always has. Can’t bear the attention, the strain of everyone staring at him. But he was determined to come, Rosa. And he’s determined to see you tomorrow.”

She turned to Luc. “Oh please. I must see him now.”

James stopped her. “No, Rosamunde. You mustn’t. It isn’t what he wanted. He expects you to stay. Told me so himself.”

“Come, it’s the opening set”—Luc grasped her hand—“and you must dance it with me.”

“But, I can’t. I must…”

“No, you mustn’t.” He shook his head slightly. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t see him at some ungodly
early hour tomorrow morning.” He looked at the two fair-haired brothers. “You must dance with your sister too. With more than half the peers in Christendom at her feet, now is the time to show the fickle-hearted aristocracy that Rosamunde is at ease with her family.”

Unbearable longing dragged at her heart.

“Your voice has already entranced most of them. Now let your grace and elegance speak to the rest.”

“I shall claim the second set,” James said.

“And the third shall be mine,” added Fitz.

Their cinnamon-colored eyes were so very dear to her, so like her sister’s.

“And you’ll all dance with Sylvia?”

“Of course,” they chorused.

James took her aside. “Don’t be such a ninny. Go with His Grace before he changes his mind. He does you an enormous favor.”

Once a brother always a brother, it seemed. “Your confidence in me always was extraordinary,” she said dryly, then turned to place her gloved hand on the top of Luc’s ironlike arm.

He led her through the press of people to the top of the set. Just when the opening sounds of a minuet should have been struck, Luc tipped his head toward the conductor and the flowing measures of a waltz filled the air. Even Rosamunde knew it was audacious and improper. She glanced at him and he raised a single winged brow, daring her to question him.

The lady next to her giggled and said, loud enough for the people around her to hear, “What was the definition for waltzing?”

Her partner laughed and replied, “The thing that separates us from the beasts?”

“No, no, no,” chided another lady, “that’s
kissing
.”

Rosamunde was absolutely certain she’d heard
that
quip before. She whipped her head around to stare at Luc.

A sly young man nudged her and leaned in to confide to Luc, “The waltz is one hundred forty-five steps closer to hell. Isn’t that what
Lucifer’s Lexicon
suggests, Your Grace?”

“I wouldn’t know,” he bit out, then grasped her hand and pulled her inelegantly toward the French doors. “Damn fools.”

He had a strange look in his eye, and it was hard for Rosamunde to keep up with his large strides. What was this
Lucifer’s Lexicon
everyone seemed to know by heart? Luc’s profile was grim and he mumbled something about “imbeciles who can’t count.”

Several of the ladies murmured compliments to her about her singing as they wound their way through the crowded room, growing more merry with each successive pass of the trays filled with champagne and spirits. Ata had insisted that there should be no lemonade, “Makes for a watered-down affair.” And she had been right. It even allowed for the two of them to duck through the throng and slip past one of the many sets of doors leading to the terrace.

The moon was a perfectly round dark yellow orb, mysterious valleys etched upon its face.

Rosamunde set her heels on the empty patio when he would have gone into the garden. “What did you
mean when you said the idiots couldn’t count?”

“I didn’t say that. I said
imbeciles
. Everyone knows the waltz has three beats to a measure.”

“I beg your pardon? What has that to do—”

“Simple mathematics. It couldn’t be one hundred forty-five steps. It must be one hundred forty-four.”

Like the dominos she used to set up on the nursery-room floor at Edgecumbe, his last utterance tipped off a cascade of understanding. “You…you…” she stammered. “Why do you become so annoyed each time someone quotes from this strange dictionary? It’s as if you, well, as if…”

“As if what?” he asked, his lips in a thin line.

“As if it means something to you. As if you’re connected to it somehow. As if…” She finished the thought in her mind. All those cynical witticisms were precisely the sort of clever remarks she heard him utter time and again.

“Rosamunde…” he warned.

“You wrote it, didn’t you?” she said with wonder. “Why is it such a secret? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you could sing?” he asked dryly.

“Did you know you’re very good at changing the subject?”

“We’ll discuss it later.” He took her in his arms and danced through the double set of doors. “Come, we must dance in public unless you want more scandal.”

She realized he might never tell her. Since they’d come to London she’d felt a gulf rending them apart. She’d thought she understood his demons, but evi
dently she did not if he had kept this momentous secret from her.

For long moments she kept her gaze focused above his right shoulder as she pondered this revelation, fully aware that the inquisitive eyes of society were upon them. She had wondered what it would be like to dance with him, but she’d been afraid to be on display. Afraid that everyone would be able to tell that she cared for him more than she should. She had never been to a ball, never had her season, never understood the heady aura of wit and beauty and old-world elegance found only in a London ballroom. It was where dukes rubbed shoulders with marquises who rubbed elbows with counts who rubbed fingers with barons while mere misters looked for a title to marry.

She could not relax until she noticed the guests were no longer staring at them and the flow of idle conversation had resumed. Oh, but then. She let her heart soar in sheer happiness as Luc’s warm hands held her while they circled the floor. She had known he would be a magnificent, powerful partner in dance, just as he would be in life. As she lost herself to the notes swirling around them, the music beats matching the pulse of her heart, she finally allowed herself to gaze into his glittering eyes. What she found there made her almost weep with longing.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said quietly.

“Whatever are you—?”

“No,” he said, interrupting her, “lying, while a virtue, is never a good idea when facing me.”

“But we went walking just last week.”

“And I haven’t had a moment with you since.” His hand gripped hers and he hugged her to his breast momentarily to avoid a near collision with another couple.

She must get him to stop talking; her nerves were near to breaking.

“Please, Luc…” she said in a tone that sounded miserably begging to her own ears.

“Why didn’t you tell me you could sing?” He repeated.

“Why did you assume I couldn’t?”

“Because I always assume the worst in everyone. That way I’m rarely surprised. Devil’s rules, don’t you know.”

She shook her head and almost had the courage to smile. “Gentlemen such as you never like surprises.”

“Precisely.”

She wondered if there was another soul on this earth who could make her feel more comfortable in her own skin. “Well, I’m glad I surprised you, as hard as that might have been for you. But I think you shouldn’t hold on so tightly to your devil’s rules.”

“Trying to snatch the very coattails off the devil, are you?” He rolled his eyes. “I see you’ve forgotten the condescension due my rank.”

She laughed, and with a burst of bittersweet joy she marveled how he never failed to fascinate and thrill her with his magnetism and wit. “Nevertheless, I shall make you rethink several of your rules before I leave.”

He sobered instantly. “You cannot leave.”

“But I think I can now. Don’t you feel the change in the air? I know I’ll find a place for myself. That was the plan, wasn’t it?”

For a moment, a haunted look appeared in the depths of his mysterious eyes before he shuttered them, “Rosamunde…” he said, letting her name hang in the last notes of the waltz as they drifted into the night.

Their days were numbered. Of that there could be no doubt.

Looking into his eyes with such miserable sadness pounding her soul, she knew with every fiber of her being that they would be pulled away from each other. And both of them would allow it.

For him. For her. For Ata. For everyone.

Cynic,
n.
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they should be.

—The Devil’s Dictionary, A. Bierce

S
he dozed fitfully through the first part of the night and consequently fell into a deep slumber just before the first rays of dawn appeared. She was having nightmares again, something she hadn’t had once since coming to stay with the St. Aubyn family.

Alfred was coming up the stair, his step heavy and growing louder as he came closer to her door. And then there was the awful pause as he stood there, his shadow evident beneath her door. She could almost hear his heavy breathing. But instead of waiting silently and motionless, she ran to the door to confront him only to find Luc standing there with Grace Sheffey, both of them dressed for the ball, arm in arm, looking as if they were made for each other.

In the dream, Luc smiled benevolently and the hallway was transformed into a Cornish meadow filled with wildflowers and Celtic stones in an ancient circle. Someone was walking toward them through the mist. It was Father, her brothers behind him, reaching out his arms. Only Sylvia was missing. Then the mist grew dense, swirling up their bodies until she couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, and at last woke up panting as if she had run all the way from Cornwall to London.

She arose early, too early, and sat at the escritoire in her chamber. There was no ladies’ toilette table since she was still ensconced in the room that had once been Henry St. Aubyn’s. It was ironic. She was in the very room that she had longed to occupy as his wife all those years ago.

She reached for the drawer where a maid had placed the silver-backed brush that had been her mother’s, along with the matching looking glass and her hairpins. The drawer was stuck. Rosamunde jiggled it by reaching with her fingers under the edge, trying to ease the tall pin case away from the top.

Her hands brushed against something soft as the drawer eased open a little. Feeling blindly, she again reached under the space and came away with a thick note, yellowed with age. A lock of pale gold hair peeked out from one of the corners. Her breath caught as she fingered the strands and instinctively brought her other hand to her oval mourning locket where her mother’s pale hair was interwoven with her own. The outside of the note read, “For Luc, my beloved son.”
Rosamunde turned it over, and the crimson sealing wax bore the intertwined initials
CSA
.

CSA
…

St. Aubyn. C. St. Aubyn. Her heart raced.
Caro’s Heart
. Caroline St. Aubyn,
his mother
.

She must give this to him. Right away. Her hand stilled while her mind raced. And then she hesitated, uncertain which of the two ideas forming in her mind would be the right thing to do.

Perhaps she could carry out both. Carefully, she eased a few of his mother’s strands of hair from the fold, leaving the rest undisturbed. She would place it in his hands this very morning.

After quickly splashing herself with cold water and donning the crimson gown, she made her way to the breakfast room.

Sitting around the breakfast table with the rest of the Widows Club, she fought the twin desires to find Luc or to run all the way to her father’s house.

It was only her deep gratitude to Ata that kept her in her seat, picking at toast, barely able to drink one cup of chocolate, while listening to the ladies talking about the magnitude of the events of the last evening.

“And where, pray tell, is my grandson?” Ata asked a footman.

The liveried servant leaned forward. “He left early this morning on an errand, Your Grace.”

“Hmmm, he’s a sly devil. Methinks he has gone to buy pretty posies for someone,” Ata said, winking at Grace Sheffey. “So good of you to come share breakfast with us this morning, Grace.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I admit my house in town seems very empty since living with you this past summer, Ata.”

“Oh, my dear,” Ata said, her eyes slightly misty. “I really don’t think you shall remain alone in your lovely house for long. I don’t have to hide my sentiments from my dearest confidants at this table. No one could miss how beautiful you and Luc looked dancing last night. And”—she winked again—“he asked you to dance
two
sets.”

The countess looked exquisite in a pink walking dress, her pale hair artfully arranged with a spray of curls over one shoulder, and pink and white pearls displayed on her décolleté. She looked like a woman on the verge of a marriage proposal.

Another footman entered and bowed. “Your Grace.”

“Yes?”

“Where would you like us to put the rest of the flowers?”

“Oh, it’s been such an age since we’ve had morning-after-a-ball posies. But, surely you know they should be placed in the sitting rooms, Gordon.”

“We’ve filled every table to overflowing, Your Grace.”

“What?” Ata said, astonishment flooding her face.

The widows began chattering. “Surely they must be for Rosamunde,” Georgiana said quietly, turning to her. “You sang so beautifully. I’ve never heard anything like it.”

Rosamunde could feel the heat of a blush overtake
her. “No, you must be mistaken. They must be for Ata, and from all of your dance partners.”

Elizabeth laughed, “Well, I for one can’t stand the suspense. I cannot eat another bite until I see this for myself.”

“Oh yes,” Ata breathed, “do let’s go see.”

Ata teetered on her high-heeled boots out the door, the rest of the ladies in her wake. Rosamunde was the last to leave, behind the Countess of Sheffield.

“Grace,” Rosamunde said softly, “I know words are not adequate, but I wanted to thank you again for opening your house to host the ball. Until this summer, I had not had the opportunity to enjoy the friendship of many ladies. I shall always treasure this summer, and most especially your extraordinary generosity. I’m sorry I haven’t the means to give you a proper gift, but I did want to offer a token of my gratitude…” Rosamunde withdrew from her pocket a little package wrapped in tissue.

“Oh,” exclaimed Grace, “I shan’t say ‘you shouldn’t have,’ because that takes away from the sentiment of your gift. May I open it, then?”

“Please,” she said, watching the petite countess unfold the tissue. “I had hoped you might like this since you enjoy reading so much, just like His Grace.”

The countess held up a small book. “Oh,” she breathed.

“It’s a collection of Welsh poetry my father gave to me when I was sixteen.”

“Oh, it is very dear to you, which shall make it all the more dear to me. I shall treasure it always and
think of you when I read it. Rosamunde…I am so glad I could help you. And I just know you will find happiness now with your family. It was the one thing I was determined to do before I consider fulfilling the wish of Ata and my grandmother, lost to me now.”

Rosamunde felt her heart pounding in her breast. She nodded.

“You are going to see your father this morning, aren’t you?”

“Yes. As soon as I can politely extricate myself.”

The countess smiled at her warmly and embraced her. “I understand. Come. I’ll aid your escape. Let’s find the butler and I’ll order a carriage for you myself. Ata won’t mind in the least.”

The note for Luc would have to wait then, until later in the day.

Grace arranged for a maid and a carriage to be brought from the mews before they entered the drawing room filled with an overwhelming number of bouquets. There were sweet peas and violets, larkspur, and lilies. But most of all there were roses, her namesake, in every color imaginable. The widows were glancing and laughing at the cards, some of which contained phenomenally unoriginal poetry.

“Look, here is the fourth ‘A Rosamunde by any other name would smell as sweet,’” Elizabeth said, giggling.

“I daresay half the florists in town are giving a prayer of thanks to Rosamunde as they pat their plump pockets,” Ata said, a wide smile on her withered face. “It was a grand success after all, thanks to
your exquisite voice and Grace’s unparalleled hospitality.”

Rosamunde was speechless. The widows surrounded her, hugging her senseless. “Oh, this is everything ridiculous,” Rosamunde said, but couldn’t stop the smile spreading across her features. “Now look, here is one for Georgiana,” she said. “Hmmm, it is from a Lord Horton. Did you not dance with him?”

Not waiting for an answer she looked at another card and said, “And this one is for…yes, here is one for Elizabeth. Let’s see. It says, ‘To Eliza who is no pariah.’ Oh dear, I think that one takes the prize.” They dissolved into laughter.

The housekeeper entered carrying another bouquet.

“And this is for…?” Ata asked, without any curiosity lacing her laughter.

“Lady Sylvia, Your Grace,” the housekeeper replied primly. “And there was a very unpleasant man who just delivered something altogether larger in the foyer.”

Sylvia stepped forward to accept the white rosebud posy and brought it to her nose. She averted her face to read the note.

The ladies drifted into the foyer and were astonished to find wrapped in soft coverings a beautiful inlaid wood harp in the Welsh style. There was no question who had sent the grand gift.

No one heard Sylvia’s slippered feet behind them. “It’s from Sir Rawleigh,” she said in awe. “Oh, I cannot accept…” She looked longingly at the harp, touched
the gleaming wood once before pulling away her hand as if she had been burned. She then rushed past the assembled widows to the hall beyond.

Rosamunde found her in the first chamber, Luc’s dark Egyptian-inspired library, where a large, book-laden desk was supported by golden entwined serpents. Sphinxes decorated the immense floor-to-ceiling bookcases, giving the entire room a dangerous aura.

Dwarfed within the seat of a leather armchair, Sylvia lay huddled and rocking slightly. Rosamunde rushed to cradle her in her arms, whispering endearments of sisterly love. “Dearest, you mustn’t do this to yourself,” she pleaded. “You mustn’t. He loves you so. Can’t you find it within your heart to accept him?”

Afterward, Rosamunde could not recall the gentle persuasive arguments she used on Sylvia for the next quarter hour. All she could remember was the rush of emotions that washed over her when the library door opened and she found herself face to face with her father. Luc stood behind him.

Her sister and Luc seemed to fade into the background as she stood very still before her father. He was so close she could see him swallow against the tension in his throat as she fought to calm her nerves. He was staring at her, drinking in the sight of her.

Slowly she raised a hand toward him and took a tentative step forward, equal parts hope and anticipation beating in her breast. Only this time there was no fear. Even if he rejected her, said something unkind, she now knew she would survive it. She had somehow changed, gathered a bit of courage during the last
season, and had learned in hindsight that she could withstand the worst trials fate tossed her way. And she took comfort in knowing this. Perhaps, just perhaps, she thought, maturity could indeed be better than the sweet bloom of girlhood.

“Rose…” her father’s dearly familiar voice whispered to her.

At that one utterance, she ran into his arms. The bouquet of scents from him sprang to life as she buried her nose in his worsted-wool riding coat. Smoke from his cheroots and his woody cologne mingled together, the essence of him.

“My impetuous, beautiful, headstrong girl…” he said so quietly and wistfully.

“Father…” she choked out, “I’ve missed you so.”

The touch of his trembling hand on her head made her eyes ache with unshed tears. She forced herself to straighten and looked at her father’s face, which had aged since she’d last seen him. Streaks of gray had appeared at his temples.

“Why did you have to leave,” he whispered, “run away from Edgecumbe? I know you were angry…at me, angry with Helston, angry with us all. You never liked to be forced to do anything. But why did you have to leave…me?”

She breathed deeply and shuddered before she told the unvarnished truth of it. “Because you cared more about propriety than you did about me, Father. Because I disappointed you and you no longer respected or loved me. And I couldn’t spend the rest of my life with a husband who would be wishing he were with
someone else. But it seemed you only cared about our name and how I had sullied it.”

His aged eyes took on a bit of the old hardened metal to them. “Propriety
is
everything, girl. Certainly you know that now,” her father insisted gruffly. “I acted in your best interest. I knew what would happen to you if you didn’t marry His Grace’s brother. No one of good name would have you then. You would remain a spinster, hiding in Edgecumbe’s shadows, and bearing an unspeakable label like a millstone for the rest of your life. I also did it for your sister. Your stain would hamper her chances. And…”

“And?” she asked, hope for his love fading.

“And I did it because I knew you loved him. Everyone did. You had been moon-faced about him for over two years.” He covered his face with one hand and added quietly, “Ah, Rose, I did it because
I love you
, not because of propriety.”

Rosamunde raised her head to stare more fully into her father’s poignant Welsh eyes, so like her own. She could feel him trembling with repressed emotion.

Her father continued, “Henry St. Aubyn would’ve come to love you and he wouldn’t have dared ruin you without knowing the consequences.”

Luc cleared his throat.

Rosamunde had almost completely forgotten there were others witnessing the intense intimacy of the moment. Her mortification was complete.

“You are correct, of course, sir.” Luc stood gripping the ornate edge of the desk in front of him, tapping one finger against it. “And that is why I kept asking myself
why my brother did not force the issue. I, of course, would’ve been quite capable of walking away from a female in need. But not Henry. He was a gentleman in every sense of the word. He would’ve charmed Rosamunde and insisted he loved only her even if it meant lying through his teeth once he ruined her. But there is one thing for certain. He would’ve gotten her in front of a vicar no matter what it took. Clearly there was an impediment. An impediment no gentleman should speak of…” His voice trailed off while he walked around his desk to settle on the corner. “But then, I am no gentleman. And perhaps the answer is very simple. A carriage ride with a lady who possesses startlingly similar hair and form to her sister left me wondering if there had been some sort of confusion…”