A Dangerous Beauty (22 page)

The silence was such that it drew attention to Sylvia’s huddled form. Only now she was weeping steadily, her face hunched down. “Oh no, please…” she started in a strangled, tiny voice. She darted an anxious glance at her father, who seemed to only now realize Sylvia was in the room too.

Before he could utter a word, Luc cleared his throat. “Lady Sylvia, the last time you chose a certain course. Don’t you think, my dear, you might now try another?” he asked in a surprisingly soft tone, his eyes hooded.

Rosamunde rushed to intervene, hating to see her sister look so forlorn, “Leave her be. What has a carriage ride to do with anything?”

“Wait.” He raised a staying hand. “Let your sister speak.”

Keeping her eyes on her fingers, Sylvia traced the
intricate Egyptian pattern on the chair’s arm. “Henry told me he loved me. Promised he would do whatever I chose. I chose poorly.”

Numbness moved up Rosamunde’s clenched fists to her arms.

“I’m a coward,” Sylvia said softly and looked up at the group, a haunted expression in her eyes. “I couldn’t admit it was me those horrid gossips saw on the beach at Perron Sands. I didn’t have the nerve to face down everyone or tell Rosamunde. When she roundly refused him, I insisted Henry wait a little, to see if our scandalous actions had caused a chi…a child to take root. To wait a month to give us more time to determine the best course. To take the coward’s way out by doing nothing.” She bowed her head. “But then,” she turned to Rosamunde, “you solved the problem by running off to Scotland to marry someone who turned out to be…an abomination. After, Henry told his father he wanted to marry me. The duke threatened to cut him off and never see him again if he dared marry a girl from a family of such ill-bred females.” Sylvia shot a glance at Luc. “And you, sir, are sadly mistaken. Your brother was quite capable of walking away. He didn’t like the idea of living in poverty or at my family’s whim until he inherited.”

Rosamunde’s head felt very cold and she wondered if she was going to faint. “You loved Henry.” She had to say it to believe it.

“I don’t know anymore,” Sylvia said, not daring to look at Rosamunde this time. “I was almost sixteen…excited by the attentions and protestations of love
from the most charming, handsome gentleman I’d ever known. We first chanced upon each other while I was taking the air one fine day. He gave me the consideration and admiration I craved. It was thrilling. And I”—she finally looked at her sister and paused after searching her face—“Oh, Rosamunde. I’m so very sorry. I—”

“Sorry? You’re sorry?” All the breath seemed to have left Rosamunde’s lungs and she felt she might suffocate. Anger trickled faster and faster in her veins until it heated her fingertips. “You—you deceived me…your own sister. You allowed me to feel guilty for almost a decade. Were you ever going to tell me?” Her voice rose a notch with each stinging word. Rosamunde shook her head. “You’re not the person I thought you were.”

“Oh, Rosa,” Sylvia said, a tear trickling down her face. “You always had such high expectations. I could never be as good as you, and I couldn’t bear to let you down. Before the duke put a stop to Henry’s intentions, I originally refused him because you are my sister and I love you. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

Blood was pounding at Rosamunde’s temples and her head ached in the worst way. “But surely you must see that if you had just admitted the truth we would have both been better off. You should have gone to Scotland with him immediately. We both would have been spared such persecution and my horrible marriage.”

“Yes, well, the wrong course always becomes blindingly obvious upon retrospection. I’m sorry I
behaved in such a disgraceful fashion. I know there is little I can say that will make any of you think better of me. And I hate giving excuses for something so inexcusable.”

“Bravo, Lady Sylvia,” Luc said softly, with a twisted sort of smile. “It’s not often one gets to witness an act of bravery.”

“It’s easy to be honest when you’ve nothing to lose or gain. And I’m tired of hiding behind all the lies,” she replied.

“And I must thank you for rectifying my opinion,” Luc continued. “I had always wondered how Henry had managed to evade inheriting the more charming Helston attributes. Now I can rest easy knowing he was following in the family tradition,” he finished dryly.

Her father had staggered forward during the proceedings. Luc had gripped his arm and led him to a chair on the other side of the fireplace, across from Sylvia.

“Oh God,” their father said. “I was so harsh, neither of you would confide in me, allow me to help you. You feared I would—”

“No,” Sylvia interrupted. “I did something very shameful and couldn’t stand the thought of losing everyone’s good opinion and a public humiliation. So I waited and allowed others to act. Someone who was much stronger than I…my sister.”

Rosamunde kneeled beside her sister’s chair and forced herself to take one thin hand in her own stronger one while she held fast to the first threads of clear
thought. She tried very hard to hold in check the bitter taste of resentment. “I suppose we’ve each of us some share of blame. I was a spurned, overly proud girl who acted impetuously, to my own detriment and to the everlasting shame of my family.”

“And I,” her father inserted, “allowed another man to ruin the happiness of my two daughters. His Grace, at my insistence, shed light on your lives with Baird. I daresay I will never forgive myself for not trying harder to find out how you lived.”

“You tried to…” Rosamunde began, the first shade of joy tempering her hot feelings.

Her father continued. “I wrote to you once, hoping for reconciliation. I never received an answer. And then—”

“But I never got a letter,” she interrupted.

“Obviously. And then your husband paid a call and said you both felt my sentiments were too late and you wanted to sever all ties. He said you were very happy as mistress of your own home and no longer wanted any memories of the past.

“And Baird handed me a note from the Duke of Helston, who gave me to understand that as magistrate he would uphold Baird’s insistence to leave all of you in peace. His Grace reminded me of the marriage laws and a husband’s right to see to his wife’s welfare and insisted I not set foot on Baird’s bit of land. On every level I was made to feel my entreaties were unwelcome. I swear to you both, I would have come, would have killed the miserable bastard if I had but known…”

Rosamunde took comfort in her father’s raw fury. “Alfred told us he had visited you to try and effect a reconciliation. He said he was rebuffed and informed we were now formally disowned, barred forever from entering Edgecumbe or addressing anyone in our family should we chance upon any of you. Sylvia and I were so hurt we didn’t dare set foot in the village or anywhere we might see you.”

Luc said stiffly, “Truly, your Mr. Baird missed his calling. He should’ve been born a Helston. Surely there must have been some good to the man. No one is so purely evil.”

Rosamunde chuckled. “Well, he did have a good appetite. And he didn’t force me to improve my needlework, unlike others.” She hid a smile as she glanced at her father.

Sylvia brushed at her tear-stained lashes. “And he always took my superstitions to heart, unlike everyone else.”

There was a knock and Ata poked her head around the door. “Sorry to intrude, but Grace ordered a carriage for Rosamunde, which of course is now not necessary, I’m happy to see,” Ata said before addressing Luc. “Don’t forget you promised Grace last night that you would escort us to the library before the Countess of Home’s breakfast today.”

“And here I’d hoped you’d already breakfasted,” he said, the suggestion of a smile about his lips.

“Luc, you know breakfasts never start before two o’clock. And you must go to smooth the ruffled feathers of our neighbor. I daresay she won’t forgive you
very soon for that bribery business you insisted upon last night.”

“The question, Grandmamma, is whether I can forgive you for dragging me there to do the dirty work for you. No”—he held up his hands—“don’t say a word if you want to be allowed to drive the carriage yourself this morning.”

Ata raised her chin. “Grace and I will be waiting.” And with that the tiny dowager was gone, shutting the door a little too loudly. Her grandson masked all traces of humor with his usual haughty demeanor.

“Your Grace,” their father said, “I’ll never be able to repay the goodwill you’ve shown my daughters despite the history between our two families. You’re a man of great integrity and compassion and I’m entirely indebted.”

Luc assumed a shrewd expression. “I would think you would have learned that appearances can be deceiving, my lord. That said, I’m glad we could resolve this matter. Lady Rosamunde and her sister belong in your care, under your roof, instead of mine.”

At his bald words, Rosamunde’s heart plummeted into her slippers.

Her father bowed his agreement. “It is as we agreed during the carriage ride, then? I shall send ’round my carriage to collect my daughters and their affairs tomorrow afternoon. That should permit adequate time. I do hope you and Her Grace will accept an invitation to dine with us at your earliest convenience. Perhaps next Saturday?”

Luc bowed stiffly and left without another word.

Rosamunde wasn’t allowed a moment to dwell on the agonizing mixture of sadness, relief, and newfound joy vying for dominance in her mind. The three left in the room looked at one another, unsure of what to say or do next. And then all of them spoke at once. Words of relief, love, and sorrow stumbled over each other in an effort to heal past wounds. Of all of them, it was Sylvia perhaps who was most affected. Rosamunde thought her sister completely transformed by their acceptance despite her ruinous encounter with Henry St. Aubyn. Her father beamed with happiness. There was only Rosamunde, whose joy was tempered by a despair that could not be voiced.

Her father left after two rounds of tea, with promises of plans for the morrow. As they waved good-bye to him at the top of the steps leading to his carriage, Rosamunde realized with horror that with the excitement she had neglected to give Luc the letter she had discovered. But she had not forgotten her idea.

A gift from the heart
.

If his mother’s letter proved a disappointment, perhaps this would soften the blow.

“Sylvia, if you’re not too exhausted, would you mind very much showing me where the best shops are in town? I know you’ve been with the other ladies and I need to buy a few things before we leave tomorrow.”

Sylvia’s brown eyes sparkled with merriment. “Shopping? You want to go shopping? Now, after one of the single most important mornings of our lives?”

“Yes,” she muttered.

“I never thought I would see the day. You hate shopping. Avoiding the village stores was the only part of our exile you relished.”

“You’re not going to start making fun of me again now that I’ve forgiven you, are you? If you do I might have to change my mind.” Oh, it felt wonderful to banter like sisters again. “What is shopping for silly ribbons and ugly hats to chasing foxes and climbing hills and vales?”

Sylvia raised a single sweeping brow. “Ah, but you haven’t seen Bond Street yet…”

Male,
n.
A member of the unconsidered, or negligible sex. The male of the human race is commonly known (to the female) as Mere Man. The genus has two varieties: good providers and bad providers.

—The Devil’s Dictionary, A. Bierce

L
uc sat in the shadow of the Helston second-tier box in the rebuilt Drury Lane Theatre. Rosamunde sat in front of him and slightly to one side. The angle afforded him a discreet but excellent view of her youthful excitement at attending the theatre for the first time. Ata had decided at the last moment they should all go. His grandmother had done him a great service by her suggestion.

He was in no mood for conversation. He was, however, in an excellent mood for a tragedy. The ingenious Mr. Elliston was performing Hamlet to record crowds.
There was nothing like a little poison, murder, and revenge sprinkled with glimpses of the devil to remind you of real life. However, Luc saw not an inch of the stage, nor did he listen to a word of the play. His eyes were focused on the beauty of her profile, the arch of her back, and the curve of her cheek as she smiled with unabashed enthusiasm.

And he had the luxury of being able to be alone with his thoughts. For the first time in a long time, he had not a single goal in front of him. John Murray had called on him today, Brownie tripping at his heels, to discuss the Trafalgar manuscript and its looming publication. The man had been barely able to contain his glee, and if Luc had not been in such a black fog of a mood, he would have been almost happy. The only thing that raised Luc’s spirits was the advance monies. But it was not enough to forestall for more than a few months the eventual shipwreck of his financial crisis.

Beyond Rosamunde’s shoulder, he spied Grace’s elegant form while she used a jeweled lorgnette to view the actors on stage. Illumination from the glittering chandeliers reflected off her lovely gold hair. Ata sat beside her, whispering delightedly from time to time, while the other widows had been paired with gentlemen Ata had deemed worthy of the honor.

They were all of them like fish in a barrel, he thought in his usual black humor. He, most of all. When Ata had made up her mind, nothing could stop her. And now, she had set her sights on him and on Grace.

Well
.

There were worse fates, although he wasn’t sure
what they were. He was on the verge of breaking a long-held tenet…that of avoiding marriage. But perhaps he could do it and still hold on to the shreds of his sanity. With Rosamunde happily settled in the bosom of her family, exactly where she wanted to be, he could marry Grace and father an heir. Grace knew how to conduct a marriage of convenience. Theirs would be one based on longstanding friendship, not love. She would gain a higher standing in society, something she craved, and he would benefit from the material wealth to be gained from the marriage. And Ata and Grace would have an heir or two to dote on while they sorted out the lives of various widows in the club. It was a perfect arrangement. And Luc liked order in his life.

Why then, did he feel like hell? He watched the Lieutenant Colonel seated beside Rosamunde glance at her with obvious interest in his eye.
Sexual interest
. It was all Luc could do not to stand up, haul the officer to his toes, and thrash the redcoat’s knowing half smile off his face. Luc turned away.

He would get past this. He was just going to have to—

A roar of applause intruded on his thoughts, and all the occupants of the box save him were standing and going in search of refreshments and the chance to gossip with acquaintances in other boxes during the intermission. Tonight he couldn’t call forth the effort to play the host. He had wrought enough goodness in the world today. And enough agony for himself.

“No, Ata, I will not go fetch ratafia and lemonade
for the ladies. There are gentlemen enough to escort everyone. I shall remain here.”

Grace Sheffey gave him an odd look, then laughed. “That’s what I like about you, Luc. Always able to speak your mind without worrying about giving offense.”

“I encourage you to do the same, Grace. It frees the soul,” he replied, and bowed to everyone as they exited.

He regained his seat and cradled his forehead in his fingertips as he rested his elbows on his knees. His head ached with a vengeance.

The gentle rustling of the velvet curtains behind him signaled someone’s return. “Yes?” he said without looking up.

“Your Grace?” said Rosamunde.

He instantly straightened. “You’ll spare me the honor of using my title when we’re in private.”

“Luc, I’m not here to thank you for what you did today, or for everything else you’ve done for me and for Sylvia,” she said quietly. “I know your dislike of gratitude. I came back to ask you something.”

He lowered his lids to hide a tiny flicker of hope.

“I would like you to give me a lock of your hair.”

This was rich. He should have known better than to hope at his advanced age. But he did know how to bargain. “Really? Hmmm. Well, that could be arranged…in exchange for a lock of yours.”

“No,” she said without emotion. “You know I cannot. It wouldn’t be fair to Grace.”

“Dare I ask why you want it?”

“I’d hoped you wouldn’t ask,” she replied softly.

He stared at her, unable to think of a single retort.

“You used to at least trouble yourself to find the humor in any situation. Please try to do so now.”

“Actually, I find there is so much humor in this set of circumstances that it has almost ceased to be funny.” He looked away from her.

“Please, Luc?”

It took every ounce of self-control not to jump up and shake her and then kiss her senseless. “Why not? I assume you’ve brought your gardening sheers,” he said archly. “Or some other suitable lethal weapon appropriate for attending the theatre.”

“Of course,” she said, the sound of relief and a smile coming through the words. “Thank you.”

He closed his eyes again when he felt her touching the tight queue he always wore. Before he could think, he said in a rush, “Cut it all.”

“What? Everyone would notice and ask questions. Besides, I just can’t. I…”

“If you want your blasted lock of hair, then cut it all.” He seethed. “Don’t worry, I shall leave. You may tell the others I’ve left to attend to a blasted headache.”

“All right,” she whispered. “If you’re sure.”

“Do it.”

He immediately heard the blades sheering off his queue, and his head felt a stone lighter.

“Lean back, please,” she said.

He felt her soft hands smoothing his hair as she made a few more snips on the sides of his head. She again ran her hands through his hair and he could not
stop the involuntary tremor that raced through his body. He gripped her hands as she moved to touch his head again. “Rosamunde, for the love of God, stop. I must go.”

He abruptly stood, knocking back the chair in his haste. With three long strides he was past the curtain, down the crowded corridor filled with returning box holders, and into the vestibule. The air on Woburn Street was cold and clean, and suddenly he realized his headache was gone.

Rosamunde placed his black satin-twined hair in her reticule. It had felt like a punishment. For what, she did not know. She wasn’t even sure if he had insisted she cut it all as punishment for her or for him. But, despite the strain of the moment, perhaps it would help usher in a new chapter of his life and her own.

She was certain that within the year he would marry and learn joy as a father to a child that a union with the countess would bring. From her window at Amberley one afternoon, she had observed him with the children of the houseguests who had come for Lady Madeleine’s wedding. He had overseen a game of cricket. It had been the one time when he had seemed completely at ease and in his element, organizing the boys, encouraging the girls, and mollifying the youngest. Yes, he would finally find the happiness he refused to acknowledge that he deserved more than anyone.

And for the first time in a long time, wistful longing clouded her judgment. She fought it the rest of the evening…on into the early morning hours as she
wove a minute section of Luc’s glossy black hair with his mother’s golden strands, mimicking the pattern within her own locket. All the while, she softly sang the melancholy Welsh song she had performed while she had looked into the eyes of the man she loved and must leave.

The morning dawned bright, the weather forever refusing to match the state of Luc’s mind. As he spurred his dark bay gelding down the last stretch of Rotten Row’s sandy track, he realized the futility of his outing. He had hoped it would allow an hour’s respite from the machinations of his mind, but it had not.

Today
she
was leaving and Grace Sheffey was coming to visit Ata to take tea, the favored brew of matrimonial-minded females intent on going in for the kill. At least Rawleigh could be depended upon to provide diversion. His former second in command’s letter had said he would arrive this afternoon. No doubt to blubber about Lady Sylvia. It was enough to make a man long to rejoin the fleet.

Luc rode back toward Portman Square, past the morning bustle of chimney sweeps and servants. A young girl stood on the corner, selling violets for tuppence per bunch. He pulled up and bought a handful.

A footman stopped him at his door. His presence was requested in the garden.

Rosamunde sat alone on a wrought-iron bench, dappled sunlight filtering through a cluster of birch trees. Her old straw hat dangled down her back from
its black ribbons. She wore Madeleine’s crimson dress, having refused every offer of new gowns from Ata save the one for the ball. Here in this glorious garden, Luc could almost imagine being back in Cornwall.

Luc crossed to her and bowed. “Your servant.”

“Oh, we’ve been waiting for you.”

“We?”

“Ata should return in a trice, but I suppose I shouldn’t wait.” She paused and looked up at him.

“Waiting is for people with patience, Rosamunde.”

“I asked for a lock of your hair last night because I wanted to give you something before I take my leave.” She appeared nervous. “It was done out of a desire to remind you there was once a woman who loved you very much.”

He blinked and stood stock still.

“A mother’s love never dies. It lives on in the heart of the child left behind. But sometimes a tangible symbol gives comfort where memories do not.” She reached toward one of his tightly fisted hands, and uncurled it to offer a locket on a gold chain.

“What is this?” He strained to keep his voice calm.

“I bought it yesterday using some gold guineas that found their way into my pockets.” Her small smile twisted.

Brownie had obviously botched the ruse. Lying had never been Rosamunde’s forte.

“Open it,” she said, interrupting his thoughts.

He worked the clasp and found glass encasing black and blonde hair woven together in an intricate pattern.

“By stoke of luck I found a lock of your mother’s hair and I wove it with your own.”

His mind reeled in shock. He had nothing from his mother. His father had purged the house of every reminder of her.

“I have an almost identical mourning locket to remember the mother I barely knew. Luc, I”—her mouth twisted again—“Oh, where is Ata?” She brought forward an old, slightly crushed letter. “This is from your mother, I think. I found it wedged in the top drawer of an escritoire in my room…in Henry’s old room here.”

Luc, all this time standing, sunk onto the opposite end of the bench. His vision tunneled inward and without a word he cracked the seal bearing his mother’s initials. A lock of hair fell into his hand and he devoured the words on the page.

He could barely comprehend it. A few phrases here and there blazed in his consciousness:…
beg your forgiveness, I should never have, so proud to call you my son…I love you, know I love you always. When I look at the stars at night I take great comfort in knowing you are looking at them too and probably thinking of me as I think of you with such overwhelming love in my heart. A love that will never die.

The last line echoed Rosamunde’s very words to him minutes ago.

A slow warmth spread from his fingers holding the edges of the note while he read the lines a second time, slowly. Rosamunde had moved closer to him and had placed her hand on his sleeve. He cleared his throat.

“Rosamunde, forgive me, I…” His voice broke. He desperately tried to hold his emotions in check.

“It’s all right, Luc. Would you like your privacy?”

He shook his head no.

Rosamunde looked up and he followed her gaze to find Ata wandering across the lawn in her guarded, tiny steps, attempting not to trip over a ridiculously long white gown more appropriate for a girl in her first season.

“Luc—” Ata trundled up out of breath, her hands on her cheeks. “Do tell us what it says. I’m sorry I was detained.”

He doubted his mother had ever confided in Ata and refused to tell his grandmother something that would only cause her suffering. “Rosamunde has done me a great service in finding this.” He shuttered his eyes.

“No, Luc,” Ata said quietly. “You must tell me what it says. For so long after you came back I thought it was because of the war—because of seeing death and bloodshed—that you had changed. And I thought if I just gave you time and diversions you would revert to the optimistic, idealistic young man I used to know. But, recently, I’ve thought that perhaps I was wrong. That there was something else…I don’t want to always have to pretend to be cheerful while my heart is sad and yearns for your happiness.”

“Tell her, Luc,” Rosamunde said quietly.

And so in the briefest way possible he explained his mother’s desperate request, his denial, and the letter that had asked for his forgiveness.

Ata’s face was bleak. “It was my fault, you know. I should have taken a stand from the moment my ‘spectacular’ marriage to a duke was arranged by my well-intentioned parents. But, there was a price to pay for reaching so high. I learned I was chosen because of my bloodlines and docility so that I would breed a proper heir. I don’t know if you remember, but your grandfather was a remarkably ill-humored man. And he taught by example.” Ata glanced wistfully at her withered hand. “I was the example and your father was the pupil. And when your father married your mother, I was forced to watch it unfold once again. But there was one difference…for many years your mother was not as compliant as I had been. It was only later, when you had fully grown that she became weary.”