A Dangerous Beauty (23 page)

“I cannot forgive myself for not taking her away.”

“Luc, your mother came to you in a moment of weakness. Her letter shows she regretted it terribly. Think how unhappy she would be to know that a half hour’s madness has plagued you for so long. You must stop punishing yourself and let it go. It’s what she would have wanted.”

“She should have had joy before the end. Instead she died brokenhearted.”

“You’re mistaken, Luc. Caro died of an illness, not a broken heart. She was forever catching cold and never had the patience to sit still long enough to recover. The doctor said her lungs were filled with fluid when she died the very day after she had given a huge dinner party here.

“And she had joy. Until you have a child yourself
you cannot understand. Henry, you, and Madeleine
were
her joy and mine. Both of us would have chosen to live our lives over again the same way if only to have you and Henry and Madeleine in our lives. She was not as fragile as you think. Caro might have had moments of sadness, but don’t you remember? She was like a ray of sunshine, so optimistic, so devilishly witty, and always with her nose in a book when she could. So much like you
used
to be.”

Luc took Ata’s wasted hand in his own and stroked it. “Are you suggesting I’m nothing but an irritating bore now, Ata?” He turned to Rosamunde, who had remained so still and silent. “She did suggest that, didn’t she?’

“If you think for one moment I will take sides, you are completely mistaken,” Rosamunde said, her lips holding in a smile. “May I?” She took the locket and held it up to clasp around his neck.

He slid it beneath the folds of his neckcloth. A shock of his newly shorn hair fell into his eyes. He hadn’t gotten used to being freed from the weight. “Thank you, Rosamunde,” he said simply, hoping he didn’t sound like a sheepish idiot. There was certainly nothing pleasant about baring one’s soul no matter what sort of relief it brought.

“And for Ata,” she said. She looked at Luc and raised her chin, handing his grandmother a book. “A token of my appreciation for your extraordinary invitation to join the Widows Club. I’ve never met a better or a kinder lady, and certainly no one as generous with her heart.”

The she-devil had had the nerve to give his grandmother a copy of
Lucifer’s Lexicon
. “Why, Lady Rosamunde,
how very kind and thoughtful
,” he commented.

“I thought so,” Rosamunde said under her breath.

Ata embraced Rosamunde and murmured her delight before she brought her hand to her mouth. “Oh dear, I completely forgot to tell you both. Sir Rawleigh is just arrived. Rosamunde”—she winked at her—“I do hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of conspiring a bit. My thinking is that if your sister and the vicar are left to their own devices they might just make good use of the opportunity, don’t you agree? Just think, there might be
two
weddings to plan this fall”—
now
she was winking at him for God’s sake—“and with any luck
two
christenings next summer! I just adore weddings and babies.”

He had to put a stop to this. “I do hope you plan to interrupt the pair before they bypass the first part of your idea and proceed directly to the second,” he said dryly.

“Lady Sylvia?”

She inadvertently plucked an awkward set of strings on the harp and looked up quickly at the sound of the masculine voice. Oh…it was
he
. Could she feel more ill at ease? She rose quickly and curtsied. “Sir Rawleigh.”

He walked toward her, his heels clicking on the marquetry floor of the music room. His usual dancing eyes were now serious and his brow etched with an
ger. “What is this?” he asked, his voice strained. He gripped a letter in his hand, which was shaking.

Lord, he was holding the note she had sent to Charity. The one in which she had very properly thanked them
both
for the beautiful harp but insisted she could not accept it. “My note?” she said faintly.

“Yes, it’s your letter. A letter you sent to my sister.
My sister
…not to me, the man who took the trouble to go to Wales to select the most beautiful harp he could find, in an effort to show a lady he had not forgotten her, that his feelings would not change, his heart was truly engaged. And this note…addressed to my sister, is all I am allowed in return?”

She looked down at the tips of her toes, unable to meet the intensity sparking from his green eyes. “But, it isn’t proper for an unmarried lady to carry on a correspondence with a gentleman. Especially a vicar.”

“I am just a man. I’ve never been an angel. Lord knows it’ll take years of prayer to make up for…” He stopped until she raised her eyes to meet his hard gaze. “And to hell with decorum. I’m fed up to here with notions of propriety. I’m the man who loves you. There, I’ve said it. Now do me the honor of refusing me with as much honesty. Don’t hide behind etiquette and a set of mysterious rules I never quite learned.”

Her heart plummeted. She couldn’t tell him. She could not tell him the truth. It would require exposing her past to the man who meant everything to her. It would mean having to watch a look of disgust invade his handsome features.

It would mean watching him walk away from her. Her gaze faltered.

He grabbed her chin and forced her to meet his gaze again. “Is it my injury? Are you disgusted by the idea of spending your life with an impoverished one-armed vicar?”

“No,” she said with a burst of emotion. “Of course not. There is not a single thing about you that is not perfect,” she whispered. “Your wife will be the luckiest woman alive.”

The silence was deafening.

His stormy eyes softened. “Sylvia, I’m a long way from being perfect. My two best friends would have much to say on the subject if you asked them.”

He inched closer. “Will you do something for me?” When she didn’t respond immediately he continued. “Lay your head on my shoulder and let me hold you for just a few moments. And you have my word I won’t try to kiss you again as I did in Cornwall. I should not have presumed—”

His words were interrupted when she did what he asked. She just could not bring herself to refuse a moment of comfort and bittersweet happiness. She felt his one arm come about her body like a band of iron. His warm breath teased the tendrils on the side of her head.

“Now you will tell me what this is about. Because I am not an honorable man and I will not let you go until you tell me. You see, now you have tangible proof that I am as sinful as the next man.”

Sylvia felt the warmth of his body penetrate the layers of black vestments he wore and she squeezed her
eyes shut. “I could not come to you as a bride should,” she whispered so softly he had to bend his ear closer to her lips. “And I have no one to blame for my loss of innocence but myself.”

He stiffened.

Well, she had said it, and now she would finish the job, making sure to twist the knife as firmly as possible. She told him every embarrassing detail, and the misery she had caused her entire family. And suddenly at the very end she noticed he was kissing the top of her head. She ceased her confession.

“Does your heart still belong to him?” he asked, still holding her.

“Now I realize I probably wasn’t in love with him. That’s what makes my actions all the more reprehensible.”

“Allow me to tell you that you’re entirely wrong. Sylvia, you were in love with him. No one with a sensitive heart and conscience such as your own would have ever given herself without being in love and having him love you in return. You’ve chosen to further punish yourself by imagining wrongdoing in every direction. But the question I asked was if you
still
love him.”

“No,” she said, not daring to hope.

“Well then, do you think you could find it in your heart to forgive me too? For I am very sorry to say I would not come to our marriage as pure as—ah—well, I was not quite as bad as Luc St. Aubyn, but I will admit I was considerably worse than Lord Landry. That is to say—”

“No,” she interrupted with a hint of a smile. “I don’t think I want to know anything about the trail of broken hearts you left at every port.”

“Well then,” he said, the old glint of amusement in his eyes returning, “dare I offer my heart to you again? You’re not going to send a letter of refusal to my sister if I do?”

“Oh, but Sir Rawleigh—”

“Philip.”

“Philip, I…” Staring into his mesmerizing eyes, she knew what she should do, what she ought to do, what the noble thing to do was. In a sudden rush, she threw all the
should haves
,
would haves
, and
could haves
over her left shoulder quite properly and kissed him within an inch of his life.

Future,
n.
That period of time in which our affairs prosper, our friends are true and our happiness is assured.

—The Devil’s Dictionary, A. Bierce

R
osamunde untied the ribbon holding the violets Luc had handed to her when she had stepped into her father’s carriage a fortnight ago. She wondered if he knew the significance…
faithfulness
.

Oh, there was no question on her side. She would be faithful to her memories of him for the rest of her life.

She carefully laid the tiny purple flowers between the sheaves of waxed paper and weighted them with several tomes in her father’s library. She glanced about in wonder at the quiet elegance surrounding her while she sat on the rose-and-beige Aubusson carpet. Her mother’s portrait hung above the ornate gray marble mantel, above the crackling fire that illuminated the wide
bookshelves much like Luc’s study at Helston House. She forced her mind away from the comparison.

She had been here for almost a fortnight and she still did not feel as if she was truly at home. Oh, the anxiety had evaporated. But she felt more like a very well loved guest than the daughter and sister she was. Everyone was on their best behavior, refusing to let any irritations fly in the way of newfound happiness. Even Phinn had refrained from…

Her father interrupted her thoughts with his entrance. “Ah, daughter, I’ve the invitation from the dowager duchess that she mentioned during dinner here last week. We must respond and”—he crossed the room to help her to her feet—“well, I sensed some hesitation on your part.” He did not relinquish her hand but drew her to the warmth of the fire.

“No, not at all. Ata has been so kind to us. I cannot refuse.”

Her father searched her face. “We do not have to attend, you know. I’m looking for any excuse to return to Edgecumbe. We could send out regrets and be walking or riding the cliffs three days from now. Away from the dirt of town.”

Rosamunde shifted her gaze to her mother’s portrait. “Do you miss her?” she asked softly. “You never spoke of Mother.”

He smiled. “Hmmm. I suppose I never spoke of her aloud because I have conversations with her in my mind every day.”

“You loved her very much…”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“And you never thought about finding another love, another wife?”

He studied the portrait, and a warm glow of happiness radiated from his face. “Never, Rosamunde. I know I always told you and your siblings it was because I didn’t want to inflict an evil stepmother on you, but that was not it, you see. I was too discomfited to tell you the truth. Some people never find the love I shared with your mother. I was lucky. We were given sixteen years to build memories. Those are all I want, along with you and your brothers and sister. Now, I am fully content with you and Sylvia returned to me.”

Rosamunde stepped into her father’s embrace. “As am I, Father.”

“Are you, my sweet Rose?”

She reined in her emotion. “How can you doubt it?”

“Because you’re no longer my dangerous beauty, ready to do anything to gain your heart’s desire.”

She pulled away, shocked at his words. “My heart’s desire is here with you and Phinn and…” She glanced at her father’s expression and stopped.

“Is it really, Rosamunde?” He perused her face. “I can’t bear the thought of giving you up again now that you’re here with me. It’s like a dream. But my darling, I want for you what I once had.”

There was no use continuing to pretend. She fiddled with a button on his waistcoat. “Ata told me there’s to be some sort of important announcement at her ball. I’m certain she will announce the duke’s engagement to the Countess of Sheffey.”

There was a long silence.

“I find it hard to believe the man who handed you into our carriage not two weeks ago would consider such a monumentally stupid idea. He loves you, Rosamunde. I knew it within a quarter of an hour of our acquaintance. The only question is whether you love him. You’ve learned how to hide your feelings to the point that I have to ask to be certain. Do you—”

“I can’t give him a child,” she interrupted in a whisper. “An heir.”

“You do love him.” A light flickered in his eyes.

“Father, he must have a child. For himself, for Ata, to bring new life and love. You have just said your happiness stems from being surrounded by all of us, and that you can live without a wife’s love.”

“No, you’re twisting my words. I believe I would’ve married your mother even if she’d been known to be barren. But to be truthful, it would have been a difficult decision for I longed for a large family.” He sighed. “Perhaps the duke is willing to forego a child. Perhaps his heir is competent.”

“But—” she started.

“My darling,” he interrupted, “you’re on the brink of surpassing the very trait you deplored in your sister. A sister who I’m quite delighted to watch happily purchasing half the gowns here in town for her trousseau.”

Rosamunde smiled wistfully.

Her father kissed her forehead and whispered, “Sometimes selfishness is a virtue.”

A quarter of a mile away, Luc sat in his own library wondering who, indeed, was the employer and who was the employee. For the thousandth time.

“Enough, Brownie,” he said impatiently. “I see your point. Send them down to Amberley then if we cannot manage a town house for this season’s widows.”

“And you will finally tell your grandmother the state of affairs. There can be no more balls after this one, no more mysteriously inherited cottages, no more—”

“No more what?” Ata asked, gliding silently into the room, something she had never managed before given her propensity for high heels.

Luc jumped up, praying she hadn’t heard a word. His grandmother looked more petite than ever before. He tried to turn the conversation. “You’re not wearing your usual…” He wafted his hand in the direction of her feet, not wanting to embarrass her.

Ata stuck her nose in the air. “Grace insisted I buy these slippers, and I would not disappoint her for the world. And you’re changing the subject. I distinctly heard Mr. Brown suggest you will finally tell your grandmother the state of affairs. There can be no more balls after this one, no more mysteriously inherited cottages, no more…something.”

Damn her hearing. Why hadn’t she lost that sense like the rest of her contemporaries? Well, what did it matter? His marriage to Grace Sheffey would change everything. There was no danger in telling Ata the state of their precarious finances.

And so he did.

Ata sagged into the leather chair opposite Brownie
while Luc paced and explained that Ata’s mysterious relation had never left her any cottages, and that he had barely managed to finance her dreams for the widows in the club each season. He came to rest at the mantel, his arms crossed. “Ata, you are not to worry. Soon everything will be set to rights again. Everyone knows the cycle of an aristocratic family. The first generation makes it, the second generation spends it, the third generation marries it, and the cycle repeats again. I had planned to beg Grace’s hand in marriage this very afternoon.”

Ata beamed. “Oh Luc, you will be so happy. Grace adores you and is so charming and kindhearted, and will make you the perfect wife and duchess, and—”

“He doesn’t love her, you blind termagant,” growled Brownie.

Luc bit back a smile. He would give anything to know what was behind the long-held antagonism between the pair. “Now Brownie, I fear your memory is slipping. Wasn’t it you who suggested I reel in a dowry fatter than the one I parceled out to my sister?” Luc drawled.

Brownie pounced. “That was before you fell in love with the dark-haired lass.”

Luc shuttered his eyes.

“Besides,” the older man mumbled, “I’m certain her father would dower her adequately. And you also refuse to consider the one brilliant idea I’ve suggested repeatedly.”

“Brownie,” Luc growled, “If you treasure your—”

“To hell with my position here. I’ve tired of it
lately. My bit of land in Scotland has shown a tidy profit, and I’ve saved every penny I’ve earned the last forty years.” Brownie took a breath. “You forgot a step in the cycle, Luc. Or perhaps it’s just for the Scottish landed gentry. It’s the generation who
saves
it.”

Ata narrowed her eyes. “Well, I for one didn’t forget it. Scotsmen always save it, because their pride refuses to allow them to marry it.”

Ata and Brownie glared at each other like a cat and canine on the verge of warfare, each eyeing the other’s vulnerabilities and assets. Luc hadn’t been so entertained in a decade. He eased out of sight within a bow window’s frame.

“If you pester your grandson into marrying a woman he doesn’t love,
Merceditas
, you will come to regret it to your dying day.”

Merceditas
indeed, thought Luc with amusement.

“Luc has cared deeply for Grace many years. Love will grow,” Ata insisted.

“Did it grow in your marriage?” When Ata didn’t answer, Brownie barked at her, “You’re asking him to chain himself to a pretty bauble who likes parties. And he will spend the rest of his life wishing he was in bed with Rosamunde Baird.” The last was said under his breath.

“Well!” Ata said, shocked from silence. “Your vulgarity knows no bounds. And I suppose your mysterious, brilliant idea will solve everything.”

Luc stepped out of the bow window, determined to put an end to—

“He should reveal himself as the—”

“Don’t say another word, Mr. Brown,” Luc interrupted.

“…as the author of
Lucifer’s Lexicon
. He should trust the publisher’s instincts. Doing so will increase demand for the book as well as assure the success of the one to be released next week. And”—Brown’s voice rose in pitch—“he should marry the bonny widow who likes to sail.”

Luc dragged his hands down his face, determined to haul Brownie to his feet and thrash the audacity out of him.

“You wrote a book?” Ata asked in wonder. She rose from her chair and took a few tentative steps until she faced him and reached to place her good hand on his lapel.

Luc looked down into her impish expression. For a moment he saw beyond the wrinkles, into the face of a petite, vivacious young girl. “I think between the two of us we can take him, don’t you?” Luc drawled, nodding toward the loquacious Mr. Brown.

“Oh, Luc. Why didn’t you tell me?” Ata asked softly. Understanding bloomed on her withered face. “And it’s the one several people mentioned at Grace’s ball. The one Rosamunde gave me.”

“Perhaps,” he admitted gruffly.

“Why are you ashamed?”

“This should be rich.” Brownie said, under his breath.

“Shush, you old badger,” Ata huffed.

“Ata, I refuse to sully the Helston duchy,” Luc said.
“I’ll not be taken for a sniveling literary bore and let our name become synonymous with fusty, knock-kneed weaklings.”

“Actually, they think he’s a bluestockinged spinster,” Brownie said, owl-eyed.

“What?” Ata said completely confused.

“They think he’s a girl.”

“Say your prayers, old man,” said Luc, coming toward him.

“No wait,” Ata pleaded. “Why would you…Oh Lord, it’s your father again, isn’t it? He hated seeing you and your mother reading because he earned remarkably poor notes at Eton and was sent down from Oxford. Books represented failure to him.”

Luc regarded his tiny grandmother intently.

“Surely you knew that,” Ata said. “Oh, Luc, I can’t wait to tell everyone my grandson wrote that witty lexicon.” She ignored Brownie, who had cleared his throat loudly. “And there is another book?”

Her words hung in the air. Both of them turned expectant faces toward him…

He was living in a madhouse. Surely he deserved some sort of medal for enduring these two pint-sized editions of so-called good intentions.

And suddenly he realized his fatal error. He had been brought to these agonizing crossroads because he had failed to act. Decisively.
About everything
.

It wasn’t like him. Living on land was making him soft. He had been reading too much philosophy and it showed. What he needed was a bit of debauchery. Just a touch of dissolution and wickedness mixed with
Ata’s Armagnac and a visit to Letty’s House of Lovelies lest he lose his moniker forever.

Then he would be able to think very, very clearly.

He turned and stalked through the door, a chorus of voices floating at his heels.

At some point between the last half of the first bottle of brandy or the first half of the second bottle, Luc accepted the fact that no amount of alcohol was going to bring the much-desired oblivion he sought. And at some point between the first layer of clothing Letty’s loveliest removed and the last layer, he made a similar decision before pressing an absurd amount of coin in the disappointed lady-bird’s palm and departing with a string of curses under his breath.

Nothing was going according to plan. At least he instinctively knew when to retreat as all good commanders do.

In the cold clear light of dawn he rode through the streets of London, and he took his decision. There had never been any doubt. But like the condemned throughout the ages, he had attempted a final meal before succumbing to the fate of all proper English aristocrats.

Twelve hours later he found himself weaving those same streets high atop his phaeton, Grace Sheffey beside him as pretty as a picture and nodding graciously to occupants in each carriage they passed. It was the fashionable time of day to see and be seen in Hyde Park, and this was surely where Grace would most like to receive a proposal of marriage.

Luc tooled toward a thicket of trees and set the brake. There in the dappled afternoon sun, Luc offered himself up on the platter of matrimonial sacrifice to insure the continuation of the Helston duchy.

“Well then, Grace, when would you like to set the date?” he asked.

She raised a single perfectly styled eyebrow. “Come now, Luc, you can do better than that.”

So she was insisting on her pound of flesh. “You are perfectly right, my dear. Shall I get down on one knee? I think I can manage it, although you’ll have to move your feet outside the carriage.”

“No, you’ll ruin your pantaloons. Proceed.”

He clasped one of her hands. “Grace Sheffey, will you do me the immense honor of consenting to become my wife?”