Beguiling the Beauty (22 page)

The dream had come again—Mrs. Easterbrook dressing leisurely after their lovemaking, while he gazed upon her with infinite pleasure. This time, however, when she’d turned around, she’d spoken in German—in the baroness’s voice.

The worst part was that he’d awakened happy.

A knock came at the door. McAdams, the solicitor, cast a displeased eye toward it.

“Sir,” said Richards, his butler, “the dowager duchess would like to see you.”

Her Grace had never before asked to see him in the middle of a meeting with his men of business. Was something the matter with Mr. Kingston? He’d been in perfect health when they’d left him yesterday morning.

She was waiting for him in the drawing room and closed the door the moment he was inside. “The news is all over London, Christian. Lady Avery reports that at the lecture you gave at Harvard University, you accused Mrs. Easterbrook of killing her husbands with her greed.”

Time slowed with the utterance of the word
Harvard
. The dowager duchess’s lips moved at the speed of a glacier. Each additional syllable took an eon to arrive.

But he didn’t need to hear the rest. He already knew. His mistake had come to deliver its costly consequences.

“Lady Avery was at the lecture herself?” He heard his own voice, detached, remote.

Her face crumpled. “Oh, Christian, please tell me it isn’t true.”

“I never named Mrs. Easterbrook.”

“But you
were
speaking of her?”

He could not admit it, not even to the woman who had been both a mother and a sister to him. “It does not matter
of whom I spoke. Rest assured I will do what I must to rectify the situation.”

“What has happened to you, Christian?” Her face sagged with worry. “First a public affair and then this. This is not like you at all.”

“I will take care of everything,” he promised her. “I will make everything all right again.”

At least on the outside.

A
mazing how much one could do on an empty stomach when much needed to be done.

Venetia made sure she was seen everywhere: at the park, at the theater, at the latest exhibit of the British Museum. During Millie’s dinner she smiled and chatted as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Following dinner, she donned her armor and set out for the balls.

The armor was a ball gown of crimson velvet, cut very low and very tight. She’d had it made two Seasons ago on a whim, but she’d come to her senses and never worn it—her function at balls was that of a chaperone and a facilitator, not someone who called attention to herself. But tonight she meant for all eyes to be upon her, as she danced and laughed as if she’d never heard of America, let alone the Duke of Lexington.

By the time she arrived at the Tremaine ball, her third and last, it was well past midnight. Lady Tremaine met her at the head of the stairs and gave her an approving look.

“Brings back fond memories of when I last made a dramatic entrance—also in red velvet, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You are not mistaken at all,” said Lord Tremaine, who
was never far from his wife’s side. “And the memories are indeed very fond.”

Venetia shook her head. “You will please stop flirting in public with your wife, sir. The mind quite boggles.”

Lady Tremaine laughed. “Well, in you go, Mrs. Easterbrook. They say Byron would claw his way out of his grave to rewrite ‘She Walks in Beauty’ if he ever saw you coming down a staircase.”

Venetia possessed one of the best descents. She didn’t often employ it—again, not her place as a mere chaperone—but when she did, her head tilted just so, shoulders back, arms limber, the slightest of a smile playing about her lips, both men and women had been known to drop their drinks at the sight.

Tonight the entire ballroom held its breath at her entrance, then came a scramble for places on her dance card.

But this was never about the gentlemen: A beautiful woman was always assured of
some
masculine support. Society, however, was run largely by women and for women. And women were far less forgiving of other women.

The younger girls were excited—and some, quite unnerved—by the possibility of great conflict. Some matrons regarded her with a mixture of coolness and what felt to be—she hoped she was wrong—bloodlust. They were too prudent to immediately pounce upon her and declare her a husband-killer, but they, or at least a few of them, would like to, for the sport and spectacle of it, if nothing else.

And it was they, in the end, who must declare her once again fit for Society.

At present, her allies circulated the ballroom and, subtly but firmly, let it be known that they would not stand by for her to be ostracized—that they were prepared to sever ties with the one who dared to cast the first stone.

She was grateful. But she was also a realist. If this dragged on, her reputation would diminish daily. In the end, it would not be necessary for anyone to step up and denounce her. The collective caution—and desire to not be associated with someone dubious—would be quite enough to relegate her to the fringes of Society, still received in a few households and unwelcome everywhere else.

Breathless and a little dizzy from dancing Strauss’s “Wine, Women, and Song” with Lord Tremaine, she almost did not hear the announcement of the arrival of the Duke of Lexington.

The ballroom had thrummed with exiting dancers, laughing from their exertion. Now it fell as quiet as the Reading Room at the British Museum, with all eyes upon the duke, descending the grand staircase behind his stepmother—gentlemen of a party always entered a ball behind the ladies—and a man Venetia assumed to be Mr. Kingston by his side.

Lord Tremaine had been about to deliver Venetia to Fitz and Millie, but now he changed course and guided her toward his wife. The two of them flanked her—so there could be no mistake of their backing.

Christian, with his characteristic directness, headed straight for the Tremaines—and Venetia.

The air drew taut. This was not to be an overtly hostile encounter—the presence of the dowager duchess was a guarantee of civility on her stepson’s part. Yet Venetia felt
as if she were a novice gladiator about to be thrown into the coliseum for the first time against a seasoned combatant, with the entire audience braying for her blood.

Lord Tremaine exchanged a pleasant word with his guests, extended his welcome, and then, turning a little, as if just discovering Venetia beside him, said to the dowager duchess, “Your Grace, may I present a good friend, Mrs. Easterbrook?”

The Dowager Duchess of Lexington was very gracious, if a little struck, as people often were when first meeting Venetia.

“Mrs. Easterbrook,” Lord Tremaine continued, “allow me to present His Grace the Duke of Lexington and Mr. Kingston. Gentlemen, Mrs. Easterbrook.”

Venetia inclined her head. Christian looked at her the way his Norman ancestors might have scrutinized a troublesome Anglo-Saxon, and returned a cursory nod.

Well, that was it. He had allowed the introduction and would henceforth count her as an acquaintance: as open a rebuke to Lady Avery’s account of events as anyone could want. He would now politely disengage himself, perhaps dance with a suitable young girl who had the favor of his stepmother, and then depart.

For a moment, it seemed that was precisely what he meant to do. But the dowager duchess placed a hand on his elbow. An unspoken message passed between them.

With a determined set to his jaw, he said, “It is expected, is it not, upon being introduced to a lady at a ball, to ask for a dance?”

Had she not ventured aboard the
Rhodesia
, she’d have taken the opportunity to let him know that their new acquaintanceship meant as little to her as it did to him.
That he, for all his title and wealth, was the last man she’d allow to put his arm about her.

But she had ventured aboard the
Rhodesia,
had spent a week falling in love with him, and every minute since thinking about him. She’d crouched in a soggy-smelling hansom for hours outside his house, like an ill-trained private investigator, just so she could see his face again.

This Venetia was not going to turn down an opportunity to dance with him, no matter how churlishly his inquiry was worded.

“The pleasure would be mine,” she said.

T
he moment Christian saw her, the rest of the ballroom disappeared. It could have been set on fire, with beams collapsing and guests fleeing, and the only thing he’d notice would be the reflection of firelight in her eyes.

His stepmother had to nudge him before he remembered to ask her to dance.

Mrs. Easterbrook smiled at him, a smile as lovely as sunrise, as dangerous as a bullet.

More than at any point since his return, he yearned for the baroness. The world might think him mad, but to himself he never needed to justify his love for her. Everything was founded on substance. There was nothing shallow or shameful in what he felt about her.

There was everything shallow and shameful in the reactions Mrs. Easterbrook bullied from him.

The musicians struck up the first strains of “Vienna Sweets.” He held out his arm, and she placed her hand on
his elbow, her motion as beautiful as her person—a creature born to be heedlessly adored.

It wasn’t until they were walking side by side toward the center of the ballroom—when he wasn’t directly looking at her—that an odd sensation stole over him. Surely they’d never touched before, yet her fingers upon his sleeve carried a disquieting familiarity.

After the introspective opening, the waltz suddenly turned bright and cheerful. It was time to dance.

The shape of her hand in his, the feel of her back beneath his palm, the pressure of her body as he swept her into a series of turns—the sensation of familiarity only doubled, when he should be surprised that she was not as exaggeratedly voluptuous as he’d always imagined, but more lithe and willowy, reminiscent of—

No, he must not draw any similarities between them. The last thing he wanted was for his mind to start pasting Mrs. Easterbrook’s features onto the baroness’s still-blank face.

Then she would never live up to his expectations.

This stray, too brutally honest thought infuriated him. It did not matter to him what his beloved looked like. All the better if she looked nothing like Mrs. Easterbrook.

“Did I see Your Grace at the Natural History Museum the day before yesterday?” murmured Mrs. Easterbrook.

Some despised part of him was thrilled that she’d remember him. “You did.”

It occurred to him that he’d accepted her unexpected appearance the other day as a given, as part of the trials and tribulations he must overcome before he could be reunited with the baroness. But why had she been inside the Natural History Museum at all? And wasn’t it more
than a little odd that the
previous
time he’d seen her, five years ago, it had been just outside the museum?

The etiquette of the waltz called for him to keep his gaze over her shoulder, but he was glad for the excuse to look at her. The déjà vu sensation of the contours of her body was becoming too strong for comfort, and his mind, never his own to control when she was around, insinuated that he’d know exactly where and how to touch to make her melt with desire.

Their eyes met. But her beauty, instead of derailing his current, highly untenable train of thoughts, only reawakened a primitive possessiveness: He wanted to lock her in his manor and allow no one to gaze upon her but himself.

She smiled again. “You enjoyed your visit, I hope.”

He looked away. “I liked it well enough. And was your visit ever able to recover from the hideousness of the giant reptiles?”

“I’m afraid it never did. I don’t know why I subject myself to such unpleasantness.”

“Why did you, then?”

“The whims of a woman, what can I say?”

Why did he want this insipid creature? Why did he want this dance to go on and on, when he ought to be thinking of someone else?

Not too much longer now before their appointed meeting. And this time, he would not let her go again.

“How do you find London after a long absence, sir?” she murmured.

“Troublesome.”

“Ah, on that we agree.”

The timbre of her voice—where had he heard her speak before?

“I will call on you tomorrow afternoon, Mrs. Easterbrook,” he said. “And if it is agreeable to you, we will take a ride together in the park. That should be sufficient to quash the rumors.”

“And will you stop calling on me after that?”

“Naturally.”

“A shame,” she said. “Are Your Grace’s affections engaged—elsewhere?”

Was it his imagination or had she paused deliberately before saying “elsewhere”? The word in English was nothing like its equivalent in German but somehow still managed to sound uncanny.

He looked again at her. She stared straight over his shoulder. She was slightly easier to take without the effect of her direct gaze, but still she was unbearably beautiful. The gods would have wept.