Beguiling the Beauty (29 page)

“Did he kill himself?”

“As I said, it is not my place.”

The coffee tray arrived, but Earl Fitzhugh had already risen from his seat. “I should not take up any more of a man’s time on his wedding day.”

T
hey were all so young in the photograph—except the dinosaur skeleton, which was terribly old. Helena, at fourteen, had been the tallest of them all—this was before her twin had shot up and overtaken her in height. Fitz looked as if he was trying hard not to laugh—his pictures from those years were all full of the suppressed mirth of a boy who enjoyed everything about life. Then there was Venetia, as proud as a general who had won a decisive battle, her bare hand braced—perhaps somewhat indecorously—upon the remains of the
Cetiosaurus
’s rump.

Had she been headed anywhere else, she would not have hesitated to take the photograph—she’d have packed it before anything else. But she was not sure whether she wanted it in Christian’s house. He would not appreciate the reminder that he’d so enthusiastically encouraged her—the baroness—in her pursuit, or that he’d offered her a place on his next expedition.

She set the photograph facedown and turned around. Cobble, Fitz’s butler, stood in the open doorway of her bedroom, waiting to speak to her.

“Yes, Cobble?”

“The Dowager Duchess of Lexington to see you, ma’am.”

So the duke had informed his stepmother. One could only wonder at her reaction.

“I’ll be down in the green parlor presently.”

Time to play the Great Beauty again.

Sweeping into the green parlor, she smiled. “Your Grace, what a pleasure.”

The Great Beauty had her desired effect. The dowager duchess hesitated—and squinted, as if too bright a light had been thrust into her face.

Venetia took her seat with a flourish of skirts gracefully flounced aside. “Have you come to congratulate me, ma’am? I am beyond thrilled to be married to Lexington.”

This, however, had a sobering effect on the older woman. “Are you, duchess?”

Duchess.
Venetia was now the Duchess of Lexington.

“I enjoy fossils, especially those from the Cretaceous Age. The duke has quite a collection of them. I am excited to visit his private museum—and to perhaps someday curate it.”

This was not an answer the dowager duchess had expected. “You married him for his
fossils
?”

“Have you seen my dinosaur at the British Museum of Natural History, ma’am? A magnificent specimen. I’ve waited more than a decade for the chance to discover another one. By becoming Lexington’s wife I will be able to go on expeditions with him, something I’ve wanted to do my entire adult life.”

The dowager duchess’s fingers dug into her skirts. “What of your bridegroom? Do you also care for him?”

Venetia was at her most charmingly flippant. “How can I not love a man who will take me fossil-hunting?”

The dowager duchess rose and walked to the Japanese screen at a corner of the parlor. A lady in a flowing kimono sat beneath a cherry tree in full bloom, her face in her hand, her melancholy as heavy as the flower-laden boughs that drooped almost to the bare ground.

Tea was brought in. Venetia poured. “Africa, I do believe, shall be our next destination. The Karoo beds are a treasure trove for reptilian remains, from what I hear. Sugar and milk, ma’am?”

The dowager duchess turned around. “Does it not matter to you that he has recently expressed some terribly unfavorable opinions of you?”

“It was certainly heartening that he came to see the light so quickly.”

“Even though he is in love with someone else?”

Venetia set down the teapot and extended her hand toward the creamer. All the years of not digging for fossils had left her fingers slender and lovely. She made sure she showed them to their best advantage. “If you speak of the lady on the
Rhodesia
, I believe she has disappointed him terribly.”

“And you are content to be his consolation prize?”

If only she were any kind of prize to him.
“That is for me to decide, ma’am, and I’ve already decided.”

The dowager duchess at last took her seat again. The bewildered kinswoman, however, had disappeared. The woman who faced Venetia was a lioness. “He is much more than a mere collector of fossils, duchess. He is one of the best men I’ve ever met, and his happiness matters intensely to me. If you want him only for his ability to take you to the Karoo beds, well, most of the year he will not be anywhere exotic or exciting. Like any other good squire, he will be looking after his land and its people. And that is what he will require of you. Are you prepared to be a good wife to him?”

Venetia felt a great tension in her draining away. Here
was someone who loved him as fiercely as she did. Someone for whom she need not play the Great Beauty.

“I’m sorry I have been so terribly flippant,” she said quietly. “In truth I am heartsick.”

She could see her reflection in the large mirror above the mantel. She looked very much like the kimonoed lady on the Japanese screen, burdened and forlorn.

The dowager duchess’s hands locked in her lap. “Are you?”

“He hasn’t changed his mind about me at all—but I’ve fallen in love with him.”

“I see,” said the dowager duchess, her tone politely incredulous.

“Yes, it’s quite awful. Not to mention that he’d have preferred the lady from the ocean liner.” Venetia looked the dowager duchess in the eye. “I cannot promise to make him happy. But I can promise you, unconditionally, that his well-being will always be foremost on my mind.”

The dowager duchess’s gaze turned thoughtful. “Those opinions he’d expressed at Harvard …”

“About my late husbands? He is misinformed. But I’m afraid his mind is set.”

The older woman made no response. They drank their tea in silence. Elsewhere in the house Venetia’s trunks were being lugged down the stairs. The brougham had already pulled up by the curb. Through the open window came her maid’s voice, cautioning the menservants to have a care with her mistress’s things.

“I must not impose on you any longer,” said the dowager duchess, setting down her teacup.

“Would you like me to give him your regards when I
see him or would you prefer that I keep the meeting between ourselves?”

“You may give my regards to him—he must know that I would not have sat on my hands after he gave me such news.”

“Of course. It’s what we do for those we love.”

They rose and shook hands.

“If I may give you one piece of advice,” said the dowager duchess. “If you believe the duke is wrong about you, you must let him know. He can be quite formidable, but he is never closed-minded and never resentful at being corrected.”

The baroness would not have hesitated; Venetia was not sure she had that sort of courage. But she nodded. “I will remember that, Your Grace.”

T
here was a reason adolescent dreams usually remained in adolescence: They were extravagant and frankly dangerous at times.

She—or rather, the possession of her—had been his adolescent dream. What did it matter that she was already married? In fantasies a husband was no barrier at all. He began to abandon the dream only after his fateful exchange with Anthony Townsend. And even then, not entirely, and not instantly.

The events he’d narrated that day at Harvard University were the stages of his own disenchantment. The incredulity of listening to Townsend, the anger brought about by his untimely death, the disillusionment at her very advantageous second marriage.

But it was not good enough for her that one man out of
ten thousand dared to criticize her. No, for his transgression he had to pay with his heart.

And now at this late date she had become his, by law and by God.

His most costly possession sat opposite him in his private rail coach, immensely and imperturbably lovely. He could not imagine that he had held her, touched her, and joined his body to hers. Her beauty was staggering, excessive, as if she were not quite flesh and blood, but an artist’s conjuration, born of a bout of fevered ecstasy.

A beauty with a gravity of its own that bent light. Sunlight slanted in from only one side of the coach, yet she was most assuredly lit from all sides, an even, soft illumination such as a painter might arrange in his studio when he wished to depict an angel—or a saint who came with her own personal nimbus.

For some time she had been as still as an anatomy model; not a ruffle moved on her striped white and gold dress. But now she laid her hands upon the table that separated them and undid the first button on her glove. A blatantly immodest gesture. Or was it? They were not in public, and he, the only other person in the private coach, was her husband.

Her husband. The words, like her beauty, didn’t seem real.

Slowly, almost teasingly, she parted the glove at the wrist, exposing a triangle of skin—skin he had caressed at will on the
Rhodesia
. And then, with infinite leisure, she pulled at each finger of the glove, easing the kidskin from the hand it encased. Next she removed her other glove.

It would seem only fair that she should have a defect
somewhere. Blunt fingers would be a good place to start; knobby knuckles were not too much to ask. But no, her hands were trim, the fingers long and attractively tapered. Even her knuckles were comely.

She raised those bare, winsome hands and untied the hat ribbons beneath her chin, shaking her head slightly as she removed her hat. All of a sudden it was too much. He was again struck dumb by her, unable to breathe, unable to think, unable to do anything but want—her presence tore him apart; and the only way to be made whole again was to consume her, body and soul.

The next minute he realized what had happened to him, but not before she’d caught him staring.

For a decade, I was fixated by her beauty. I wrote an entire article on the evolutionary significance of beauty as a rebuke to myself, that I, who understood the concepts so well, nevertheless could not escape the magnetic pull of one particular woman’s beauty.

She knew. With surgical precision, she had peeled back his layers of defenses, until his heart lay bare before her, all its shame and yearning exposed.

He could have lived with this if only he’d kept his secret whole and buried. But she knew.
She knew.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he said. “I may yet divorce you after the child comes.”

A
lgernon House was magnificent: the marble galleries, the soaring ceilings painted by Italian masters, the library with its collection of fifty thousand volumes, including a Gutenberg Bible and manuscripts by da Vinci.

But what Venetia fell in love with was its vast, beautiful grounds. There was a formal geometric garden anchored by an enormous fountain depicting Apollo and the Nine Muses, a sculpture garden enclosed by ivy-draped walls, and a rose garden that was just beginning to bloom, its air dense with perfume.

The house, with its venerable, weathered sandstone exterior, sat at the edge of a large rolling meadow, just as the land rose into a wooded hill. A shining ribbon of a stream meandered across the meadow, its banks dotted with willows and poplars. A herd of red deer often
gathered at the stream; flocks of wild ducks came and went; and occasionally, several Holstein cows would wander into the scene to graze contentedly.

Venetia was well accustomed to the demands of running a household, but she’d never managed an establishment of such scale. Her entire first week, as much as she yearned to explore the grounds for hours upon end, she devoted herself to more pressing tasks instead, learning the house’s rhythms and traditions, meeting with all the upper servants, and wrapping her hands gently but firmly around the reins of her new home.

She also wrote her family daily, describing her waking hours in great detail, so that they would not worry. Or rather, so that they could worry while knowing exactly what was going on in her new life.

In her letters she made very little mention of her new husband: There was not much to say. He spent much of his day in his study. She spent much of her day in her sitting room. The two were in very different parts of the house, and she rarely saw him except at dinner. The dining table was thirty feet long. They each sat at one end. Even without the towering epergnes running down the center of the table, she might need her opera glass to see him properly.

But sometimes, at night, she heard him come into his bedroom.

On their wedding night, after her maid had retired, she’d left her bed and opened the adjoining door a very discreet yet unmistakable crack. She wanted to sleep with him again. After all those hours alone in a private coach, with him close enough to touch and yet so far away, the memories of their nights and days on the
Rhodesia
warmed her everywhere most inappropriately. Dear God how she
longed for him to make love to her again, as a humanitarian mission, if nothing else.