Beguiling the Beauty (5 page)

“At least your poor English peer is handsome,” said Venetia.

“That he is, handsomer than Apollo.”

The compliment toward her husband was uttered with perfect matter-of-factness, not a single flutter to her voice or the slightest coloring of her cheeks.

Yet for years now Venetia had wondered whether Millie wasn’t secretly in love with the man who’d married her solely for her fortune. He treated her with courtesy and—in recent years—affection. But his heart, Venetia feared, would always belong to the woman he’d given up for the sake of duty.

“Chances of you being as lucky, Venetia,” said Helena, “are next to nil. A quid says the duke looks like the Hunchback of Notre-Dame.”

“Hmm.” Venetia mused. “Is there such a thing as a young, rich, ugly duke?”

And if there was, he was not the Duke of Lexington, whose appearance upon the dais brought forth a collective sigh of admiration. He was indeed handsome—not the gentle, boyish looks that appealed most strongly to Venetia, but lean and angular: deep-set eyes, straight nose, high cheekbones, and firm lips.

Millie approved. “He has the look of a Roman senator, very magisterial, very distinguished.”

“How old is the family, exactly?” Venetia asked.

“Very old,” affirmed Millie. “A de Montfort fought at William the Conqueror’s side.”

A Harvard professor launched into a long introduction that was more about himself than the duke. Lexington stayed true to his breeding and displayed neither boredom nor irritation, only a neutral awareness of his surroundings.

Venetia noted with relief that he was also tall enough for Helena, whose height sometimes deterred young men who did not find themselves sufficiently towering. She glanced at Helena, hoping to see a spark of interest on her sister’s face. After all, the duke was everything Helena had always said she wanted. But Helena’s countenance showed only a bland politeness.

“Are you satisfied, Venetia?” whispered Millie. “Will you make him the luckiest man alive?”

Venetia remembered that she ought to keep up her pretense of matrimonial interest in the duke. “It will depend on the size of his fossil,” she whispered back.

Helena made a sound halfway between a snort and a suppressed burst of laughter.

Venetia’s anxiety doubled. She’d rather hoped Helena was still a virgin. Not that one trickle of laughter would settle the question, but that Helena understood the joke so immediately, when some of their maiden aunts would need a diagram, perhaps several diagrams …

The introduction concluded. The duke took to the podium. He spoke with a measured cadence, a spare use of words, and, unlike the man who preceded him, the discipline to meander not an inch from his topic.

He was brilliant, which would no doubt please Helena. His ideas were controversial—chief among them that the driving force behind evolution was more likely to be natural selection, as Mr. Darwin had proposed, and not the more commonly accepted theories of neo-Lamarckism,
orthogenesis, or saltationism. Yet his delivery was almost impersonal, as if he were merely relating the thoughts of a third party and not his own.

But there was a charisma to him that held the audience in his thrall, a pull greater than the sum of his cogency and his good looks. Perhaps it was his very civil haughtiness, the unmistakable authority to his voice, or the combination of his ancient title and his very modern endeavors.

At the end of the lecture, a series of questions came from the men in the audience, some of whom were members of the Harvard faculty, some, members of the press.

Venetia reached across Millie and handed Helena a piece of paper. “Ask him.”

To be the first woman to ask him a question would leave an impression on the duke.

Helena looked down at the question Venetia had suggested:
What do you think of theistic evolution, sir?
“Why me? You should do it.”

Venetia shook her head. “I don’t want him to think I’m too forward.”

But before she could further push Helena, an American young woman rose from the audience.

“Your Lordship.”

Venetia winced at the incorrect use of the duke’s title. A duke was never “my lord,” but always “Your Grace.”

“I read with great interest your article in
Harper’s Magazine
,” continued the young lady. “In the article you briefly tantalized readers with your view that human beauty is also a product of natural selection. Would you care to elaborate on that?”

“Certainly,” said His Grace. “From an evolutionary point of view, beauty is nothing more than a signifier of
one’s fitness for reproduction. Our concept of beauty derives largely from symmetry and proportion, which in turn denote structural health. Those features we find most pleasing—clear eyes, strong teeth, unblemished skin—represent youth, vigor, and freedom from disease. A man who is attracted to young, healthy females is more likely to breed than one who is attracted to elderly, sickly ones. Therefore, our view of beauty has undoubtedly been influenced by millennia of successful selections in the past.”

“So when you see a beautiful woman, sir, is that what you think, that she is fit for reproduction?”

Venetia’s jaw slackened. Americans had such phenomenal cheek.

“No, I rather marvel at the homage we pay beauty—it is fascinating for a man of science.”

“How so?”

“We have been taught from birth to judge one another on character. Yet when faced with beauty, everything goes out of the window. Beauty becomes the only thing that matters. This tells me that Mr. Darwin was exactly right. We are descended from animals. There are certain beastly instincts—the attraction to beauty, for example—that are primal to our makeup and override the markings of civilization. So we romanticize beauty, out of embarrassment that we should still be so susceptible to it in this day and age.”

The audience murmured at his unconventional and very decided views.

“Does this mean you do not enjoy beauty, sir?”

“I do enjoy beauty, but I enjoy it the same way I enjoy a cigar, with the understanding that while it gives temporary pleasure, it is essentially meaningless, and perhaps might even be harmful in the long run.”

“That is a very cynical view of beauty.”

“That is all the consideration beauty deserves,” said the duke coolly.

“You might have a slightly more difficult time than you first anticipated, Venetia,” said Helena softly.

“The duke is clearly a troublemaker.” In whom Venetia was developing a rather lively interest, an interest that was perhaps warmer than warranted for a potential brother-in-law.

A young man leaped to his feet. “Sir, if I understand you correctly, you have essentially declared all beautiful women untrustworthy.”

Venetia tsked. The duke had said no such thing: He’d advised a neutral stance on the consideration of beauty. Beautiful women, like all other women, should be approached and judged on aspects beyond mere physical attributes. And what was wrong with that?

“But beautiful women
are
essentially untrustworthy,” replied the duke.

Venetia frowned. Not that old chestnut. It was as bad as equating beauty with virtue. Worse, probably.

“A beautiful woman is desired for as long as her beauty holds, forgiven for all trespasses, and never asked to be anything other than beautiful.”

Venetia snorted. If only.

“But surely, sir, the rest of us are not so blind as that,” argued the young man.

“Allow me to present some anecdotal evidence, then. Anecdotal evidence does not constitute data. But where unbiased, unpolluted data is not possible—a given when it comes to the study of the human psyche—we will have to make do.

“Some years ago, I passed through London in the latter part of August, a time when English Society vacates the city entirely and repairs to the country. My club was empty, except for myself and another man.

“I knew this man because he’d once been pointed out to me as the husband of a very beautiful woman. He spoke briefly of his wife and warned that a man shouldn’t covet her unless that man wanted to become like him.

“The conversation was distasteful to me. It also made no sense, until I read the man’s obituary in the papers a few days later. I made some inquiries and learned that not only was he bankrupt, he had also run up exceedingly large accounts at several jewelers. The circumstances of his death had very nearly triggered an inquest.”

Something clanged inside Venetia’s head. This woman, whom the duke clearly blamed for her husband’s death … Could he possibly be speaking of
her
?

“His widow remarried scarcely a year later, to a much older, very wealthy man. Rumors were rife that she conducted an affair with his good friend. And when he was on his deathbed, she did not even have the courtesy to attend him. He died alone.”

He
was
speaking of her, only with the facts hideously distorted. She wanted to cover her ears, but she couldn’t move. She couldn’t even blink, but could only stare at him with the blind gaze of a statue.

The judgment on her second marriage stung, but that didn’t quite matter as much—she’d helped spread some of those rumors herself. But what he’d implied about Tony, in Tony’s own words, no less, insinuating that Tony wouldn’t have killed himself had it not been for her …

“Exceptionally heartless, our beauty.”

Had his speech slowed? Each damning syllable hung for an eternity in the air, an air brilliant with the projecting lantern’s beam, a thousand specks of mote caught in a harsh white radiance.

“You’d think an odor of censure would hang about her,” the duke continued inexorably. “But no, she is welcomed everywhere and constantly pelted with proposals of marriage. No one, it seems, can remember her past. So, yes, I do believe the rest of us are indeed that blind.”

There were other questions. Venetia didn’t hear them. Nor did she really hear the duke’s answers, except his voice, that aloof, clear, inescapable voice.

She didn’t know when the lecture ended. She didn’t know when the duke left or when the rest of the audience filed out. The theater was dark and empty when she rose, politely removed her sister’s hand from her arm, and marched out.

I
still can’t believe what happened,” said Millie, pressing another cup of hot tea into Venetia’s hands.

Venetia had no idea whether she’d finished the contents of the previous cup or whether it had turned cold and been taken away.

Helena paced the parlor, her shadow long and lean upon the wall. “There are a great many lies and liars involved here. Mr. Easterbrook’s family is certainly a mendacious bunch. Mr. Townsend was capable of a great deal of it. And, Venetia, you, too, have contributed your share in covering for the two of them.”

It was true. Venetia had lied her fair share. Sometimes people must be protected; sometimes appearances had to be kept; and sometimes her own pride needed preserving,
so she could go about her business with her head held high, even when all she wanted was to cower in a corner.

“The duke, most likely, is not a liar,” continued Helena. “But he has spoken with reprehensible recklessness, presenting a series of unsubstantiated rumors as if they were from the
Encyclopedia Britannica
. Unforgivable. We can only be grateful that while Americans might have heard of the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Marlborough, they don’t know of Venetia and won’t be able to guess her identity from what he’s said.”

“Thank goodness for small mercies,” murmured Millie.

Helena stopped before Venetia’s chair and lowered herself so that her eyes were level with Venetia’s. “Avenge yourself, Venetia. Make him fall in love with you, then give him the cut.”

Loud, dark thoughts had been crisscrossing Venetia’s head like a murder of crows over the Tower of London. But now, as she gazed into her sister’s cool, resolute eyes, the past dropped away, and the thought of Lexington likewise receded.

Helena. Helena was a woman who made her decisions with an almost frightful ruthlessness.

If Helena had truly decided that Andrew Martin was worth the trouble, then the die was cast, the board set, the bridge crossed and burned. Millie, Fitz, and Venetia could try all they want. They would not change her mind, not by any means in their possession.

Venetia could only be glad that her mind had gone largely numb. She could not feel any despair.

For now.

W
hen Venetia was ten, a train had derailed near her childhood home.

Her father had led the charge in pulling passengers out of the wreck. Venetia and her siblings had not been allowed to go near the scene, for fear it would upset them too much. But they were encouraged to attend to passengers, especially children who’d suffered only minor injuries.

There had been a boy about her age who bore no visible damages. When sandwiches were set down before him, he ate. When a cup of tea appeared, he drank. And when asked questions, he gave sensible enough answers. Yet it became apparent after some time that he wasn’t entirely there, that he was still caught in the midst of the derailment.