Sherry Thomas - Beguiling the Beauty

“What I wanted, of course, was your heart on a plate,” said the Great Beauty.

Christian was cold despite the roaring fire in the grate, as cold as the trees in his garden, shivering in the rain.

“And what was the nature of your interest in my heart, exactly?”

She smiled. “I wanted to break it—I was there at your Harvard lecture.”

How could cruelty ever be beautiful? Yet she was incandescent. “Because of what I’d said?”

“Precisely.”

“Does that not validate my opinion of you?”

“Maybe. But you’d have a broken heart to go along with it, wouldn’t you?”

A muscle twitched at the corner of his eye—at last he knew who he was dealing with. “An elegant plan,” he said slowly. “A despicable one, but elegant nevertheless.”

She shrugged. “Alas that I should be fertile after all. I’d much rather put you behind me once and for all.”

For no reason at all he thought of the sweetness of resting his head in her lap, her fingers combing through his hair as they talked of nothing and everything. He should have left well enough alone; at least he’d have enjoyed the memories. Now he had nothing—less than nothing.

“I’m sure you would,” he said, his voice uninflected.

“Well then, I have troubled you long enough,” she said brightly. “Good day, sir. I will see myself out.”

It was not until she was almost at the door that he recalled himself. “Not yet. We have not yet discussed what to do about the child.”

She shrugged again. “The child will present no problem to a woman such as myself. I will find someone to marry me, which should be as simple as picking out a new hat. Simpler, if I may say so: These days millinery is convoluted and time-consuming. Why, last time it took me an hour to decide on all the trimmings.”

Christian narrowed his eyes. “The poor dupe will be unwittingly raising someone else’s bastard?”

His scowls were famously quelling. They had no effect upon Mrs. Easterbrook whatsoever.

“I can tell him if you like. Would you also like me to inform him of your identity?”

She laughed, obviously finding her own quip very funny. Her laughter was the sound of wind chimes, clear and melodious. As arrogant and callous as she was, there was not a single sensory aspect of hers that was anything less than perfection.

“I will not allow my child to be brought up in the household of anyone stupid and gullible enough to marry you.”

“Well, that certainly eliminates you from contention, doesn’t it? You, sir, wished to marry me, too, if I recall correctly.”

She actually dared to remind him of it. Shame and anger jostled in him, both scalding hot. “I wished to marry the Baroness von Seidlitz-Hardenberg, which speaks poorly of my intelligence, but not nearly so poorly as if I had wanted to marry you.”

She smiled, imperious, impervious. “We can stand here all day and trade insults, Your Grace. But I have appointments to keep—and new hats to select. If you do not wish your child brought up in a respectable household, do you have any better solutions to propose? Mind you, I cannot have scandals: I still have a sister to marry.”

“Swear on your sister’s life that you are carrying my child.”

“I swear.”

“Then I will marry you, for the sake of the child. But if you are lying, I will divorce you in the most public manner possible.”

She looked at him a minute, her gaze limpid and unreadable. “I take it that by agreeing to marry you, I will not need to see to a wedding gown or a wedding breakfast.”

“No. I will obtain a special license. We will marry before the number of witnesses as required by law. If you wish to bring members of your family, suit yourself—but I will leave mine out of this disgrace.”

“And afterward? Do we go our separate ways?” Her tone was light and sarcastic.

“I will leave that to you. You may return to your own residence or you may take up residence here. It makes no difference to me.”

“How tempting. I’m sure I’ve never been proposed to more sweetly.”

The muscle to the right of his eye leaped again.

She set her hand on the door handle. “You have a fortnight for the license, Your Grace. Afterward I’ll let it be known that I am in need of a husband.”

Madam,

This is to inform you that I have the special license in hand. We will marry at ten o’clock tomorrow morning at St. Paul’s Church in Onslow Square.

Yrs.,

Lexington

Sir,

This is to inform you that I have decided to take up residence in your house after all. Pray have it in a state of readiness for my arrival.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Easterbrook

Madam,

I will be removing to Algernon House tomorrow afternoon.

Yrs.,

Lexington

Sir,

Of course, a country honeymoon. I approve.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Easterbrook

P.S. In the country I require a fleet, tireless, and a mild-tempered mare and lavender-scented sheets.

Venetia had kept the blue brocade gown she’d worn to marry Mr. Easterbrook, but she did not dare leave the house in something that was so obviously not a promenade dress.

She still did not quite believe that the duke would marry her. The terrible thing about having lied so overwhelmingly to him was that now she did not feel that he owed her any truth. That if he were but playing a cruel prank, she had no one to blame but herself.

She arrived at the church fifteen minutes early. He was already there in the pews, sitting with his head bowed.

At the sound of her footsteps, he slowly rose, turned around—and frowned. He was in a morning coat, the most formal item in a gentleman’s wardrobe for daytime, the thing to wear to one’s own wedding. She, on the other hand, looked as if she’d been taking a stroll in the park and had but stopped by to satisfy her curiosity concerning the interior of the church.

“Well, I’m here,” she said. “And I didn’t make you wait.”

His countenance darkened. Belatedly she remembered how gladly he’d waited for her on the Rhodesia—she was beginning to display quite a talent for saying all the wrong things.

“Let’s proceed,” he said coolly.

“Where are our witnesses?”

“Arranging flowers in the vestry.”

The clergyman was already standing before the altar. He stared at Venetia as she approached. She recognized the signs of danger. When she’d said to the duke that she had a certain effect on men, she hadn’t been exaggerating. It was not every man and it was not all the time, but when the effect happened, proposals flew like confetti and all parties involved usually ended up feeling quite mortified.

Perspiration beaded on the man’s forehead. “Will you—”

“Yes, I do consent to be married to His Grace,” she said hastily. “Won’t you please call our witnesses?”

This didn’t seem quite enough. “I know we’ve never met,” said the clergyman, “but ma’am—”

“I’m very grateful that you can marry us on such a short notice, Reverend. Please, if there is anything we can do for your parish and for this lovely church, you must let us know.”

The man cleared his throat. “I—uh—I—uh—yes, pleased to oblige, ma’am.”

Venetia breathed a sigh of relief. She sneaked a peek at the duke. His face was impassive: She might have stopped the clergyman from making a fool of himself, but the duke had guessed quite well what the man had been on the verge of doing.

And he blamed her for it.

The witnesses were called. The clergyman, having recovered his wits, now looked anywhere but at Venetia. He rushed through the prayers and asked her to repeat the vows after him.

As she followed the mumbling clergyman, she couldn’t help a shudder of misery. What was she doing? Was she still clinging to some illusion that one day he might again become the lover he had been on the Rhodesia? And betting the rest of her life on it? Even a marriage begun in hope and goodwill could turn terrible. What hope did this union have, sealed by such antagonism and distrust?

The duke recited his vows with remarkable dispassion—Venetia had heard Fitz memorize his Latin declensions with greater feeling. Where was the man who wanted to spend every waking minute with her? Who was willing to brave every obstacle to be closer to her?

The worst thing about this forced nuptial was that they had been their true selves on the Rhodesia. And yet the two people tying the knot today were but their facades, the Great Beauty and the haughty, unfeeling duke.

Would she ever see his true self again? And would she ever dare let him see hers?

Helena was going out of her mind.

The cost of paper had gone up again. Two manuscripts she’d been waiting on continued to make her wait. Susie, her new jailor, sat outside her office embroidering a stack of new handkerchiefs with the patience of a hundred-year-old tortoise. Yet Helena would have been all right had Andrew come for his official appointment this morning at Fitzhugh & Co., to receive the first copy, fresh off the printing press, of the second volume of his History of East Anglia.

Three weeks it had been since her return to England, three long, frustrating weeks, especially after she received his last letter, the day after the ball at the Tremaines’s. He’d been abjectly apologetic, claiming that he’d seen the error of his ways and would no longer do anything to endanger her reputation.

Damn her reputation. Would no one think of her happiness?

Andrew’s mother had fully recovered from the bout of fever that had everyone worried—Helena even saw her at a function, looking frailed but determined. He, however, continued to be absent from all social milieus. The only time she’d run into him had been on a drive with Millie, and she hadn’t dared more than a smile and a nod.

And now this canceled appointment.

She paced. But that only made her more agitated. So she sat down, glanced through a batch of letters, and sliced open a manuscript package. The manuscript was for a children’s book. Fitzhugh & Co. did not publish children’s books, but the illustration of the two small ducks on the first page was so charming that against her will she turned the page.