When Beauty Tamed the Beast

by Eloisa James

  Her father groaned and dropped his head onto the back of his chair.

  “I didn’t hear that,” Zenobia said, narrowing her eyes. “At least royalty is some sort of excuse. If this child is the result of anything less than ducal blood, I don’t want to hear a word about it.”

  “I didn’t—” Linnet tried.

  Her aunt cut her off with a sharp gesture. “I just realized, Cornelius, that this might be the saving of you.” She turned to Linnet. “Tell us who fathered that child, and your father will demand marriage. No one below a prince would dare to refuse him.”

  Without pausing for breath, she swung back to her brother-in-law. “You might have to fight a duel, Cornelius. I suppose you have pistols somewhere in this house, don’t you? Didn’t you threaten to fight one with Lord Billetsford years ago?”

  “After finding him in bed with Rosalyn,” Linnet’s father said. He didn’t even sound mournful, just matter-of-fact. “New bed; we’d had it only a week or two.”

  “My sister had many passions,” Zenobia said fondly.

  “I thought you just said she was white as snow!” the viscount snapped back.

  “None of them touched her soul! She died in a state of grace.”

  No one was inclined to argue with this, so Zenobia continued. “At any rate, you’d better pull out those pistols, Cornelius, and see if they still work. You might have to threaten to kill the man. Though in my experience if you double the dowry, it’ll all come around quickly enough.”

  “There’s no man to shoot,” Linnet said.

  Zenobia snorted. “Don’t tell me you’re going to try for virgin birth, my love. I can’t imagine that it worked very well back in Jerusalem. Every time the bishop talks about it at Christmastime, I can’t help thinking that the poor girl must have had a miserable time trying to get people to believe her.”

  “I can’t imagine why you’re bringing scripture into this conversation,” Linnet’s father said. “We’re talking about princes, not gods.”

  Linnet groaned. “This dress just makes me look plump.”

  Zenobia sank into a chair. “Do you mean to tell me that you aren’t carrying a child?”

  “I’ve been saying that. I didn’t sleep with the prince, or anyone else either.”

  There was a mournful pause while the truth at last sunk in. “God Almighty, you’re ruined, and you didn’t even eat the gingerbread,” her aunt said, finally. “What’s more, just displaying your waistline to its best advantage would be no help at this point. People would simply assume that you had, as one might say, taken care of the problem.”

  “After the prince refused her to marry her,” the viscount said heavily. “I’d assume it myself, under the circumstances.”

  “It’s unfair,” Linnet said fiercely. “With Mama’s—ah—reputation, people naturally expected that I might be rather flirtatious—”

  “That’s an understatement,” her father said. “They thought you’d be a baggage, and now they know you’re one. Except you’re not.”

  “It’s the beauty,” her aunt said, preening a little. “The women in my family are simply cursed by our beauty. Look at dear Rosalyn, dying so young.”

  “I don’t see that it’s cursed you,” the viscount said, rather rudely.

  “Oh, but it has,” Zenobia said. “It has, it has, it has. It taught me what could have been, had I not had the chains of birth holding me back. I could have graced the world’s stages, you know. Rosalyn too. I expect that’s why she was so—”

  “So what?” the viscount said, leaping on it.

  “Irresistible,” Zenobia said.

  Linnet’s father snorted. “Impure, more like.”

  “She knew that she could have married the finest in the land,” Zenobia said. “And you see, that same dream caught our darling Linnet in its coils and now she’s ruined.”

  “Rosalyn could not have married the finest in the land,” the viscount said. “There’s a reason for the Royal Marriage Laws, you know.” He pointed a finger at Linnet. “Didn’t you even think of that before you created such a scandal with young Augustus? For Christ’s sake, everyone knows that he up and married a German woman a few years ago. In Rome, I believe. The king himself had to get involved and annul the marriage.”

  “I didn’t know until yesterday,” Linnet said. “When the prince told me so.”

  “No one tells girls that sort of thing,” her aunt said dismissively. “If you were so worried about her, Cornelius, why didn’t you trot around to those parties and watch over her yourself?”

  “Because I was busy! And I found a woman to chaperone her, since you were too lazy to do it yourself. Mrs. Hutchins. Perfectly respectable in every way, and seemed to grasp the problem, too. Where is that woman? She assured me that she would keep your name as white as the driven snow.”

  “She refused to come downstairs.”

  “Afraid to face the music,” he muttered. “And where’s your governess? She’s another one. I told her and told her that you had to be twice as chaste to make up for your mother’s reputation.”

  “Mrs. Flaccide took insult last night when you said she was a limb of Satan and accused her of turning me into a doxy.”

  “I’d had a spot or two of drink,” her father said, looking utterly unrepentant. “I drowned my sorrows after I was told to my face—to my face!— that my only daughter had been debauched.”

  “She left about an hour later,” Linnet continued. “And I doubt she’s coming back, because Tinkle says that she took a great deal of silver with her.”

  “The silver is irrelevant,” Zenobia said. “You should never make the best servants angry, because they invariably know where all the valuables are kept. Far more important, I expect your governess knew all about any billets-doux that royal twig might have sent you?”

  “He didn’t write me any love letters, if that’s what you mean. But early one morning about a month ago he did throw strawberries at my bedchamber window. She and Mrs. Hutchins said at the time that we mustn’t let anyone know.”

  “And now Flaccide is out telling the world about it,” her aunt announced. “You really are a fool, Cornelius. You should have paid her five hundred pounds on the spot and shipped her off to Suffolk. Now Flaccide is out there turning one strawberry into a whole field. She’ll have Linnet carrying twins.”

  Linnet thought her governess would likely leap at the chance. They’d never really liked each other. In truth, women rarely liked her. From the moment she debuted four months ago, the other girls had clustered into groups and giggled behind their hands. But no one ever let Linnet in on the joke.

  Zenobia reached out and rang the bell. “I can’t think why you haven’t offered me any tea, Cornelius. Linnet’s life may have taken a new corner, but we still have to eat.”

  “I’m ruined, and you want tea?” her father moaned.

  Tinkle opened the door so quickly that Linnet knew he’d been listening in, not that she was surprised.

  “We’ll have tea and something to eat along with it,” Zenobia told him. “You’d better bring along something for reducing as well.”

  The butler frowned.

  “Cucumbers, vinegar, something of that nature,” she said impatiently. When he closed the door, she waved at Linnet’s bosom. “We must do something about that. No one would describe you as plump, my dear, but you’re not exactly a wraith either, are you?”

  Linnet counted to five again. “My figure is exactly like my mother’s. And yours.”

  “Satan’s temptation,” her father said morosely. “It isn’t seemly so uncovered.”

  “No such luck,” Linnet said. “I got a prince, but the king of darkness never made an appearance.”

  “Augustus couldn’t be even a minor devil,” her aunt said consideringly. “I’m not surprised he didn’t manage to seduce you, now I think on it. He’s a bit of a nincompoop.”

  “There shouldn’t be styles that make a young girl look like a matron with a babe on the way,�
�� Lord Sundon stated. “If there is, I don’t want a part of it. That is, I wouldn’t want a part of it if I were the type to wear dresses. That is, if I were a woman.”

  “You’re getting more foolish every year,” Zenobia observed. “Why my sister ever agreed to marry you, I’ll never know.”

  “Mama loved Papa,” Linnet said as firmly as she could. She’d fastened on to that fact years ago, in the aftermath of a confusing evening when she’d encountered her mother with another gentleman in an intimate setting, engaged in a very intimate activity.

  “I love your father,” her mother had told her at the time. “But darling, love is just not enough for women such as myself. I must have adoration, verses, poetry, flowers, jewels . . . not to mention the fact that François is built like a god and hung like a horse.”

  Linnet had blinked at her, and her mother had said, “Never mind, darling, I’ll explain it all later, when you’re a bit older.”

  She never got around to it, but Linnet had somehow managed to garner enough information to interpret what had caught her mother’s attention with regards to François.

  Now her father’s eyes flickered toward her. “Rosalyn loved me the way Augustus loves you. In short: not enough.”

  “For goodness’ sake,” Zenobia cried. “This is enough to send me into the Slough of Despond! Let poor Rosalyn rest in her grave, would you? You make me rue the day she decided to accept your hand.”

  “It’s brought it all back to mind,” the viscount said heavily. “Linnet takes after her mother; anyone can see that.”

  “That’s quite unfair,” Linnet said, scowling at him. “I have been a model of chastity this season. In fact, through my entire life!”

  He frowned. “It’s just that there’s something about you—”

  “You look naughty,” her aunt said, not unkindly. “God help Rosalyn, but this is all her fault. She gave it to you. That dimple, and something in your eyes and about your mouth. You look like a wanton.”

  “A wanton would have had a great deal more fun this season than I had,” Linnet protested. “I’ve been as demure as any young lady in the ton—you can ask Mrs. Hutchins.”

  “It does seem unfair,” Zenobia agreed. A golden drop of honey suspended itself from her crumpet and swung gently before falling onto the pale violet silk of her morning dress.

  “I hope that you told the countess that I was never alone with Augustus at any point,” Linnet said.

  “How could I do that?” Zenobia inquired. “I’m not privy to your social calendar, my dear. I was as shocked as the dear countess, I can tell you that.”

  Linnet groaned. “I could strip naked in Almack’s, and still no one would believe that I wasn’t carrying a child, no matter how slim my waist. You practically confirmed it, Aunt Zenobia. And Papa dismissed Miss Flaccide, and I’m quite sure that she’s saying wretched things about me all over London. I truly will have to live abroad, or in the country somewhere.”

  “French men are very easy to please, though there is that inconvenient war going on,” Zenobia said encouragingly. “But I’ve got another idea.”

  Linnet couldn’t bring herself to ask, but her father asked wearily, “What is it?”

  “Not it—him.”

  “Who?”

  “Yelverton, Windebank’s heir.”

  “Windebank? Who the devil’s that? Do you mean Yonnington—Walter Yonnington? Because if his son is anything like his father, I wouldn’t let Linnet near him, even if she were carrying a child.”

  “Very kind of you, Papa,” Linnet murmured. Since her aunt had not offered her a crumpet, she helped herself.

  “Reducing, my dear. Think about reducing,” Zenobia said in a kindly yet firm tone.

  Linnet tightened her mouth and put extra butter on her crumpet.

  Her aunt sighed. “Yelverton’s title is Duke of Windebank, Cornelius. Really, I wonder how you manage to make your way around the House of Lords, with your spotty knowledge of the aristocracy.”

  “I know what I need to know,” the viscount said. “And I don’t bother with that I don’t need. If you meant Windebank, why didn’t you just say so?”

  “I was thinking of his son,” Zenobia explained. “The man’s got the second title, of course. Now let me think . . . I do believe that his given name is something odd. Peregrine, Penrose—Piers, that’s it.”

  “He sounds like a dock,” Lord Sundon put in.

  “Mrs. Hutchins called me a light frigate this morning,” Linnet said. “A dock might be just the thing for me.”

  Zenobia shook her head. “That’s just the kind of remark that got you in this situation, Linnet. I’ve told you time and again, all that cleverness does you no good. People would like a lady to be beautiful, but they expect her to be ladylike, in short: sweet, compliant, and refined.”

  “And yet you are universally taken for a lady,” Linnet retorted.

  “I am married,” Zenobia says. “Or I was, until Etheridge passed on. I don’t need to show sweetness and light. You do. You’d better polish up some ladylike chatter before you get to Wales to meet Yelverton. His title would be Earl of Marchant. Or would it be Mossford? I can’t quite remember. I’ve never met him, of course.”

  “Neither have I,” Lord Sundon said. “Are you trying to match Linnet off with a stripling, Zenobia? It’ll never work.”

  “He’s no stripling. He must be over thirty. Thirty-five at least. Surely you remember the story, Cornelius?”

  “I pay no attention to stories,” the viscount said testily. “It was the only way to survive under the same roof with your sister.”

  “You need to do a treatment to clean out your spleen,” Zenobia said, putting down her crumpet. “You are letting bile ferment in your system, Cornelius, and it’s a very powerful emotion. Rosalyn is dead. Let her be dead, if you please!”

  Linnet decided it was time to speak. “Aunt Zenobia, why would you think that the duke would be interested in matching me with his son? If indeed that’s what you were thinking?”

  “He’s desperate,” her aunt said. “Heard it from Mrs. Nemble, and she’s bosom friends with Lady Grymes, and you know that her husband is Windebank’s half brother.”

  “No, I don’t know,” the viscount said. “And I don’t care either. Why is Windebank desperate? Is his son simpleminded? I can’t recall seeing any sons around Lords or in Boodle’s.”

  “Not simpleminded,” Zenobia said triumphantly. “Even better!”

  There was a moment of silence as both Linnet and her father thought about what that could mean.

  “He hasn’t got what it takes,” her aunt clarified.

  “He hasn’t?” Sundon asked blankly.

  “Minus a digit,” Zenobia added.

  “A finger?” Linnet ventured.

  “For goodness’ sake,” Zenobia said, licking a bit of honey off one finger. “I always have to spell everything out in this house. The man suffered an accident as a young man. He walks with a cane. And that accident left him impotent, to call a stone a stone. No heir now, and none in the future either.”

  “In fact, in this particular case,” her father said with distinct satisfaction, “a stone isn’t a stone.”

  “Impotent?” Linnet asked. “What does that mean?”

  There was a moment’s silence while her two closest relatives examined her closely, as if she were a rare species of beetle they’d found under the carpet.

  “That’s for you to explain,” her father said, turning to Zenobia.

  “Not in front of you,” Zenobia said.

  Linnet waited.

  “All you need to know at the moment is that he can’t father a child,” her aunt added. “That’s the crucial point.”

  Linnet put that fact together with various comments her mother had made over the years, and found she had absolutely no inclination to inquire further. “How is that better than simpleminded?” she asked. “In a husband, I mean.”

  “Simpleminded could mean drool at the dinner
table and Lord knows what,” her aunt explained.

  “You’re talking about the Beast!” her father suddenly exclaimed. “I’ve heard all about him. Just didn’t put it together at first.”

  “Marchant is no beast,” Zenobia scoffed. “That’s rank gossip, Cornelius, and I would think it beneath you.”

  “Everyone calls him that,” the viscount pointed out. “The man’s got a terrible temper. Brilliant doctor—or so everyone says—but the temper of a fiend.”

  “A tantrum here or there is part of marriage,” Zenobia said, shrugging. “Wait until he sees how beautiful Linnet is. He’ll be shocked and delighted that fate blessed him with such a lovely bride.”

  “Must I really choose between simpleminded and beastly?” Linnet inquired.

  “No, between simpleminded and incapable,” her aunt said impatiently. “Your new husband will be grateful for that child you’re supposedly carrying, and I can tell you that your new father-in-law will be ecstatic.”

  “He will?” Lord Sundon asked.

  “Don’t you understand yet?” Zenobia said, jumping to her feet. She walked a few steps, and then twirled around in a fine gesture. “On the one side, we have a lonely duke, with one son. Just one. And that duke is obsessed with royalty, mind. He considers himself a bosom friend of the king, or at least he did before the king turned batty as a . . . as a bat.”

  “Got that,” the viscount said.

  “Hush,” Zenobia said impatiently. She hated being interrupted. “On the one side, the lonely, desperate duke. On the other, the wounded, incapable son. In the balance . . . a kingdom.”

  “A kingdom?” the viscount repeated, his eyes bulging.

  “She means it metaphorically,” Linnet said, taking another crumpet. She had seen rather more of her aunt than her father had, and she was familiar with her love of rhetorical flourishes.

  “A kingdom without a future, because there is no child to carry on the family name,” Zenobia said, opening her eyes wide.

  “Is the duke—” Lord Sundon began.

  “Hush,” she snapped. “I ask you, what does this desperately unhappy family need?”