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.
“That is none of your concern, madam.”
“No, of course not, but one does hear rumors. Very prudent of you to stop calling on me once we have detracted Lady Avery. Your lady would not be too pleased were you constantly seen with me. I have, shall we say, a certain effect on men.”
He hated her smugness. “My lady has nothing to worry about.”
She flicked him a glance that would have made Achilles put down his shield and forsake all the glories of Troy. “If you say so, sir.”
They danced the rest of the waltz without speaking.
Venetia was relieved that she didn’t need to go on saying things that made Mrs. Easterbrook sound the exact opposite of Baroness von Seidlitz-Hardenberg. But she missed hearing his voice, even if he now spoke an icy English instead of an affectionate German.
This was her beloved, back in her arms—a terrible miracle, but a miracle nonetheless. She found it difficult to restrain herself, to not let her left hand trace the contour of his shoulder, her right thumb caress the center of his gloved hand, or her head lean forward and rest upon him.
She wanted the dance to never end.
But all too soon, the waltz drew to a close. The dancers all around them pulled apart. The duke, too, made to separate from her. But Venetia, immersed in memories of their closeness—did not let go.
She realized her mistake after only a second. But a second was a very long time for such a faux pas. She might as well have unbuttoned her bodice; it would not have shocked him more.
And shocked he was. He regarded her with the extreme severity one reserved for those who’d trespassed against not only morality, but good taste. As if she were a common streetwalker who had marched into the ball uninvited and accosted him.
The silence, as he escorted her off the dance floor, was excruciating.
He is not here,” said Hastings. “The wife’s mother is ill. He has dutifully gone to Worcestershire to attend her.”
Helena did not need to ask who “he” was. At first she’d been too anxious about the reception that awaited Venetia. But now that the duke had come and gone after a surprising and surprisingly effective maneuver, she’d allowed herself to scan the crowd for a sign of Andrew. His mother’s family was very well connected and he could be counted on to have invitations to the more sought-after functions.
“Do you think I should be paying my addresses to Mrs. Martin, my dear Miss Fitzhugh?” he whispered. “Martin doesn’t look the sort to have enough stamina to service two women. And goodness knows you could probably exhaust Casanova himself.”
Again this insinuation that she must be a sufferer of nymphomania. Behind her fan, she put her lips very close to his ear. “You’ve no idea, my Lord Hastings, the heated yearnings that singe me at night, when I cannot have a man. My skin burns to be touched, my lips kissed, and my entire body passionately fondled.”
Hastings was mute, for once. He stared at her with something halfway between amusement and arousal.
She snapped shut her fan and rapped his fingers as hard as she could, watching with great satisfaction as he choked back a yelp of pain.
“By anyone but you,” she said, and turned on her heels.
For the ride in the park, Christian trotted out his grandest landau—so he could sit as far away from Mrs. Easterbrook as possible.
Which was not quite far enough to avoid the tangible pull of her beauty.
Unlike the baroness, she did not twirl her parasol, but held it perfectly steady. Her entire person was as still as Pygmalion’s sculpture, cool, heartless, and nevertheless lovely enough to derange a man.
Her rose-colored afternoon dress cast a subtle blush upon her cheeks. Her eyes, in the shade cast by her cream lace parasol, were aquamarine, the exact color of the warm Mediterranean that had so enchanted the secret voluptuary in him. Her lips, soft, full, perfectly delineated, promised to taste of rose petals and willingness.
It was only when she spoke that he realized he’d already begun to mentally undress her, ripping off the silk-covered buttons of her bodice like so many currants from the stem.
“You are immersed in thought, sir. Anticipating your dinner with your lady, perhaps?”
His attention snapped to abruptly. How would she know anything of his dinner? And, an instant later, great, terrible guilt: On the eve of his much hoped-for reunion with the baroness, his mind was eagerly committing an act of infidelity.
He wanted to blame it on Mrs. Easterbrook’s conduct, the way she’d held on to him at the end of their waltz: She might as well have given him the key to her house along with a wink and a blown kiss. Her intentions had smoldered in his blood ever since.
On the other hand, would he have desired her less if she’d proved herself utterly indifferent? Would it not have simply whet his appetite and made her even more coveted a prize?
“One hears talk that you have commissioned quite the grand repast for tomorrow evening at the Savoy,” Mrs. Easterbrook continued.
Had she been any other woman he’d have told her in no uncertain terms to mind her own affairs. But here it was imperative that he spoke of the baroness in as warm a tone as publicly permissible.
“Yes,” he said. “I look forward to a delightful evening tomorrow.”
If she came.
She must. She could not desert him in his hour of need. But—the thought suddenly occurred to him—if she’d already arrived in London, would she not somehow hear of his imbroglio with Mrs. Easterbrook? And would she not interpret the public attention he was paying Mrs. Easterbrook quite the wrong way?
Mrs. Easterbrook smiled slightly. “She is a very fortunate woman, your lady.”
“I am a very fortunate man, rather.”
To judge her expression was like trying to gauge the variation in the sun’s intensity by staring directly into it. But he thought she looked wistful. “And this is the last time I will see you, I take it?”
“Which I’m sure must be a relief to you.”
She arched a brow. “You presume to know how I think?”
“Very well, then. It will be a relief to me.”
She tilted her umbrella slightly away from h
er person. “There are those who like me for the way my nose sits on my face—a ridiculous reason to like someone. But it’s also a fairly ridiculous reason to not like someone—as it is in your case.”
“I disapprove of your character, Mrs. Easterbrook.”
“You don’t know my character, sir,” she said decisively. “The only thing you know is my face.”
CHAPTER 14
Christian did not give many dinners. And when he did, the dowager duchess usually oversaw the necessary arrangements. But for this particular dinner, he presided over every detail.
Several private dining rooms had been rejected as either too stuffy or too floridly ornate. And when he did finally settle on one, he had the hotel change the staid still life painting on the wall for a seascape reminiscent of the one in the Victoria suite. Instead of flowers, for the centerpiece he commissioned an ice sculpture of frolicking dolphins. He also decreed that there should be no harsh electrical lights, but only candle flame—and not from tallows, either: nothing but the best beeswax tapers for her.
The proposed menu he’d sent back with the direction that it should consist of a clear consommé, a sole poached in broth, a braised duckling, a rack of lamb broiled with herbs, a filet of venison—and nothing else. Which had quite offended the chef, who apparently believed a romantic dinner should be conducted like a state banquet.
L’amour, he declared, wagging his finger at Lexington, must be fortified by plenty of food and plenty of flesh. Milord was already too thin himself. His night with milady might as well be two skeletons rattling in a medical laboratory!
Lexington did not yield—he had no intention of feeding his lady comatose. Finally, the Frenchman gave up on the main courses. But he would not limit himself on the desserts—none of the fresh fruit served à nature nonsense. There would be a charlotte russe, a crème renversée, a vanilla soufflé, a chocolate mousse, a pear tart, and a plum cake.
“We will still be eating at dawn,” said Lexington, not without admiration for the man’s dedication to his ideals.
The Frenchman kissed his fingertips. “Et après, you will be all the better for l’amour, milord.”
Christian arrived half an hour early to the dinner. The table was being set as he walked into the room, crystal finger bowls, silver saltcellars, footed bowls holding grapes, figs, and cherries laid down at careful distances upon the blue damask cloth.
This wait was nothing at all of the pleasurable anticipation on the Rhodesia. He was normally disciplined—a gentleman did not fidget—but several times he had to stop his fingers from tapping on the windowsill. He wanted a stiff drink and a cigarette. He wanted different curtains for the room. He wanted the painting changed again.
If she would only come, all would be well.
But what if she didn’t?
The tapers were lit; the glasses sparkled in the lambent light. The ice sculpture was brought in, the dolphins leaping gracefully out of frozen waves. A sixty-year-old bottle of champagne was reverently laid on the sideboard, ready to be uncorked the moment she swept into sight.
She should already have presented herself. Etiquette dictated that one arrived to dinner at least a quarter hour before the stated time, out of respect for the delicate nature of soufflés, if nothing else.
Were European customs different? He ought to know—he’d spent time on the Continent. But he couldn’t think. He was in a state of mental blankness, one rung above outright panic—but only one rung.
At eight o’clock, a steward of the hotel discreetly inquired whether His Grace wished to begin serving dinner.
“Another quarter hour,” he said.
When another quarter hour had passed, he gave the same instructions.
At half past eight, no one asked him anything. The hotel staff, who had hovered about for the past hour, now made themselves scarce. A bottle of whisky appeared from nowhere. As did cigarettes, matches, and a carved ivory ashtray.
She’d given her word. Was her word of so little worth to her? And if it had been her intention to break her word from the beginning, why not send him a letter and let him know?
Could something unforeseen have befallen her? What if she were lying somewhere ill and uncared for? Again, she could have written, and he’d have been at her side in a heartbeat.
But he presupposed her ability and freedom to communicate. What if she were carefully watched, once she went back to wherever it was she must go?
He gave the possibility several minutes of anguished consideration before it occurred to him how ridiculously melodramatic it was. A woman under such medieval supervision would never have been allowed to cross the Atlantic on her own, let alone conduct an affair in full view of the passengers.
The explanation for her absence had been staring him in the face all the while, but he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it: The affair meant nothing to her. He’d been the only one bewitched body and soul. For her, he’d been but a temporary source of entertainment, a way to pass the otherwise tedious hours in the middle of an ocean.
He’d been the one to press for a continuation of their affair beyond the voyage. He’d been the one to offer his heart, his hand, his every last secret. She never even gave her real name.
And, of course, never showed her face.
No, he could not doubt her. If he doubted her, he might as well doubt his ability to judge anything at all. It had to be as he’d feared, that she’d heard about Mrs. Easterbrook. God, what if she’d seen them driving together the day before? The sight of his eyes upon Mrs. Easterbrook would have refuted everything he’d told her about having put this obsession behind him.
And even if she had seen and heard nothing, did he still deserve her, he who came to the dinner with Mrs. Easterbrook’s words—You don’t know my character, sir. The only thing you know is my face—still echoing in his ears?
He’d dreamed of Mrs. Easterbrook again last night, an even more disturbingly domestic tableau of the two of them seated before a roaring fire, he writing letters, she reading a thickish book that looked as if it had come from his library. From time to time, his dream-self would look up from his task and gaze upon her. Except, instead of the hot, unhappy surges of possessiveness that had lately plagued him, he’d felt only a simple contentment at seeing her nearby.
He’d yet to dream of the baroness.
Still he compulsively watched the carriages coming to a stop before the hotel. London’s traffic was notorious at certain times of the day. A logjam, once formed, took a good, long while to clear. Perhaps she was caught in one. Perhaps she was boiling in impatience even as he sank slowly into despair. Perhaps—
Suddenly he became aware that he was no longer alone in the room. He spun around, hopes and fears incoherent in his chest.
But it was not her. It was only a uniformed porter of the hotel.
“Your Grace, a delivery for you.”
For the next three seconds, he still dared to let himself hope. Perhaps she was making a grand entrance. Perhaps she would be carried in like Cleopatra, hidden in a roll of fine carpet. Perhaps—
Three porters, grunting, pulled in a handcart.
A crevasse opened before him and in fell his heart. No need to remove the tarpaulin wrapping. He recognized the stone slab by its size and weight.
She had returned his present. She would have nothing more to do with him.
* * *
It was another hour before the duke left the hotel.
This time, Venetia was not waiting in a smelly hansom cab, but in a clean, elegant brougham, with tufted velvet seats, foot braziers, and tulip blossoms in bud vases mounted on brackets between the windows.
The baroness had leased the carriage. She even had her veiled hat, sitting on the seat beside her.
You still can, whispered a reckless voice inside her, as it had been whispering for the past three hours. Go on, intercept him. Just for tonight.
But this time he would not let her leave again. And he would not let the veil remain in place.
There was no such thing as just for tonight.
Or rather, there was no such thing as tomorrow: He would throw her out the moment he saw her face and never speak to her again.
She could only watch as her lover, stone-faced, climbed into his carriage and drove away.
Throughout the night, Christian swung from anger to despair and back again. In the morning, however, he summoned his carriage and returned to the hotel.
Perhaps he had been foolish. Most likely he had been beyond stupid. But he had been forthright and honorable, and he deserved better courtesy than this.
An inquiry at the hotel quickly yielded that the stone slab had arrived by courier three days before. A typewritten note had come by post the previous morning, with instructions for its delivery that evening by quarter to eight. The general manager offered his profuse apologies—there had been a change of personnel during the day and the staff of the next shift had forgotten about the stone slab until quarter to nine.
Christian asked to see the original envelope for the note. That, alas, had been discarded. But the clerk who had opened the envelope recalled very clearly that the postmark had been from the city of London—and had been for the same day.
How likely was it that she’d come to London herself just to give him the brush-off? Not very. Still, he left instructions with a private investigator to find out whether any major hotel in London hosted a female guest of Germanic origin, between twenty-seven and thirty-five years of age, traveling alone.
He himself took the train to Southampton to speak to the proprietors of Donaldson & Sons Special Couriers. They could not tell him much: The object they’d delivered to the Savoy in London had been brought in by shipping agents from the harbor. The shipping agents’ records were slightly more helpful, showing that the tablet had been unloaded from the Campania, a ship of the Cunard Line, which had put in at Southampton the day after the Rhodesia.
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