Beguiling the Beauty ft-1

by Sherry Thomas

  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.

  And fell into an hour of pure magic.

  The manuscript of a dozen stories featuring the same cast of adorable animal characters. She loved them all. But they were not arranged in quite the right order. With a few nudges and adjustments to the stories, they could be presented in a seasonal, chronological sequence. She would publish the first story on its own in September, then one book a month for the eleven months to follow. The stories would build in popularity and demand, and she would publish them in a handsome boxed set for the following Christmas.

  She burst out of her inner sanctum into the reception room beyond.

  “Miss Boyle, I want you to immediately send a letter to”—she glanced down at the manuscript in her hand—“Miss Evangeline South and offer her one hundred twenty pounds for the copyright of her collection. Or our usual terms of commissions. Ask her to reply at her earliest—”

  Hastings was seated by the window, drinking tea.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I volunteered to come and fetch you—Mrs. Easterbrook has convened a family luncheon,” he answered. “You should have a telephone installed, by the way, so I needn’t come all the way.”

  “You needn’t—that is the very definition of volunteerism, is it not?” she retorted. “And why are you involved in a family luncheon?”

  “I didn’t say I was attending the luncheon, only that I would deliver you to Fitz’s house.”

  “But Miss Boyle and—”

  “I have ordered a basket of foodstuff from Harrods. Your employees will have a very fine luncheon. Now shall we? My carriage awaits.”

  As she had no good objections that could be voiced before her maid and her secretary, she finished giving directions to Miss Boyle, buttoned her jacket, and preceded him out of the door and into the carriage.

  “A hundred twenty pounds for the copyright, which you will hold for at least forty-two years—that is a miserly offer, is it not?” asked Hastings as he signaled the coachman to start.

  “I will have you know Miss Austen received all of one hundred ten pounds for the copyright to Pride and Prejudice. And that was at a time when the pound sterling was quite weak due to expenditures of the Napoleonic
Wars.”

  “She was robbed. Will you similarly rob Miss South?”

  “Miss South is free to write me with a counteroffer. She also has the option of publishing by commission, if she does not want a sizable sum up front.”

  Hastings grinned. “You are a shrewd woman, Miss Fitzhugh.”

  “Thank you, Lord Hastings.”

  “Which makes it even more incomprehensible what you see in Mr. Martin.”

  “I will tell you what I see in him, sir: an openness of spirit, a capacity for wonder, an utter lack of cynicism.”

  “You know what I see in him, Miss Fitzhugh?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “Cowardice. When you first met, he wasn’t even engaged.”

  It was just like Hastings to find the sore point in everything. “There was an expectation of long standing.”

  “A man should not live his life by the expectations of others.”

  “Not everyone lives his life solely to pursue his own pleasures.”

  “But you and I both do.”

  A year ago, she’d have categorically rejected that statement. But to do that now would make her a hypocrite. She turned her face to the window and wished again that she had pushed Andrew to defy his mother.

  Her failure to do so had changed her. In many ways for the better: When she came into her inheritance, she did not hesitate a moment before using it as capital for her publishing venture—she would never let another one of her heart’s desires get away from her. Once she had her arrangements in place, she’d refused to let Andrew keep his manuscript locked away. The reviews he’d received upon the publication of the first volume had him walking on air for months, thanking her profusely every time he saw her.

  But at the same time, the loss of Andrew had closed an invisible door in her. The happiness they’d once shared became sacrosanct. No other man could come close to replacing him; no man ought to even try.

  She wanted only what she should have had, in an ideal world.

  Fitz whistled as he skimmed the report in his hand.

  Millie had never known him before he was saddled with a crumbling estate. For a man whose hopes in life had been brutally suffocated, except for one brief period, he’d conducted himself with unimpeachable dignity, burying his disappointment and devoting himself to his duties.

  Not that there was anything undignified about a man whistling in the privacy of his own home—she only wished it had happened sooner. That he hadn’t needed a letter from Mrs. Englewood to inspire it.

  She’d thought they’d had some good times, too. The Christmas gathering had become a lovely tradition at Henley Park. Their friends eagerly anticipated their annual shooting party in August. Not to mention all the successes they’d had with Cresswell & Graves, nurturing the near-moribund firm into the brawny enterprise it was at present.

  Except, none of these achievements had ever made him whistle.

  Nor was it just the whistling. It was the faraway look in his eye, the secret smile on his lips. It was that his entire aspect had changed, from a conscientious married man who dealt with accounts, tenants, and bankers to an unburdened youth with only dreams and adventures on his mind.

  The boy he had been, before Fate had shown its harsh hand.

  And that was something Millie could never share with him, that glorious, carefree adolescence he had known before she’d arrived in his life, marking the beginning of the end.

  “I hope I haven’t inconvenienced everyone greatly, calling for a luncheon out of the blue.”

  Millie was startled out of her thoughts. Venetia sauntered into the drawing room, looking ineffably lovely. “No, of course not,” Millie said. “I was already home and the company is most welcome.”

  Fitz tossed aside the report and grinned at his sister. “Have you missed us since breakfast or is there another reason for …”

  He fell silent. Millie saw it at the same time: the ring on Venetia’s left hand.

  “Yes,” said Venetia, looking down at her wedding band. “I’ve eloped.”

  Flabbergasted, Millie glanced at her husband, who looked not quite as staggered as she’d have expected him to.

  “Who’s the lucky chap?” he asked.

  Venetia smiled. Millie couldn’t tell whether it was a happy smile, exactly, but it was so dazzling it left her with little dots dancing on her retinas. “Lexington.”

  At last Fitz looked as shocked as Millie felt. “Interesting choice.”

  Helena swept into the room. “Why are we speaking of Lexington again?”

  Venetia extended her left hand toward Helena. The gold band on her ring finger gleamed softly. “We are married, Lexington and I.”

  Helena laughed outright. When no one else joined her, her jaw dropped. “You are not serious, Venetia. You can’t be.”

  Venetia’s cheer was undampened. “Last I checked, today is not the first of April.”

  “But why?” Helena cried.

  “When?” asked Fitz at the same time.

  “This morning. The announcement will be in the papers tomorrow.” Venetia smiled again. “I can’t wait to see his museum.”

  It took Millie a moment to remember Lexington’s private natural history collection and the enthusiasm Venetia had expressed for it. But that was a continent away and all playacting. Was Venetia’s seeming pleasure all playacting, too?

  “But why so soon?” she asked.

  “And why didn’t you tell us anything?” Helena was beside herself. “We could have prevented you from making this terrible decision.”

  Fitz frowned. “Helena, is that any way to speak to Venetia on her wedding day?”

  “You weren’t there,” Helena said impatiently. “You didn’t hear all the hateful things he said about her.”

  Fitz considered Venetia. His gaze dropped to her waist. It was a quick, discreet look—had Millie not been paying close attention, she wouldn’t have noticed.

  “Tell me the truth now, Venetia,” he said. “Did you enjoy your crossing?”

  The question seemed a complete non sequitur. To Millie’s surprise, Venetia flushed.

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “And you are sure of Lexington’s character?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then congratulations.”

  “You can’t congratulate her,” Helena protested. “This is all a horrible mistake.”

  “Helena, you will refrain from speaking disrespectfully of our brother-in-law in my presence. If Lexington has risen enough in Venetia’s esteem, then it is time you set aside your prejudices and accept her decision.”

  Fitz rarely stepped into the paterfamilias role, but his quiet rebuke brooked no dissent. Helena bit her lip and looked aside. The glance from Venetia was grateful and surprised.

  “Will you be leaving on your honeymoon very soon, Venetia?” Fitz asked.

  “Yes, this afternoon.”

  “Let us not stand around, then,” said Fitz. “You will have a thousand details to see to between now and then. Shall we start with the luncheon?”

  As gentlemen did not wear wedding bands, Christian was not immediately accosted by questions from his stepmother. But she had to know that he would not have asked to see her alone unless he had something important to say.

  They both bided their time. He inquired into the comforts of the house she and Mr. Kingston had hired for the Season. She spoke of the delightful little garden that had come with. It was not until they’d come to the conclusion of the meal that the topic turned to his private life.

  “Any news concerning your lady from the Rhodesia, my dear?”

  He stirred the coffee that had been put down before him. “Stepmama, you know how I feel about those who do not keep their words.”

  She had sent a note the morning after asking about the dinner, and he’d told her the truth—that he’d been disappointed. He’d also said in the same note that he planned to find out the reason behind his lady’s nonattendance and would let the dowager duchess know a
s soon as he learned anything. On this latter promise he had not quite followed through.

  “Was that all it took to turn your affection? Did you not find out why she broke the appointment?”

  “Yes, I did, as a matter of fact.” The coffee, a very good brew, tasted far too much like the cup he’d been sipping when Mrs. Easterbrook had strode to his table that first night on the Rhodesia. Such an erotic charge she’d brought with her. He hadn’t been able to taste black coffee since without feeling a surge of the same anticipation.

  He poured a liberal amount of sugar and cream into the coffee. “Unfortunately, what I’d thought of as a life-changing event was but a game to her.”

  The dowager duchess pushed away the remainder of her Nesselrode pudding. “Oh, Christian. I’m so sorry.”

  You have no idea. “Let’s speak no more of it. It’s water under the bridge.”

  “Is it?”

  The passage of time had not dulled the pain and humiliation of it. If anything, now that the shock had worn off, now that he knew exactly how she had executed her plan, every memory was an open wound.

  “She used and discarded me; I’ve nothing more to say of her.” Except he had to go on speaking of her. “I meant to tell you: I am married.”

  “I’m sorry, I must have heard you wrong. What did you say?”

  “Mrs. Easterbrook became my wife this morning.”

  She stared at him, her incredulity giving way to shock as she realized he had not spoken in jest. “Why was I not told? Why was I not there?”

  “We chose to elope.”

  “I don’t understand the haste—or the secrecy. In the time it took to obtain a special license you could have very well informed me of your plans.”

  She was the closest thing he had to a mother. He had worried her and now he’d hurt her, all because he’d been too stupid to know he’d been had. “I do apologize. I hope you will forgive me.”

  She shook her head. “You have not offended me, my dear—I am thunderstruck. Why this cloak-and-dagger elopement? And why Mrs. Easterbrook? I was not under the impression that you were particularly fond of her.”