All the more convenient for conducting an illicit affair. “Does Fitz suspect anyone else?” Venetia asked without much hope.
“Not among those at Huntington.”
If Helena’s lover was indeed Mr. Martin, this would not end well. Were they to be discovered, the Fitzhugh family wouldn’t even be able to pressure him to do the honorable thing by Helena—for Mr. Martin remained very much married, his wife as robust as a vintage claret.
Venetia rubbed her temples. “What does Fitz think we should do?”
“Fitz is going to exercise restraint—for now. He is worried that he might do Helena more harm than good by confronting Mr. Martin. What if Mr. Martin is not the one? Then word might leak that Helena was out and about when she ought not to be.”
A woman’s reputation was as fragile as a dragonfly’s wings. “Thank goodness Fitz is levelheaded.”
“Yes, he is very good in a crisis,” said Millie, slipping the letter into her pocket. “Do you think it will help to introduce the duke to Helena?”
“No, but we still must try.”
“Let us hope the duke does not fall for the wrong sister,” said Millie with a small smile.
“Pah,” said Venetia. “I am nearly middle-aged and almost certainly older than he is.”
“I’m sure His Grace will be more than willing to overlook a very minor age difference.”
“I’ve had more than my share of husbands and plan to be happily unmarried for the rest of my—”
Footsteps. Helena’s.
“Of course I shan’t bestow my hand freely,” Venetia said, raising her voice. “But if the duke woos me with a monster of a fossil, who knows how I might reward him.”
Helena listened carefully. Venetia was in her bath. Millie had gone to change out of her walking gown. She should be safe enough.
She pulled aside the curtain and opened the window of the parlor. The boy she’d employed to take her letters to Andrew directly to the post office was there, waiting. The boy had his hand extended. She set a letter and two shining copper pennies in his palm and quickly closed the window again.
Now on to the letters that had arrived for her in the afternoon. She looked for any that had come in Fitzhugh & Co.’s own envelopes. Before she’d left England, she’d given a supply of those to Andrew with the instruction to have her American address typed on the front once he had it. Then he was to draw a small asterisk under the postage stamp, so that she might know it was from him and not her secretary.
Except on this particular letter, he did not put an asterisk, but a tiny heart beneath the queen’s likeness. She shook her head fondly. Oh, her sweet Andrew.
My Dearest,
What joy! What bliss! When I called at the poste restante office in St. Martin’s le Grand this morning, there were not one, not two, but three letters from you. My pleasure is all the greater for the disappointment of the past two days, when my trips into London bore no fruits at the post office.
And as for your question, the work on volume three of A History of East Anglia comes along slowly. King Æthelberht is about to be killed and Offa of Mercia soon to subjugate the kingdom. For some reason I rather dread this part of the history, but I believe my pace should pick up again when I reach the rebellion thirty years later that would restore independence to the Kingdom of the East Angles.
I’d like to write more. But I must be on my way home—I am due to call on my mother at Lawton Priory and you know how much she deplores unpunctuality, especially mine.
So I will end with a fervent wish for your early return.
Your servant
Helena shook her head. She’d instructed Andrew never to sign his name on his letters. That precaution became moot when he referred to both his book and his mother’s house by name. But this was not his fault. If he were capable of subterfuge, he wouldn’t be the man she loved.
She was tucking the letter into the inside pocket of her jacket when Venetia returned to the room, smiling. “What do you say we make a foray to Boston tomorrow, my love, and see what their milliners have to offer? Those hats you’ve brought are perfectly serviceable for speaking to professors and lady students. But we must do better for meeting dukes.”
“He will have eyes only for you.”
“Balderdash,” said Venetia firmly. “You are one of the loveliest women I know. Besides, if he has any sense, he will know that the best way to judge a woman is to observe how she treats other women. And when he sees you with your plain hat from two Seasons ago, he will immediately conclude that I am a selfish cow who ornaments myself like a Christmas tree and leaves you dressed in rags.”
If Venetia wanted Helena to believe that she was interested in the duke, then she shouldn’t have spent the four years since she became a widow for the second time cordially turning down every proposal that had come her way. In fact, Helena was convinced Venetia would swim the English Channel before she took another husband.
But Helena would play along, as she’d played along since Venetia unexpectedly turned up at Huntington. “All right, then, but only for you, and only because you are getting on in years and soon will only have gentlemen callers when they mistake your door for their grandmother’s.”
Venetia laughed, spectacularly beautiful. “Piffle. Twenty-nine isn’t that old—yet. But it’s true I might not have another chance of becoming a duchess if this one goes by. So you’d better have a proper hat.”
“I will allow you to select one for me that looks like a carnival.”
Venetia placed her arm around Helena. “Wouldn’t it be marvelous if you met the perfect man this Season and accepted his proposal? Then we could have a double wedding.”
I’ve already met the perfect man. I won’t marry anyone else.
Helena smiled. “Yes, wouldn’t it?”
CHAPTER 2
She was dressing—buttoning her combination, pulling on her stockings, stepping into her petticoat, her motions unhurried, dancerlike. Her back was to him, but the vanity mirror provided an unobstructed view of the rest of her. He remained in bed, his head propped up on his palm, and watched the ripple and sway of her dark, unbound hair.
Outside, a woodpecker tapped diligently. Inside, the late afternoon sun receded from the room, the wedge of dappled, coppery light on the ceiling growing ever more indistinct. Her twilit beauty was less precise—as if she had been turned into an Impressionist painting, brushstrokes of color and shadow. He could look at her without feeling as if he must shield his eyes or risk damaging them.
He reached out, took a loose curl of her hair, and wound it about his fingers, bringing her closer to him.
She acquiesced easily, sitting down at the edge of the bed and looping an arm around his shoulders. “Haven’t you had enough of me?” she asked, smirking.
“Never.”
“Well, no more for you now, sir—I must summon my maid. And why aren’t you getting ready?”
He stroked the inside of her elbow. “I’ll start in another quarter hour. Meanwhile I’ll use you to help me pass the time.”
She laughed and slipped away from his grasp. “Later. After the ball—maybe.”
The woodpecker struck ever louder.
Christian bolted upright in his bed. The room was dim, its recesses murky; the fire in the grate had burned down to embers. There was no one with him, beautiful or otherwise. It was the morning of his Harvard lecture and someone was knocking at his door.
“Come in,” he said.
Parks, his valet, entered. “Good morning, Your Grace.”
“Morning,” he said, flinging aside the covers and getting out of bed.
The dream, which he’d never experienced before, had been so real. He could have described the translucent muslin curtain on the window, the stylized vines of the Oriental carpet on which she’d stood, the exact length and texture of her hair.
But it was not the intensity of the details that had disoriented him—after some of his more prurient dreams, he could have drawn her with
great anatomical precision. Rather, it was the affectionate domesticity, the easy intimacy and sweetness.
“Sir,” said Parks. “Your water grows cold. Shall I fetch you another basin?”
How long had Christian been standing before the washstand, daydreaming, the way a petty thief might yearn toward the vault beneath the Bank of England?
Another five years had passed since he last saw Mrs. Easterbrook, outside the British Museum of Natural History. Some days he sincerely believed he’d outgrown his adolescent obsession. On one such day he’d promised his stepmother that after the lectures at Harvard and Princeton, he’d be in London for the entire Season—to do his duty and find a wife.
Mrs. Easterbrook, who had an unwed sister, was certain to be in London. As the latter’s chaperone she’d frequent many of the same occasions he’d be expected to attend. They might be introduced. There could even be occasions when, for civility’s sake, he must speak to her.
“Your Grace?” Parks asked again.
Christian stepped aside from the washbasin. “Do as you see fit.”
She looks stunning, does she not?” Venetia asked Millie.
For the occasion of the duke’s lecture, Helena had donned a promenade gown of deep green velvet. Bridget, Millie’s maid, hovered behind Helena, making sure the drapes of the skirt fell just right.
“She is a vision,” Millie readily agreed. “I love a redhead in green.”
Venetia turned to Millie. “And may I add that you, too, look very well.” The mustard color of Millie’s dress, problematic on most women, somehow worked to her advantage, making her look fresh and unexpected. “The duke will conclude I am a devoted sister and sister-in-law and an upstanding woman. Then he will promptly ask me to curate his private museum.”
Helena shook her head. “Always the fossils.”
Venetia grinned. “Always.”
She felt more optimistic than she had reason to be. But they’d had a good time the past week, touring the backcountry of Connecticut and the pretty islands of Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket. Helena had seemed more like her old self than she had in a while. And Venetia was hopeful that by the end of the trip, she would come to fully realize the error of her ways.
Helena was not flighty or thoughtless. In fact, she was usually an exceptionally astute judge of character.
After their first meeting with Millie, during which the latter had said not above ten words, Helena had told Venetia, Fitz is lucky. She will be a good wife to him. Millie had proved to be the best wife a man could hope for.
And, of course, there had been the memorable occasion, so many years ago, when Venetia, eagerly in love, had pressed Helena for what she thought of Tony. Helena had answered reluctantly that he seemed to “lack a certain inner strength.”
How right she had been. Which had made it twice as shocking that she, of all people, would behave in a manner that would jeopardize her entire future.
Bridget, satisfied with Helena’s dress, turned to Millie. “Will you be needing anything else, mum?”
“No, and you may have the rest of the day off.”
“Thank you, mum.”
On this trip, they’d brought only Bridget. Venetia’s maid, Hattie, suffered from terrible seasickness and had stayed behind. Helena’s maid had left service a year ago to marry and was never replaced.
Venetia had not thought much of it at that time—Helena stayed with either Venetia or Fitz and Millie and it was easy enough for Hattie or Bridget to see to her. Now she wondered whether the oversight had been deliberate on Helena’s part. Without a maid whose duties revolved entirely around her, Helena had one fewer person to keep track of her movements.
Had Helena planned her affair, clearing the obstacles one by one? Venetia did not relish the possibility.
Well, Helena could still change her mind. Perhaps the sight of a very proper, very unmarried young man was just the nudge she needed. And surely it must be providence, or the duke, who’d been as elusive as the Holy Grail for so long, would not suddenly appear at this particular juncture in their lives.
Venetia reached for her gloves. “I am ready to cast my eyes upon Lexington. Anyone else?”
They arrived half an hour early, but Sanders Theatre, the Harvard auditorium, was already packed. Only in the last row did they manage to find three seats together.
Millie glanced about. “My goodness, look at all the women in attendance.”
Helena adjusted the angle of her new, suitably opulent hat. “Not surprising when the lecturer is a young, rich duke. It looks like you will have competition, Venetia.”
“Maybe they are just curious,” said Venetia breezily. “With so many of their grand heiresses marrying our penniless lords, they must be dying to see what an Englishman who doesn’t need money looks like.”
“You’ve never seen one of those, either, right, Millie?” Helena teased.
“Not in my marriage I have not.” Millie chortled.
“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.”
Beguiling the Beauty Page 3