She sneaked a look at the small mountain of letters by his elbow. He’d looked through the pile, stopped at Venetia’s letter, and read it first. Now he sliced open another letter.
“Who’s that from?” she asked, plastering even more butter on her toast.
“Leo Marsden.”
Mr. Marsden had been in the same house as Fitz at Eton. He’d left England after the annulment of his marriage.
“Is he still in Berlin?”
“No, he’s been in America since autumn last, but says he might be headed to India next.”
The mere mention of India made Millie’s chest tighten.
“And is that butter on toast or toast on butter?” He smiled at her. “If you like, you can serve yourself butter by the block.”
So he’d noticed. She took a bite of her toast—and tasted nothing.
Fitz finished Mr. Marsden’s letter, set it aside to be replied to, and shuffled through the rest of the pile. As she thought would happen, he went still.
Slowly, he turned the envelope over. There he would see the sender’s name, in her bold hand, Mrs. John Englewood, Northbrook Hotel, Delhi. Millie kept her face down and blindly reached for something from her own heap of letters.
From the corner of her eye, she saw that he held only one sheaf of paper. The reverse side, facing her, was half blank—not a very long letter. But that Mrs. Englewood had written at all, when she’d not contacted Fitz since the day of his wedding, was a ground-shifting event.
“The Featherstones have invited us to dinner,” said Millie. It seemed as if she ought to say something, keep up the pretense of normalcy. “Mrs. Brightly has set the date of her wedding to Lord Geoffrey Neels and would like us to attend. And oh, Lady Lambert is canceling her garden party: Her father passed away and she is gone into mourning.”
How boring she sounded. How utterly and terrifyingly tedious. But what could she do? Such were the things she and Fitz said to each other.
He did not even hear her. He’d reached the reverse side of the letter. And when he was done, he immediately turned it over and started from the beginning again.
She no longer bothered to be interested in anything else. He read with a fierce concentration, as if he’d gone through the letter too fast the first time and must now slowly take in every word.
And when he’d finished reading it the second time, he did not place it in the “to-reply” pile alongside Mr. Marsden’s letter, but carefully—envelope and all—slipped it into the inside pocket of his day coat.
She turned her head away, back to the invitations and announcements that mattered nothing at all.
“Mrs. Englewood is returning to England,” said Fitz, his tone remarkably even.
Millie glanced at him—to not give the news at least that much attention would be unnatural. “Captain Englewood has resigned his commission, then?”
Fitz reached for his coffee. “Captain Englewood is no more.”
“Oh,” said Millie. Mrs. Englewood was a widow. The thought clanged loudly in her head. “How did he die? He was your age, wasn’t he?”
“Tropical fever—and he was five years older than me.”
“I see. When did he pass away?”
“March of last year.”
Millie blinked. Mrs. Englewood was not only a widow, but a widow already out of her year-and-a-day deep mourning, free to move in Society. “That was thirteen months ago. How did we not learn sooner?”
“According to her, Captain Englewood’s mother had been in failing health. As she was not expected to last long, when he expired suddenly it was decided to keep the news quiet, as the death of her firstborn would cause her too much grief in her final days. But she lingered on for longer than everyone thought she would.”
Millie felt a sharp pang of sympathy for Captain Englewood’s mother, who no doubt hoped to see her son one last time. “They should have told her the truth. Or she’d have gone to her death thinking he couldn’t spare the time to come see her.”
“They did at last,” said Fitz quietly. “And she passed away ten days later.”
Tears stung the rim of Millie’s eyes. She remembered her own mother’s deathbed. Fitz had moved heaven and earth for her to return to England in time and for that she would always be grateful to him.
She took a deep breath. “When is Mrs. Englewood expected to be back?”
“In June.”
A month before their eight-year pact ran out in July. “In time to have a bit of fun in London, I see. I’m sure she must be looking forward to it.”
Fitz did not answer.
Millie took another bite of her toast, swallowed it with the help of a whole cup of tea, and rose. “Well, look at the time. I’d better get Helena ready. She has a fitting this morning that Venetia made me swear I would not forget.”
“You barely ate anything,” he pointed out.
Why must he also notice that? Why did he do these little things that gave her hope?
“I was already full when you came,” she said. “If you will excuse me.”
Christian worked.
He inspected half of his holdings in person, read innumerable accounts and reports, and even did his duty as a member of the House of Lords. His peers were astonished to see him: The Dukes of Lexington had always taken a seat in the Upper House, but this particular duke, famously indifferent to politics, rarely presented himself in Parliament.
Books and letters stuffed all the remaining minutes of his waking hours.
But he needn’t have been so meticulous. His mind, so long geared toward truth and rationality, now revealed itself to be quite capable of the sort of self-deception he had formerly scorned. For nearly a whole week, like a tiptoeing night burglar, he successfully skirted any and all memories and discernments that could raise the least alarm.
Then everything came crashing down. Logic was inexorable. Truth would not be denied. The evidence, having bided its time, waited for his mind to be lulled into a state of false security to mount an all-out assault on his slumbering defenses.
There was never a Baroness von Seidlitz-Hardenberg. There was only ever Mrs. Easterbrook. And he’d confided everything to her.
Everything.
No wonder she’d been so eager to depart the Rhodesia. She’d extracted all knowledge of his inner turbulences; there was nothing else left to learn. And no wonder she’d been so smug every time he’d encountered her since. Forevermore she’d be able to look at him and laugh, knowing just how well and truly she’d subjugated him.
Her scheme was sordid; its success, overwhelming. And he had participated wholeheartedly and loved her with everything good and worthwhile in him.
He threw the gold-embossed menus that had been printed for the dinner at the Savoy in the fire and blanketed the ashes with all the letters he’d written her, one for every day leading up to the dinner, and the last while he awaited the Rhodesia’s return from Hamburg. He could not quite believe it: He still wrote her after she’d reneged on her promise and given back his gift. He’d only stopped after he saw the plaque bearing her maiden name at the museum.
He prodded the burning letters with the fireplace poker. The poker was solid and heavy in his hand. He wanted to smash something with it, a great many somethings: the marble mantel, the gilt-framed mirror, the Sèvres vases. He wanted to destroy the room until nothing remained but rubble and wreckage.
But he was Christian de Montfort, the Duke of Lexington. He did not make a spectacle of his pain. He did not give in to childish rages. And he would maintain his dignity and composure, even when his heart had been dragged through a forest of knives.
A knock came at the door. Christian frowned. He’d made it clear to his staff that he was not to be disturbed. His staff was well trained and highly competent. He could only assume that there had been an emergency.
“Mrs. Easterbrook to see you, Your Grace,” said Owens, the head footman.
His heart pounded violently. Come to gloat, had she?
&n
bsp; “Did I not specify that I am not at home this afternoon?”
“You did, sir,” said Owens apologetically. “But Mrs. Easterbrook, she said you’d wish to see her.”
Indeed, how could anyone believe, gazing upon her radiant, hypnotic beauty, that he did not want to see her?
To reprimand Owens would be counterproductive. And for her to call on him, to acknowledge this fraud of hers, was a kindness, whether she understood it or not. Let them end their affair today with a complete rupture, everything laid out in the open, all illusions and false hopes lined up and shot.
“I will see her here,” he said, “in five minutes.”
He needed at least that much time to put himself together.
Venetia was faintly surprised Christian agreed to see her—faintly as she was not capable of feeling much else besides terror, a bloated thing with claws in her stomach and tentacles up her throat.
Her days away from London had been good for her health—a more Spartan diet had quieted her stomach and averted further episodes of morning sickness—but her mind had grown increasingly troubled as she considered her choices.
She was fortunate to possess both funds and freedom of movement. She could choose to spend autumn and winter somewhere abroad, give birth in secret, and find a good foster home for the child here in England—if, that was, she could bear to be parted from the child.
She’d thought with great seriousness of begging Fitz and Millie for help. Millie could go away with her and then return to England pretending the child were hers. It was as good a solution as could be found under the circumstances. She trusted her brother and sister-in-law to be good parents, and she herself, as the doting aunt, could visit as often as she wanted and watch the child grow up.
Were the baby a boy, however, he’d be considered Fitz’s heir. And Fitz and Millie’s own firstborn son, should they have one in the future, would be robbed of his rightful inheritance. Other seemingly infertile couples had produced children after long droughts, and it would be selfish of Venetia to assume that Fitz and Millie wouldn’t.
Which led her to the option of marrying, herself. Finding a suitable groom should not be an impossible task. There were other men like Mr. Easterbrook. Failing that, perhaps a widower with sons of his own, sufficiently enamored of her to not mind giving his name to someone else’s child.
But her thoughts always came back to the duke. The child was his. He might not want his flesh and blood raised in another man’s household. And perhaps, just perhaps, he deserved to know that he was about to become a father.
Except, for him to know, she’d have to confess everything, the prospect of which had caused her to flee as if he were Mount Vesuvius and she a hapless resident of Pompeii. How could she voluntarily face his wrath?
And yet here she was, in the anteroom of his house, her palms damp, her stomach pitching, her heart beating so hard she was nearly cross-eyed.
The footman reappeared. “This way, please, Mrs. Easterbrook.”
She walked, but couldn’t quite feel her feet. It was not yet too late to turn around and take flight, reasoned the voice of her self-preservation. The duke was not going to chase her out into the streets to find out why she’d come to see him.
Run. You only believe you can do it because you have not thought this through. This confession is not some short-lived pain to be endured for half an hour. You have no idea what he is going to do. If he chooses to, he could make you miserable for the rest of your life.
The footman opened the door to a study. “Mrs. Easterbrook, sir.”
Her throat tightened. She couldn’t even swallow. She teetered upon the threshold—two seconds or a hundred years?—then suddenly she was inside, the footman leaving, closing the door behind her.
Almost immediately her eyes were drawn to a photograph on the mantel. She’d been too nerve-stricken to notice anything of the house, but this portrait she saw all too clearly: the young duke and his stepmother, each holding a handful of darts, standing together next to a tree.
We threw darts at a tree instead.
He had been honest and forthright. She had been everything but. And now she must suffer the consequences of her action.
The duke did not rise to greet her; he was already standing before a window. “Mrs. Easterbrook,” he said without turning around, surveying the street beneath. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
She had racked her brains over how to approach the matter, but only the simplest words emerged from her parched throat. “Your Grace, I am with child.”
His head lifted abruptly. An awful silence smothered the room. At last he said, “And what do you want me to do about it?”
“The child is yours.”
“You are certain?”
His sangfroid momentarily shocked her out of her fright. He ought to be outraged, and yet here he was, acting as if the only unexpected news was her pregnancy.
“You know it was me on the Rhodesia? How?”
“Does it matter?” His tone was arctic.
She looked down at the carpet. Her actions were egregious enough. But for him to have discovered her deceit on his own somehow made everything worse. “To answer your previous question, yes, I am certain the child is yours.”
“You are a wealthy woman. I imagine you have not come to ask for money.”
“No, I have not.”
“What do you want?”
“I—I hoped you might advise me on that.”
“Why do you think I’d have advice to offer? Do I appear to be in the habit of regularly impregnating women?”
“No, of course not.”
“And did you not inform me that you could not conceive?”
Did he think that she’d have deliberately misled him, in order to put herself in this untenable situation? “I did.”
“How do I know you are telling the truth?”
“Concerning my erstwhile infertility? I can give you the names of the physicians who examined me.”
“No, concerning your current state of health.”
He meant her pregnancy. Her head spun. “You think I’d lie about it?”
She regretted it immediately: That was precisely the wrong thing to say.
He did not miss the opportunity. “You must admit, Mrs. Easterbrook, you lie about an astonishing range of things.”
She took a deep breath. “I will admit that I can hardly consider myself creditable before you. But what advantage does it garner me to pretend that I am with child when I am not? The situation presents only inconvenience.”
“Oh, I’m sure there is no advantage at all to carrying my child.”
She had not imagined their conversation could turn in this particular direction. Was it truly so advantageous to be an unmarried woman carrying the Duke of Lexington’s child?
Or was he in denial, as she had been? To accept the pregnancy as fact was to accept that there was no walking away from this affair, that its significance would reverberate in his life for the foreseeable future and beyond.
“Is there not a scientific principle that the simplest explanation tends to be the correct one?”
“And what is your simple explanation, Mrs. Easter-brook?”
“That I was stupid and did not prepare for the possibility of conception.”
He turned around at last. Her heart ached. He’d become even thinner, his cheekbones prominent and sharp.
“What did you prepare for?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A woman such as yourself does not cover her face without a reason. What did you mean to achieve?”
She wanted to explain her entire life leading up to his lecture at Harvard, the bouquet that had been sent to her room by mistake, and her rage-driven, slightly incoherent scheme. She wanted to tell him how he’d upended her entire plan and laid siege to her heart. And she wanted to let him know that it was the greatest mistake of her life, not revealing herself the moment she realized that she’d fallen in love.
Because he was a man trained to examine only facts, and the following were the indisputable facts: She had seduced him under false pretenses; she had wrested a proposal of marriage from him; she had promptly disappeared; and she had subsequently reneged on her promise to meet him again, all the while dancing with him, speaking with him, and watching him fester in his anxiety and misery.
He would not care to listen that she had changed her mind. That it had been wrenching for her to let him go—and even more so to stand before him a despised stranger. These emotions could not be scientifically tested; therefore they were nonfactors, utterly invalid and irrelevant.
She already knew this. She’d known all this from the beginning. But the pregnancy must have destroyed her common sense. Because she had come terrified but not without a sliver of hope—that she might be able to elucidate matters, to shed such a powerfully reasonable light on them that he would see her point of view.
When her love was the single most irrational and inexplicable aspect in this entire story.
“Have you anything to say for yourself?” he asked.
The coolness of his voice sent sharp pains though her. She had feared condemnation. She had never thought she’d prefer condemnation to dismissal. A condemnation was a passionate gesture, fueled by strength of feeling. A dismissal was … nothing at all.
She could not speak to a dismissal of love and helpless yearning. She could not speak to a dismissal of waiting outside his town house for a glimpse of him. She could not speak to a dismissal of her hopes for the future, of moving beyond this impasse and forging ahead.
Before a dismissal, and particularly one as grand and condescending as his, she had no choice but to be the Great Beauty. The Great Beauty did not have much to recommend her. But no one dismissed the Great Beauty.
Beguiling the Beauty Page 18