Sherry Thomas - Beguiling the Beauty

“These are faults many girls would be more than willing to overlook.”

“I don’t want my faults overlooked. Members of my staff are there to deal with my eccentricities whether they approve or not. My wife should have the mettle to tell me I’m behaving abominably—if that is the case.”

“So you do know you behave abominably at times,” she mused. “But if you’ve such stringent requirements for a wife, if she must possess intelligence, gravitas, and fearlessness in equal abundance, why did you not start your search sooner? Why limit yourself to one Season and one batch of debutantes? Hardly an astute way to go about it.”

No, it was not. He’d gone about it in the stupidest manner possible, all but assuring that his marriage would be a formal, stilted affair. But this was not something he could admit, no matter how anonymous the baroness was.

“I shall pay for it, no doubt.”

“You sound very British, full of manly forbearance and resignation.”

He adored her acerbic tone. “We are quite bloodless when it comes to such matters. The pursuit of happiness we leave to Americans; romance we consider the specialty of the Continentals.”

She was quiet. The ship rose and fell gently, as if it lay upon the breast of a sleeping giant. The beads on her skirt slid and clicked against one another, like a distant rain of pearls.

They descended two flights of stairs and turned a corner. She stopped. “I’m home.”

He noted the number of her stateroom. “Will I have the pleasure of your company at breakfast?”

“You want to be seen in public with me?” There was an echo of surprise in her voice.

“Should I object to it?”

“You will be known as the man who accompanies the veiled woman.”

“That is more than acceptable to me.”

She stood with her back to the door, her hand on the knob—as if protecting the entrance from him. “And if I say no?”

“You will not be rid of me so easily now, baroness. If you say no to breakfast, I will ask whether you’d like to join me for a stroll after breakfast.”

“And if I say I will join you for breakfast, but won’t ever sleep with you again?”

“You are determined to make me weep, madam.”

He touched his fingers to the edge of her veil, which fell several inches past her chin. The netting slipped weightlessly upon his skin. She would probably have pulled away from him, but he already had her back against a wall—or a door, for that matter.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said.

It was vain to enjoy the slight tremors he caused in her voice, but how he relished them. “The bargain is the same,” he said. “I will do my best to seduce you, and you can walk away anytime you wish. Now, will you meet me for breakfast?”

“No.” Then, after an interminable beat, “I can’t eat with this veil on. I will meet you for a walk.”

He hadn’t really believed she would turn him down altogether. Why then did his heart pound with relief? “Name the time and the place.”

“Nine in the morning. The promenade deck.”

“Excellent.” He leaned in and kissed her lips through the veil. “Good night.”

She slipped inside her stateroom and closed the door gently but firmly in his face.

Venetia leaned her back against the door, unable to take another step.

What had she done?

And what, in God’s name, had been done to her?

Revenge had seemed so simple. Lexington had injured her maliciously and unrepentantly. Therefore Lexington must pay. He dealt with fossils. She dealt with men. Ergo, she must have the upper hand in this very human struggle of theirs, even with her face covered.

Yet here she was, gingerly touching her lips, which still tingled from his chaste parting kiss.

She’d boarded the Rhodesia to punish a man, but he was not that man. He was someone else altogether.

After her marriage to Tony, it was not only her ability to choose a good man she doubted, it was also her ability to make a man—any man—happy. But Lexington, that most severe judge of character, had been almost buoyant in her company. And he now numbered among the few men to whom her appearance truly did not matter.

It was as if she’d set off across the Atlantic to find a route to India, only to encounter a whole new continent.

Had she accosted him in New York, she could have disappeared into the city. But on the Rhodesia she could not hide. And … she did not want to. The duke was affirmation that there was more to her than the shape of her face and the juxtaposition of her features.

Slowly she discarded her clothes, feeling her way to her berth. Under the covers she said her prayers, exhorting the Almighty to watch over Helena and bring the girl back to her senses. She also prayed that on the far side of the Atlantic, Fitz would continue to be patient and discreet, and that back in America, when they found out, Millie and Helena would not worry too much over her second abrupt departure in as many days.

For herself she did not pray—even if she thought her troubles important enough to bother the Good Lord, the fact remained that she no longer had any idea what outcome she wanted from her muddled revenge. So she lay for a long time, her hands over her abdomen, and thought of the spate of incidents and coincidences—beginning with Hastings coming upon Helena three nights in a row—that had brought her to this time, this place, this quandary.

And wished she had a crystal ball to see where it all would lead.

The sea had calmed, but the Rhodesia plowed through steady rain and frigid air. Few souls were out and about on the promenade deck. The Atlantic was a vast expanse of cold, misty gray, its dreariness only occasionally leavened by the zestful leap of a dolphin.

Lexington stared at his pocket watch. She was fifteen minutes late for their stroll. He summoned a steward. The man was to convey Lexington’s compliments to the baroness. Not exactly a subtle reminder, but then she already knew he was not a man who greatly valued subtlety.

As he was giving instructions to the steward, she rounded the corner, clad in a sturdy, black gabardine. The wind expressed a great interest in her umbrella, jerking it about every which direction. Another woman would have looked frantic and clumsy, but she moved with the command and drama of a prima ballerina taking center stage.

He waved the steward away. “You are late, madam.”

“Of course,” she said firmly. Her veil, tied at the base of her throat to counter the wind, blew against her face, hinting at rich lips and high cheekbones. “Ladies are not carriages. We cannot be expected to pull up at the exact appointed hour.”

It was the most charmingly ridiculous excuse he’d ever heard. “What is the appointed hour for, then?”

“You’ve been invited to dinner, have you not, even though you shun Society?”

“I have not thrown myself at the mercy of a London Season, but I do not shun Society when I’m at home. I dine at my neighbors’ houses. I’ve even been known to give dinners.”

A stiff squall nearly made away with her umbrella. He clasped a hand over hers to help her hold on to it. But after the wind had dissipated, he did not let go.

She gave him a look—a hard look, he imagined. But when she spoke again, her voice was not at all severe. “What were we speaking of?”

For some reason, his heart skipped a beat. “Dinners.”

“That’s right.” She pulled the umbrella—and her gloved hand—out of his. “You do not sit down to dinner the moment you walk into the host’s house. Instead, you circulate about and engage in pleasantries with the other guests. And so it is when you rendezvous with a lady. You wait, you pace, and you think of her—it makes her arrival all the more momentous.”

He was a stickler for punctuality. Such tardiness he would not have tolerated in another woman. Yet he found himself smiling. “Are you serious?”

She tilted her head. “My goodness, you’ve never waited for a woman in your life?”

“No.”

“Hmm. Let’s not stand here.” She set out at a brisk pace. “I suppose it makes sense that kept mistresses would wait on you, instead of the other way around. But I can’t believe you’ve never enjoyed a liaison with a lady.”

“I have, but those who didn’t arrive on time found I’d left already.”

He wondered whether he sounded too harsh. He hadn’t meant to reproach her, only to answer her question truthfully.

“You are still here,” she murmured.

“I very much wished to see you again.”

He’d said nothing new. But she dipped her head slightly, then glanced toward him at an angle, almost as if she were feeling shy.

“Did you fret that I wasn’t going to come?”

He hesitated. Honesty was easy when one’s answer was simply an opinion that revealed little of one’s inner thoughts. But the honest answer to this particular question involved not only an acknowledgment of desire, but a confession of greater attachment.

“Yes. I was about to send a steward to remind you that I was waiting.”

“And what were you going to do if that did not bring me rushing into your arms?” She paused. “Send flowers?”

There was a subtle but unmistakable edge to her voice.

He shook his head. “I never send flowers to anyone I wish to know.”

Behind the veil, she might have frowned; certainly she had her face turned toward him, as if expecting him to read her expression. Only a moment later—realizing that he could not see anything, perhaps—did she ask, “What does that mean?”