Sherry Thomas - Beguiling the Beauty

“Everyone should, but not everyone takes the trouble.” He smoothed a strand of her hair that had become tangled. “And do you know why you gave up pursuit of the next great fossil discovery? Because you valued your husband’s happiness above your own. He did not deserve it, but that does not change the fact that you were giving and considerate.”

“Or just a very young girl, very unsure of herself.”

He turned her face and kissed her chin. “Are you trying to make me think less well of you?”

“No, but I don’t want you to think better of me than I deserve.”

She’d pulled her hand from his. He found out, as his fingers moved away from her face, that she’d crossed her hands at the base of her throat, her forearms shielding her breasts. As if she must defend herself anew now that her passion had been spent.

He kissed her shoulder, the skin beneath his lips decadently smooth. “So how do you deserve to be thought of?”

She didn’t reply.

“You are dealing with a man of science, my dear. To change my mind, you must not give only generalizations, but concrete evidence. Or I shall go on thinking that you are a saint in a courtesan’s body.”

She sighed, a reluctant sound. “I’ve already told you I can’t conceive, haven’t I? Eighteen months into our marriage, my husband decided to consult a physician. We would consult a slew of them over the next two years. I’ll”—her voice faltered—“I’ll spare you a detailed description. But you are mistaken if you think he insisted on all the physicians. No, after the first one said I would not conceive, I was the one who went to physician after physician, subjected myself to examination after examination, all because I wanted to prove that he was the one responsible for our childlessness. Would you call that giving and considerate?”

“Maybe not, but you will never convince me to take his side against yours.” In fact, he wanted to disinter the man’s remains to give him a good kick. What kind of bastard would put his wife through such distress? And after only a year and a half, when many marital unions did not produce children for far longer durations. “So, what finally made you give up?”

Her hands clasped tightly onto each other. “One of our maids came to me. My husband had enjoyed her favors in the past. She told me she was increasing, that she had another follower who might be willing to marry her if I provided her with a small dowry. I gave her the money, she left, and I consulted no more physicians.”

He turned her toward him and held her tight. “I’m so sorry.”

“I was terribly young then. I didn’t even want a child. All I wanted was to show my husband how wrong he was about my infertility. I must have believed that if I could do that, then I could prove him wrong in everything else, and that is not how a loving, generous person ought to think.”

“You are wrong,” he said firmly. “Let me tell you something about my stepmother, one of the most loving, generous persons I’ve had the good fortune of knowing. My father, on the other hand, was not. You know what she did? Whenever he brought a new mistress under our roof, she’d throw darts at the portrait of him he gave her for their wedding. We both did, passing some of the most pleasant hours of my youth desecrating his likeness.

“I did not think less of her. Quite to the contrary, I appreciated that she did not make excuses for him. He was an ass; why should she pretend that he wasn’t? And why shouldn’t you want to prove your husband wrong? Unfortunately even a broken clock is correct twice a day, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t wrong the rest of the time.”

Beneath his, her hands unclenched. She gave him a quick kiss on his cheek. “Thank you. I’ve rarely heard sweeter music and certainly never sweeter words.”

He returned a peck on her forehead. “So you will stay the night?”

Her voice was pained. “I might turn into a pumpkin at dawn.”

“I’ll sleep with my blindfold on. No fear of any gourd sighting.”

She giggled. “You’d do that for me?”

“Of course. It’s the least I would do for you.”

She rested her palm against his cheek. “You don’t have to do that—I’ll stay.”

They made love one more time. Afterward, she dozed off easily. He listened to her breaths deepen with sleep, the rhythm and comfort of it a greater intimacy than any he’d ever known.

Christian was the first to awaken—he’d always been an early riser.

He did not find a pumpkin in his bed. Nestled in the crook of his elbow, she remained very much a woman, soft skin, warm arms, smooth hair. She’d kicked off part of the bedcover. In the semidarkness, her feet and calves were shapely, tempting.

If he turned his head, he’d be able to make out her features.

He’d promised her he wouldn’t. But something beyond his honor held him back. It was … freeing to not see her face, to be beyond his own prejudices where a woman’s appearance was concerned.

He lifted the bedcover, walked out of the bedroom, and did not return until he had his blindfold firmly in place.

The woman in the mirror was beautiful.

Venetia stared at herself. Her familiar features had been transformed. By excitement, elation, and caution thrown to the wind. She looked like a woman for whom life was only beginning, rather than one weighed down and calcified by disappointed dreams.

She was not the only one to notice. “Madame est très, très belle ce matin—même plus que d’habitude,” said Miss Arnaud.

Madame is very, very beautiful this morning, even more so than usual.

“Merci,” she murmured.

“On dit que Monsieur le duc est beau.”

One hears that the duke is handsome.

So the rumor of their affair had already spread. It was only to be expected, the Rhodesia being such an idle, contained world.

A knock came at the door. Her pulse rate hastened. Had the duke come to call? She thought it was implicitly understood that her lair—like her identity—was her own.

“’Oo is it?” asked Miss Arnaud.

“Deck stewards,” answered a man with an Irish brogue. “We’ve something for the baroness.”

Stewards. What was this something that required more than one man to deliver?

Three stewards, with the help of a handcart, brought into her stateroom a large, rectangular object wrapped in a tarpaulin.

“From His Grace the Duke of Lexington,” said one of the stewards.

Venetia’s hand went over her mouth. She could not believe it. She directed the men to remove the tarpaulin cover and another cover of canvas.

The duke had indeed given her the fossilized footprints.

“It’s very grand. But me, I prefer chocolat,” said Miss Arnaud.

Chocolate, pah. Venetia would gladly give up chocolate altogether if she could have such a magnificent record of prehistoric life once in a while. She tipped everyone handsomely—Miss Arnaud included. “Buy yourself some chocolate from me.”

When she was alone again, she knelt before the stone slab and, with her cleanest pair of gloves on, traced her fingers over the imprints. “Me,” she murmured, “this is exactly what I prefer.”

Before she left the stateroom to meet with the duke, she looked at herself once more in the mirror. The woman who looked back at her was dazzling, for there was nothing more beautiful than happiness.

The baroness was right: Anticipating her arrival was pleasant, even enjoyable. Christian felt young and excited, a boy who’d been let out of school early.

The day was cold but bright. Passengers thronged the promenade deck, watching pods of dolphins leap and cavort. Lacy parasols bobbed; walking sticks swished and pointed; the mood was as buoyant as the sea.

She appeared like the embodiment of spring in a walking dress of green silk overlaid with a diaphanous film of gauze. The gauze, light and fluttery, caught sunlight much as the sea did, in tremors and bobs, an ever-changing pattern of light and color.

Everyone turned to look: It was easy to see that they had become the juiciest item of gossip on board. He had always been a man of discretion. Now, however, he was conducting an affair in plain view. And not only did he not mind it in the slightest, he felt absurdly cocky that this gorgeously dressed woman was headed for him and him alone.

“I would have come sooner,” she said as she drew up beside him, “but I was delayed.”

“Oh?”

“Thank you for your present. It is far too generous.”

“Not at all. It had never given me as much pleasure as it did when I sent it to you.”

“You have thrilled me thoroughly, Your Grace.”

He smiled at her. “Call me Christian.”

He’d never offered any other lover the familiarity of his given name. She tilted her head. “Are you?”

“Christian? Sometimes. And what should I call you?”

“Hmm. I believe you may call me darling.”

“My darling.” Mein Liebling. “I like it. Adorable.”

She leaned back. He had the distinct impression that behind her veil, she was grinning. “Adorable? I’m shocked the word made it past your lips, sir. I thought you were a stern man.”

He returned her grin. “So did I.”

She tsked. “How the mighty has fallen.”

“When I was little, I sea-bathed off the coast of the Isle of Wight, the Bristol Channel, and sometimes Biarritz, depending on where my father wanted to sail in August. The year I turned sixteen, however, I swam in the Mediterranean for the first time. I spent a week in that gloriously warm water and it spoiled me for the Atlantic forever.” He kissed the back of her gloved hand. “And you, baroness, have ruined for me whatever charms being a stern man once held.”