Sherry Thomas - Beguiling the Beauty

The dowager duchess at last took her seat again. The bewildered kinswoman, however, had disappeared. The woman who faced Venetia was a lioness. “He is much more than a mere collector of fossils, duchess. He is one of the best men I’ve ever met, and his happiness matters intensely to me. If you want him only for his ability to take you to the Karoo beds, well, most of the year he will not be anywhere exotic or exciting. Like any other good squire, he will be looking after his land and its people. And that is what he will require of you. Are you prepared to be a good wife to him?”

Venetia felt a great tension in her draining away. Here was someone who loved him as fiercely as she did. Someone for whom she need not play the Great Beauty.

“I’m sorry I have been so terribly flippant,” she said quietly. “In truth I am heartsick.”

She could see her reflection in the large mirror above the mantel. She looked very much like the kimonoed lady on the Japanese screen, burdened and forlorn.

The dowager duchess’s hands locked in her lap. “Are you?”

“He hasn’t changed his mind about me at all—but I’ve fallen in love with him.”

“I see,” said the dowager duchess, her tone politely incredulous.

“Yes, it’s quite awful. Not to mention that he’d have preferred the lady from the ocean liner.” Venetia looked the dowager duchess in the eye. “I cannot promise to make him happy. But I can promise you, unconditionally, that his well-being will always be foremost on my mind.”

The dowager duchess’s gaze turned thoughtful. “Those opinions he’d expressed at Harvard …”

“About my late husbands? He is misinformed. But I’m afraid his mind is set.”

The older woman made no response. They drank their tea in silence. Elsewhere in the house Venetia’s trunks were being lugged down the stairs. The brougham had already pulled up by the curb. Through the open window came her maid’s voice, cautioning the menservants to have a care with her mistress’s things.

“I must not impose on you any longer,” said the dowager duchess, setting down her teacup.

“Would you like me to give him your regards when I see him or would you prefer that I keep the meeting between ourselves?”

“You may give my regards to him—he must know that I would not have sat on my hands after he gave me such news.”

“Of course. It’s what we do for those we love.”

They rose and shook hands.

“If I may give you one piece of advice,” said the dowager duchess. “If you believe the duke is wrong about you, you must let him know. He can be quite formidable, but he is never closed-minded and never resentful at being corrected.”

The baroness would not have hesitated; Venetia was not sure she had that sort of courage. But she nodded. “I will remember that, Your Grace.”

There was a reason adolescent dreams usually remained in adolescence: They were extravagant and frankly dangerous at times.

She—or rather, the possession of her—had been his adolescent dream. What did it matter that she was already married? In fantasies a husband was no barrier at all. He began to abandon the dream only after his fateful exchange with Anthony Townsend. And even then, not entirely, and not instantly.

The events he’d narrated that day at Harvard University were the stages of his own disenchantment. The incredulity of listening to Townsend, the anger brought about by his untimely death, the disillusionment at her very advantageous second marriage.

But it was not good enough for her that one man out of ten thousand dared to criticize her. No, for his transgression he had to pay with his heart.

And now at this late date she had become his, by law and by God.

His most costly possession sat opposite him in his private rail coach, immensely and imperturbably lovely. He could not imagine that he had held her, touched her, and joined his body to hers. Her beauty was staggering, excessive, as if she were not quite flesh and blood, but an artist’s conjuration, born of a bout of fevered ecstasy.

A beauty with a gravity of its own that bent light. Sunlight slanted in from only one side of the coach, yet she was most assuredly lit from all sides, an even, soft illumination such as a painter might arrange in his studio when he wished to depict an angel—or a saint who came with her own personal nimbus.

For some time she had been as still as an anatomy model; not a ruffle moved on her striped white and gold dress. But now she laid her hands upon the table that separated them and undid the first button on her glove. A blatantly immodest gesture. Or was it? They were not in public, and he, the only other person in the private coach, was her husband.

Her husband. The words, like her beauty, didn’t seem real.

Slowly, almost teasingly, she parted the glove at the wrist, exposing a triangle of skin—skin he had caressed at will on the Rhodesia. And then, with infinite leisure, she pulled at each finger of the glove, easing the kidskin from the hand it encased. Next she removed her other glove.

It would seem only fair that she should have a defect somewhere. Blunt fingers would be a good place to start; knobby knuckles were not too much to ask. But no, her hands were trim, the fingers long and attractively tapered. Even her knuckles were comely.

She raised those bare, winsome hands and untied the hat ribbons beneath her chin, shaking her head slightly as she removed her hat. All of a sudden it was too much. He was again struck dumb by her, unable to breathe, unable to think, unable to do anything but want—her presence tore him apart; and the only way to be made whole again was to consume her, body and soul.

The next minute he realized what had happened to him, but not before she’d caught him staring.

For a decade, I was fixated by her beauty. I wrote an entire article on the evolutionary significance of beauty as a rebuke to myself, that I, who understood the concepts so well, nevertheless could not escape the magnetic pull of one particular woman’s beauty.

She knew. With surgical precision, she had peeled back his layers of defenses, until his heart lay bare before her, all its shame and yearning exposed.

He could have lived with this if only he’d kept his secret whole and buried. But she knew. She knew.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he said. “I may yet divorce you after the child comes.”

Algernon House was magnificent: the marble galleries, the soaring ceilings painted by Italian masters, the library with its collection of fifty thousand volumes, including a Gutenberg Bible and manuscripts by da Vinci.

But what Venetia fell in love with was its vast, beautiful grounds. There was a formal geometric garden anchored by an enormous fountain depicting Apollo and the Nine Muses, a sculpture garden enclosed by ivy-draped walls, and a rose garden that was just beginning to bloom, its air dense with perfume.

The house, with its venerable, weathered sandstone exterior, sat at the edge of a large rolling meadow, just as the land rose into a wooded hill. A shining ribbon of a stream meandered across the meadow, its banks dotted with willows and poplars. A herd of red deer often gathered at the stream; flocks of wild ducks came and went; and occasionally, several Holstein cows would wander into the scene to graze contentedly.

Venetia was well accustomed to the demands of running a household, but she’d never managed an establishment of such scale. Her entire first week, as much as she yearned to explore the grounds for hours upon end, she devoted herself to more pressing tasks instead, learning the house’s rhythms and traditions, meeting with all the upper servants, and wrapping her hands gently but firmly around the reins of her new home.

She also wrote her family daily, describing her waking hours in great detail, so that they would not worry. Or rather, so that they could worry while knowing exactly what was going on in her new life.

In her letters she made very little mention of her new husband: There was not much to say. He spent much of his day in his study. She spent much of her day in her sitting room. The two were in very different parts of the house, and she rarely saw him except at dinner. The dining table was thirty feet long. They each sat at one end. Even without the towering epergnes running down the center of the table, she might need her opera glass to see him properly.

But sometimes, at night, she heard him come into his bedroom.

On their wedding night, after her maid had retired, she’d left her bed and opened the adjoining door a very discreet yet unmistakable crack. She wanted to sleep with him again. After all those hours alone in a private coach, with him close enough to touch and yet so far away, the memories of their nights and days on the Rhodesia warmed her everywhere most inappropriately. Dear God how she longed for him to make love to her again, as a humanitarian mission, if nothing else.

And then she’d waited. He’d come into the room and there had been the usual sounds of a man preparing for bed: splashes of water, plops of garments of various description landing haphazardly, the metallic click of a pocket watch set down on the nightstand.

Suddenly, silence. He’d spied the door, standing ajar in invitation. She licked her lips, wanting him to give in to his weakness, to be overcome by the temptation of her body.

Footsteps, slow and quiet. He came closer and closer to the door, so close that she could almost hear him breathing. More silence, rife with possibilities. Her heart slammed with anticipation of pleasure. Perhaps he might even speak to her afterward.