Beguiling the Beauty Page 2

  Townsend, however, was undaunted. “I didn’t say we’ve met, but I know your face from somewhere. Yes, I remember now. Lord’s Cricket Ground, two years ago. You were in a Harrow striped cap, gawking at my wife.”

  Christian’s reflection in a window, a stark etching of light against the dimness of the street beyond, showed a man stunned into stillness, as if he’d stared directly into Medusa’s face.

  “I can’t remember what my maids look like, but I remember the faces of all the men who salivate after my wife.” Townsend’s tone was strangely listless, as if he was beyond caring.

  Christian’s face burned, but he remained silent: No matter how vulgar it was to discuss one’s wife in this manner—and berate those who coveted her—Townsend was within his rights.

  “You remind me of someone,” Townsend went on. “Are you related to the late Duke of Lexington?”

  If Christian admitted his identity, would Townsend blacken his name before the missus? He watched his lips move in the window. “The late duke was my father.”

  “Yes, of course. You’d be Lexington, then. She’d be thrilled to know that someone with your exalted stature considers her a prize.” Townsend chortled, a dry, humorless sound. “You may yet have your wish, Your Grace. But think twice. Or you may end up like me.”

  This time Christian could not help his scorn. “Speaking to strangers about my wife, you mean? I don’t think so.”

  “I didn’t think I’d be the sort, either,” Townsend shrugged. “Forgive me, sir, for detaining you with my unmanly bleating.”

  He bowed. Christian returned a curt nod.

  It was not until the next day that he wondered what Townsend had meant by “you may yet have your wish.”

  Townsend’s obituary was in the paper within the week. Shocked, Christian made inquiries and learned that Townsend had been on the verge of bankruptcy. Moreover, he owed massive amounts to jewelers both in London and on the Continent. Had he been driven to accumulate those debts to keep his wife happy, so that her gaze would not stray to overeager admirers ready to step in with lavish gifts for her favors?

  A year and a day after his death, Mrs. Townsend married again—a scandalously early remarriage when the regulation mourning period was two years. Her new husband, a Mr. Easterbrook, was a wealthy man thirty years her senior. Soon came rumors of a rampant affair she conducted right under Mr. Easterbrook’s nose, with one of his best friends, no less.

  Evidently Christian’s beloved was a shallow, greedy, selfish woman who injured and diminished those around her.

  He forced himself to accept the truth.

  It was not terribly difficult to avoid her. He did not move in the same circles as she, did not attend the London Season, and did not follow the fashionable calendar of events. Therefore he should not have run into her coming out of the Waterhouse Building on Cromwell Road, which housed the British Museum’s natural history collections.

  Almost five years had elapsed since he last saw her. The passage of time had only enhanced her beauty. She was more radiant, more magnetic, and more dangerous than ever.

  A wildfire raged in his heart. It didn’t matter what kind of woman she was; it only mattered that she become his.

  He turned and walked away.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Author’s Note

  Ravishing the Heiress

  CHAPTER 1

  Cambridge, Massachusetts

  1896

  The ichthyosaur skeleton at Harvard’s Museum of Comparative Zoology was incomplete. But the fish lizard was one of the first to be found on American soil, in the state of Wyoming, and the American university was understandably eager to put it on exhibit.

  Venetia Fitzhugh Townsend Easterbrook stepped closer to look at its tiny teeth, resembling the blade of a serrated bread knife, which indicated a diet of soft-bodied marine organism. Squid, perhaps, which had been abundant in the Triassic seas. She examined the minuscule bones of its flappers, fitted together like rows of kernels on the cob. She counted its many rib bones, long and thin like the teeth of a curved comb.

  Now that this semblance of scientific scrutiny had been performed, she allowed herself to step back and take in the creature’s length, twelve feet from end to end, even with much of its tail missing. She would not lie. It was always the size of these prehistoric beasts that most enthralled her.

  “I told you she’d be here,” said a familiar voice that belonged to Venetia’s younger sister, Helena.

  “And right you are,” said Millie, the wife of their brother, Fitz.

  Venetia turned around. Helena stood five feet eleven inches in her stockings. As if that weren’t attention-grabbing enough, she also had red hair, the most magnificent head of it since Good Queen Bess, and malachite green eyes. Millie, at five feet three inches, with brown hair and brown eyes, disappeared easily into a crowd—though that was a mistake on the part of the crowd, as Millie was delicately pretty and much more interesting than she let on.

  Venetia smiled. “Did you find interviewing the parents fruitful, my dears?”

  “Somewhat,” answered Helena.

  The upcoming graduating class of Radcliffe, a women’s college affiliated with Harvard University, would be the first to have the Harvard president’s signature on their diplomas—a privilege roundly denied their English counterparts at Lady Margaret Hall and Girton. Helena was on hand to write about the young ladies of this historic batch for the Queen magazine. Venetia and Millie had come along as her chaperones.

  On the surface, Helena, an accomplished young woman who had studied at Lady Margaret Hall and currently owned a small but thriving publishing firm, seemed the perfect author for such an article. In reality, she had vehemently resisted the assignment.

  But her family had evidence that Helena, an unmarried woman, was conducting a potentially ruinous affair. This presented quite a quandary. Helena, at twenty-seven, had not only come of age long ago, but had also come into her inheritance—in other words, too old and too financially independent to be coerced into more decorous conduct.

  Venetia, Fitz, and Millie had agonized over what to do to protect this beloved sister. In the end, they’d decided to remove Helena from the source of temptation without ever mentioning their reasons, in the hope that she’d come to her senses when she’d had some time to reflect upon her choices.

  Venetia had all but bribed the editor of the Queen to offer the American assignment to Helena, then proceeded to wear down Helena’s opposition to leaving England. They’d arrived in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts at the beginning of the spring term. Since then, Venetia and Millie had kept Helena busy with round after round of interviews, class visits, and curriculum studies.

  But they wouldn’t be able to keep Helena on this side of the Atlantic for much longer. Instead of forgetting, absence seemed to have made Helena’s heart yearn ever more strenuously for the one she’d left behind.

  As expected, Helena began to mount another protest. “Millie tells me you’ve even more interviews arranged. Surely I’ve collected more than enough material for an article. Any more and I’ll be looking at a whole book on the subject.”

  Venetia and Millie exchanged a glance.

  “It may not be a bad idea to have enough material for a monograph. You can be your own publisher,” said Millie, in that quiet, gentle way of hers.

  “True, but as outstanding as I find the ladies of the Radcliffe College, I do not intend to devote much more of my life to them,” answered Helena, an edge to her voice.
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  Twenty-seven was a difficult age for an unmarried woman. Proposals became scarce, the London Season less a thrill than one long drudgery. Spinsterhood breathed down her neck, yet in spite of it, she must still be accompanied everywhere by either a servant or a chaperone.

  Was that why Helena, whom Venetia had thought the most clear-eyed of them all, had rebelled and decided she no longer wished to be sensible? Venetia had yet to ask that question. None of them had. What they all wanted was to pretend that this misstep on Helena’s part never happened. To acknowledge it was to acknowledge that Helena was careening toward ruin—and none of them could put a brake to the runaway carriage that was her affair.

  Venetia linked arms with Helena. It was better for her to be kept away from England for as long as possible, but they must finesse the point, rather than force it.

  “If you are sure you have enough material, then I’ll write the rest of the parents we have contacted for interviews and tell them that their participation will no longer be required,” she said, as they pushed open the doors of the museum.

  A cold gust greeted them. Helena pulled her cloak tighter, looking at once relieved and suspicious. “I’m sure I have enough material.”

  “Then I will write those letters as soon as we’ve had our tea. To tell you the truth, I’ve been feeling a little restless myself. Now that you are finished with your work, we can take the opportunity to do some sightseeing.”

  “In this weather?” Helena said incredulously.

  Spring in New England was gray and harsh. The wind blew like needles against Venetia’s cheeks. The redbrick buildings all about them looked as dour and severe as the university’s Puritan founders. “Surely you are not going to let a little chill dissuade you. We won’t be coming back to America anytime soon. We should see as much of the continent as we can before we leave.”

  “But my firm—I can’t keep neglecting it.”

  “You are not. You’ve kept fully abreast of all the developments.” Venetia had seen how many letters Helena received from her publishing firm. “In any case, we are not keeping you away indefinitely. You know we must return you to London for the Season.”

  A huge blast of cold air almost made away with her hat. A man putting up handbills on the sidewalk had trouble holding on to his stack. One escaped his grasp and flew toward Venetia. She barely caught it before it pasted onto her face.

  “But—” Helena began again.

  “Oh come, Helena,” said Venetia, her tone firm. “Are we to think you do not enjoy our company?”

  Helena hesitated. Nothing had been said in the open, and perhaps nothing ever would be, but she had to suspect the reason for their precipitous departure from England. And she had to feel at least a little guilty for roundly abusing the trust her family had accorded her.

  “Oh all right,” she grumbled.

  Millie, on Venetia’s other side, mouthed, Well done. “And what does the handbill say?”

  Venetia had entirely forgotten the piece of paper she’d caught. She tried to open it to its full dimensions but the wind kept flapping it back and forth—then ripped it from her hand altogether, leaving only a corner that said American Society of Nat.

  “Is this the same one?” Millie pointed at a lamppost they’d just passed.

  The handbill, glued to the lamppost, read,

  American Society of Naturalists and Boston Society of Natural History jointly present

  Lamarck and Darwin: Who was right?

  His Grace the Duke of Lexington

  Thursday, March 26, 3 PM

  Sanders Theatre, Harvard University

  Open to the Public

  “My goodness, it’s Lexington.” Venetia gripped Millie’s arm. “He’s going to speak here next Thursday.”

  English peerage had suffered from a collective decline in prosperity, brought on by plunging agricultural income. Everywhere one turned, another lordship was brought to his knees by leaking roofs and blocked flues. Venetia’s brother, Fitz, for instance, had had to marry for money at nineteen when he had unexpectedly inherited a crumbling earldom.

  The Duke of Lexington, however, had no such troubles. He benefitted handsomely from owning nearly half of the best tracts in London, given to the family by the crown when much of the land had been mere grazing grounds.

  He was rarely seen in Society—the joke often went that if a young lady wanted a chance at his hand, she had to have a map in one hand and a shovel in the other. He could afford to be elusive: He had no need to jostle before the heiresses du jour, hoping his lordliness would harpoon him a whale of a fortune. Instead, he traveled to remote places, excavated fossil sites, and published articles in scientific journals.

  Which was too bad. In fact, when Venetia and Millie commiserated between themselves over yet another failed Season for Helena, they invariably dragged Lexington into the conversation.

  She said Belfort wasn’t serious enough.

  I’ll bet Lexington is made of solemnity and high-mindedness.

  She thought Linwood smirked too much.

  A quid says Lexington never experienced a lecherous thought in his life.

  Widmore is too much of a fuddy-duddy. Helena is convinced he’d complain about her endeavors.

  Lexington is modern and eccentric—a man who digs fossils wouldn’t object to a woman who publishes books.

  They were not quite serious. Lexington in reality was probably arrogant and awkward, as reclusive eccentrics often were. But as long as he remained beyond introduction, they could look to him as a faint beam of hope in their increasingly demoralized endeavor.

  That it had been so difficult to find Helena a husband mystified everyone. Helena was lovely, intelligent, and personable. She’d never struck Venetia as unreasonable or particularly hard to please. And yet since her first Season, she’d dismissed perfectly likable, eligible gentlemen out of hand as if they were a passel of murdering outlaws who also defecated on the lawn.

  “You’ve always wanted to meet Lexington, haven’t you, Venetia?” asked Millie.

  Interesting how Millie, with her quiet, trustworthy demeanor, made the most convincing liar of them all. Venetia took her cue. “He likes fossils. That’s quite enough to endear a man to me.”

  They were cutting across the grounds of the law school. The bare trees shivered in the wind. The lawns were invisible beneath the previous day’s blanket of snow. The main lecture hall, rotund and Romanesque, had probably been a revolt against the rest of the university’s severely rectangular architectural uniformity.

  A group of students coming toward them slowed to a halt, gaping at Venetia. She nodded absently in their direction.

  “So you plan to attend the lecture?” asked Helena, looking over the flyer. “It’s more than a week away.”

  “True, but he has been impossible to meet at home. Do you know, I hear he has his own private natural history museum at Algernon House? I should be like a cat in cream, were I the mistress of that manor.”

  Helena frowned slightly. “I’ve never heard you mention a particular interest in him.”

  Because she had none. But what kind of a sister would she be if she didn’t make sure that the most eligible—and possibly the most suitable—bachelor in all of England was introduced to Helena? “Well, he is a good prospect. It would be a shame to not meet him when I can. And while we wait for him, we can begin our sightseeing. There are some lovely islands off Cape Cod, I hear. Connecticut is said to be very pretty, and Montreal is just a quick rail journey away.“

  “How exciting,” seconded Millie.

  “A little rest and relaxation before the Season begins in earnest,” said Venetia.

  Helena pressed her lips together. “The duke had better be worth the trouble.”

  “A man rich in both pound sterling and fossils?” Venetia pretended to fan herself. “He shall be worth every trouble. You’ll see.”

  I have a letter from Fitz,” said Millie.

  Helena was in the bath, and Venetia
and Millie were alone in the parlor of the cottage they’d leased for their time at Radcliffe College.

  Venetia moved closer to Millie and lowered her voice. “What does he say?”

  In January Helena had gone to Huntington, Lord Wrenworth’s country seat, chaperoned by her friend Mrs. Denbigh. Fitz’s best friend, Viscount Hastings, had also been in attendance. Hastings left the house party early and called on Fitz and Millie at their seat, where Venetia also happened to be visiting. He told them that while at Huntington, for three consecutive nights he’d seen Helena walking back to her room at four o’clock in the morning.

  Venetia had immediately set out for Huntington, showing up brimming with smiling apologies for missing her sister too much. There were still rooms at Huntington, but she’d insisted on sharing one with Helena and made sure never to let Helena out of her sight.

  Then they’d squirreled Helena out of the country as quickly as they could, and left Fitz to ascertain the identity of Helena’s partner in sin.

  “Including Huntington, she’d attended four house parties since the end of the Season—five, if you count the one at Henley Park that Fitz and I hosted. Hastings was at four of them—but he is obviously not our suspect. Lady Avery and Lady Somersby were at four of them, including the one at Huntington.”

  Venetia shook her head. “I can’t believe she’d carry on with those gossips under the same roof.”

  Millie went down the list. “The Rowleys were at three of the parties. So were the Jack Dormers.”

  But Mr. Rowley was fifty-five. And the Jack Dormers were newlyweds devoted to each other. Venetia drew a deep breath. “What about the Andrew Martins?”

  A number of years ago, Helena had developed a tendresse for Mr. Martin. All evidence pointed to her sentiments being fervently reciprocated. But in time Mr. Martin had proposed to and married a young lady who had been intended for him since birth.

  Millie smoothed the folds of Fitz’s letter, her eyes worried. “Come to think of it, I have not seen the Andrew Martins together in a while. Mr. Martin came by himself to three parties. And at each house, he requested an out-of-the-way room, citing his need for peace and quiet in order to work on his next book.”