Beguiling the Beauty ft-1 Read online

  “You don’t need to go anywhere,” he murmured.

  “I do.” She was afraid to take responsibility for the choice. The last time she’d plunged ahead with such a decision, she’d opened herself to years of anguish and misery.

  “But you will be back,” he said, autocratic at last. “That is not negotiable. You will have dinner here, with me.”

  She gazed at the fine shape of his lips, the clean, chiseled line of his jaw, and the perfectly undisturbed blindfold. Beneath her palm, his chest rose and fell. She had to clench her hand to not begin to undo the buttons of his shirt at once.

  “All right,” she said. “But only dinner.”

  CHAPTER 7

  I feel deprived,” said Christian.

  She had honored her word and come for dinner. He’d dined beforehand so she wouldn’t feel obliged to feed him while he remained blindfolded. Afterward, she’d walked him to the chaise longue for him to enjoy another glass of wine and withdrawn to the opposite corner of the parlor to further admire the fossilized footprints.

  “I’m in your rooms—you should be ecstatic.” She gave no quarter.

  “I am ecstatic. But that does not change the fact that I am deprived. If I can’t see your face, then I should be able to see the rest of you. And if I can’t see anything of you at all, I should be able to touch you at will.”

  She snorted, not at all sympathetic toward his plight. He smiled. With his title and his often unapproachable demeanor, he intimidated most women—and a large swath of men. She, however, had no compunction about putting him in his place.

  His fingers encountered something, her hat. He picked it up and turned it around in his hand. “Tell me what you are doing.”

  “Ogling the footprints, of course. Why else would I be here?”

  He amused himself by imagining her licking the slab. “Same reason you came here last night—to get to know me better.”

  “I had enough last night to last me a few years.”

  He chortled, setting her hat on the far end of the chaise. “I can’t decide whether that is a compliment or an insult.”

  “When I compliment you, sir, you will know.”

  “Ha. You have stiffened my resolve, madam. You will compliment me before the night is out.”

  “You have very nice fossils, sir—and that’s all the compliment you are getting.”

  He smiled again and took a sip of his wine. “I do love a challenge.”

  Such easy, lucid confidence. And nothing of Tony’s brittle braggadocio, which she did not recognize for what it was until it had been too late.

  “Tell me, do you come from an enlightened clan?” she asked.

  He, comfortably reclined on the chaise, his face raised toward the ceiling, moved not a finger. Yet somehow she had the impression that he’d become more alert, more … predatory. He’d scented the interest she shouldn’t have displayed.

  “No,” he said, his voice perfectly calm and friendly, giving not the least indication that he might be on the prowl. “If anything, the de Montforts have always been hidebound. We didn’t deign to speak English until Shakespeare’s time.”

  She rubbed a gloved hand across one of the smaller footprints. “Did you not encounter any objection from your family when you took up the life of a naturalist?”

  “My father disapproved intensely.”

  His tipped back his glass. She could not look away from the line of his throat. “Did that cause any unpleasantness?”

  He set the glass down on the carpet. Was it a signal that he was ready to pounce? “He put in a few tirades here and there, but it is not easy to turn me aside from a path I wish to pursue. I ignored him by and large.”

  His fingers lightly traced the rim of the glass. She could not help remembering how he’d played with her tight-strung body the night before with such deft touches. “Most young men find it difficult to put aside paternal edicts.”

  He sat up, his long arms braced along the back of the chaise, an expansive, assertive gesture. “My father had tremendous regard for himself, but he was frivolous, which made it easy for me to turn a deaf ear to him. Besides, I knew where the kitchen was, so sending me to bed without supper was not something I feared.”

  She had all but pressed her back into the slab. “My family was always particular that I not become a self-indulgent person. That and my husband’s views were enough to convince me that if I deliberately sought out fossils to excavate, I would be yielding to a flighty and selfish impulse.”

  He smiled very slightly. “Are you so easy to daunt?”

  Were they still speaking of fossils? “I did not altogether approve of my own interest. I want to find fossil skeletons that are bigger, better, and more unexpected than anything that has been discovered to date, not because I am a serious naturalist trying to make sense of the world.”

  He rose to his feet. “There is nothing wrong with wanting bigger, better, and more unexpected. The thrill of the hunt is what drives all of us, whether we are seeking the next planet, a new principle of physics, or that elusive fossil that would shed light on exactly how life left the ocean and walked on land.”

  He was still all the way across the room, still blindfolded. Already she couldn’t breathe. “I should go,” she blurted out.

  He tilted his head a few degrees to one side. “You are safe with me. You know that.”

  He was wrong. She hadn’t been in this much peril in a long, long time. How stupid she’d been, hoping he would tip the decision for her. She wasn’t playing with fire; she was juggling sticks of dynamite with their fuses already lit. For every grain of pleasure she dared now, she would later pay with a pound of grief.

  “Thank you for dinner. And thank you for the pleasure of the tetrapodichnites.” Her words stumbled over one another in her hurry to leave.

  “You will make this a very long night for me.”

  “I’m sorry, but I truly can’t stay any longer.”

  He faced her squarely. “Good night, then. I will see you same time, same place tomorrow morning for our walk.”

  She shook her head. “There is no point to our meeting again.”

  “I thought I’d made it abundantly clear that I relish your company even when you are not naked beneath me.”

  Her mouth went dry. Memories of her wantonness the night before, of the pleasures he’d heaped upon her—she had to clear her throat before she could speak again. “Since we will go our separate ways, we might as well do it sooner rather than later.”

  He sat down again, his hand closing unerringly atop her hat. “I’m sorry our sentiments do not coincide,” he said slowly, his fingers rubbing the edge of her veil.

  She wanted his hands on her, touching her at will. “If you will hand me my hat, I will see myself out.”

  “If I am never to see you again, I deserve a good-bye kiss,” he said. He shifted with such fluidity from easygoing agreeableness to implacable demands.

  “That is unwise,” she said weakly.

  “I will have both hands firmly on your hat. Besides, you owe me that much.”

  Why couldn’t she want only one thing? Why must she yearn for electrifying danger even as she clung desperately to safety—a lonely safety, but the only sanctuary she’d ever known?

  She pushed away from the slab, marched across the room, sat down at the edge of the chaise, and touched her lips to his for a fraction of a second.

  “Don’t cheat me—that was not a kiss.”

  The Duke of Lexington had spoken; he would not be denied.

  She braced her hand on the scroll arm of the chaise and leaned in again. Her lips brushed his. She took a deep breath and dove in.

  He tasted of wine—a powerful claret older than their combined age—and desire. She was accustomed to being lusted after. Yet as she traced the edge of his teeth with her tongue, the tension of his body, as if he had to restrain himself from overpowering her, intoxicated her.

  No one had ever wanted her as much as he did. Not even
close.

  She ended the kiss but did not move, her lips hovering bare inches from his. Their breaths mingled, agitated, uneven. Hunger emanated from him; her heart slammed with it, her cheeks hot as if she’d been standing too close to the fireplace.

  Without thinking, she put her lips to his again. He yanked her to him. The force of his action thrilled her. Suddenly she could not wait. Her hands groped at the fastening of his trousers. He pushed her narrow skirts up and out of the way. She moaned as his fingers touched her through the seam of her combination.

  He broke off their kiss. “I’ve a sponge somewhere.” He sounded as if he’d been climbing stairs for an hour.

  “No need. I can’t conceive.” She gripped his hair and kissed him harder, overcome by a lust as potent as his.

  After that there were no more words, only heat, urgency, and pleasure upon pleasure.

  Christian played with the baroness’s slender, pliant fingers.

  He’d brought himself to peak three times. Her, he’d lost count—she’d begun to climax almost as soon as he’d driven into her. And remained voluptuously ravished for a long time afterward.

  He smiled. She’d made him impressed with himself. This was unlike him. His belief was that a gentleman should be competent in bed, an elementary skill akin to the handling of horses and firearms: nothing to brag about. Yet now he felt like a rooster who had just rampaged through the entire henhouse: ready to jump upon a roof and crow.

  He couldn’t quite remember the details, but at some point, he’d extinguished the lights, ripped off his blindfold, and carried her to his bed. And now they were warmly ensconced beneath the covers, her head on his shoulder.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been this proud of myself, not even when I read my first paper at the Royal Society.”

  “Humfft,” she mumbled. For a moment he wondered whether she’d withdraw into herself again. But she said, “You value odd things, duke.”

  “You are an odd thing, to be sure, baroness, but you are also a beautiful thing.”

  She stirred. “You don’t know what I look like.”

  “And that makes you less beautiful? I think not.”

  “We’ve known each other two and a half, three days? I spent most of those hours either refusing to sleep with you or changing my mind and sleeping with you. Is there something particularly lovely in that?”

  He cupped her face. “Do you remember our conversation from this morning and your assessment of the gentlemen passengers in the lounge? There was a young man with an elder female relative enchanted by a confidence artist. I spoke with our young man in the afternoon. He told me you’d already warned him of Mr. Egbert.”

  “Anyone would do that.”

  “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.”