A Dangerous Beauty (3 page)

Rosamunde stepped forward. “But, I will not—”

Before she could utter another word, the duke struck her.

Hot pinpoints of pain echoed from the corner of her eye to the bottom of her chin. And in the instant her father did not censure the duke, Rosamunde understood the unbearable feeling of the loss of her only remaining parent’s trust and love. What she felt now was true panic, the sort where horror rises up the back of one’s throat and tightens like a vise. It was the horrible realization of being a pawn, unable to extricate oneself from a dark future, much like an animal caught in a poacher’s snare.

She swallowed and valiantly struggled to regain her calm. Her father, when they were alone, would believe her. He would allow her to explain that this was some sort of horrid misunderstanding. And then he would disentangle her from this, this nightmare of epic proportions. Everything would be fine.

The stillness was palpable. Or maybe it simply seemed the seconds had turned into minutes. Finally, Phinnius pulled her toward the door. The last thing she saw was a glimpse of her father’s face full of implacable anger and embarrassment directed toward her.

Fate had finally caught up with her.

Her sister had once asked if she felt nervous sitting on the high pedestal her father placed her on each
day. Rosamunde hadn’t understood what Sylvia was talking about. She did now. Her fall from grace was as hard as it was long, and the gods—or the Devil—were demanding punishment for curses due.

A nightmarish ritual ensued of daily demands and arguments by her father and silence from her. She would die before she succumbed and she knew with a heavy heart that her father was holding fast to the same course. Ten days locked in her room with only bread and water changed nothing. Then her father mysteriously unlocked her door without a word and left for London with orders for the rest of the family to join him in a fortnight. Now she was ripe for the plucking.

Little did Rosamunde know, fate would intervene again—not once but twice more in her lifetime. The next time it was in the form of a marriage-minded country squire, successful at hiding his mean-spirited ways by employing acting abilities Shakespeare would have admired. Alfred Baird’s chief allure was his timing and his false sympathy.

The very day her father left for town, Mr. Baird appeared with flowers in his hands and the enticing offer of a marriage of convenience to a pillar of Cornish society on his lips. More importantly, he appeared to believe her and offered something she craved, escape and the promise to shield her from gossip.

Without anyone’s knowledge or approval, Rosamunde fled with him to Scotland, married in haste, and repented not in leisure.

When her father signaled his refusal to provide
a dowry by not receiving them at Edgecumbe, the squire’s artful performance ended and her life slogged forward into one long flood of sadness and pain.

Only her sister was loyal to her. Sylvia had appeared on the squire’s doorstep soon after the marriage, vowing to stay with her. She took Rosamunde’s side with belated vengeance. And young Rosamunde was too distraught to try and dissuade the one person who still loved her.

The squire knew all too well how to whittle her spirit, and Rosamunde soon learned the lessons the duke had threatened to teach her and more. In the privacy of their small cottage, Alfred’s temperament shifted on terrifyingly trivial whims. The constant attempts to keep him in good humor always failed, which led to degrading insults and long sets of rules and duties by day and fear by night. In short, Rosamunde endured an utterly pathetic existence with no end in sight.

And perhaps worst of all, she was not allowed to sing.

She withdrew from her former life and friends, finding solace in nature and her sister. Persistent wistfulness slowly sapped away her natural exuberance, and she became a quiet coward in the real and imagined gardens of her life, doing all she could to avoid any hint of scandal. She had lost almost everything, and lived carefully so she would not lose it all.

The next time fate would intervene would be eight years later.

It would be a long wait.

Brandy,
n.
A cordial composed of one part thunder-and-lightning, one part remorse, two parts bloody murder, one part death-hell-and-the-grave and four parts clarified Satan. Dose, a headful
all
the time.

—The Devil’s Dictionary, A. Bierce

“C
are for a dose of mother’s milk?”

Luc St. Aubyn, the eighth Duke of Helston, glanced up from his writings, toward the entrance of his quiet lair. Only one person would dare…

A small clawlike hand dangled a bottle of brandy from a crack in the doorway.

“I’ve told you I don’t imbibe before breakfast. Why are you skulking about, Ata?”

The door opened a bit wider and the tiny form of his grandmother appeared. Her face was overwhelmed by a large black lace cap, which matched
the fichu above her ebony silk gown.

Luc sighed. “I hate when you walk about like that”—he gestured to her widow’s weeds—“like you’re in the grave already.”

She smiled without showing her aged, long teeth. “But I am, dear boy, I am.” The stiff crinoline under-skirt of her gown made faint crackling noises as it swung to one side when she closed the door.

Her gowns were always too long because she thought it would elongate her short stature. As far as Luc could tell, it only made her trip more often than most people.

She continued, “I have at least one limb in death’s maw, anyway, as well you know.”

He glanced sharply at her gnarled hand and the decanter she gripped awkwardly. “You know I’ve never an appetite before noon.”

She moved across the dusty Aubusson carpet, reached for a crystal goblet from a side drawer in his leather-topped desk and filled it with the amber liquid. “That’s why Cook is so loyal to us. Your breakfast is always delayed, and so convenient. It never has to be heated, or chilled, or even tossed away. Better yet”—and here she lifted the glass to her lips and drank long and deep without sputtering—“it can be shared.”

“Ata,” he murmured, hiding a smile. “What will the servants think?”

“Do we care?”

“Apparently not.”

She appeared slightly owlish, but Luc knew better. His grandmother could hold her liquor better than a
twenty-five-stone sailor on home leave. In fact, he had never seen her anything but clearheaded, despite her frequent communion with Beelzebub’s brew.

He pushed aside his papers, weighted by a ship’s compass, and withdrew another balloon-shaped glass.

“I’ve always thought people who breakfast late develop greater intelligence than those who muddle with muffins at dawn,” she said while pouring him a glass. “All that rubbish about early birds and worms. Why would anyone want to be compared to something that lays eggs?”

He tried to stifle a chuckle. It would only encourage her. “And they say I’m a hopeless case.”

“A hopeless case? Surely not. A rogue, perhaps. Even a rake. Yes, definitely a rake. Maybe even the worst sort of rake. But then, everyone loves a rake. Idealistic young milksops need rakes to shoot in order to become heroes. And God knows the society columns need rakes and their exploits to sell newspapers. But most of all, England needs rakes to satisfy the females. For there is no kiss like one from a rake.”

“Ah, the voice of experience,” he said dryly.

“Maybe. Maybe not, but there’s still time. I’m allowed my own little expectations of finding happiness after I see to your own—”

“Enough.” He lowered his feet from the edge of his desk with a loud thud. “I’m not in the mood for your lunatic ravings of connubial bliss and the sodding importance of heirs. I’m only here because”—he scratched his head—“Well, because I refuse to disappoint both you and Madeleine at the same time.”

“Good boy. I knew your lessons in deportment would serve us well in the end.”

“I’ll walk my sister down the church aisle, and then I’m for town.”

He knew that shrewd look on his grandmother’s face.

“I mean it.”

Silence.

He shook his head. “I won’t stay a moment longer than that. You might have talked me into reopening this monstrous, musty place for Madeleine’s wedding, but that doesn’t mean I must mingle with fools.”

More silence.

“All right. I’ll stay through the wedding breakfast.” He lifted his glass, and pungent fumes wafted through the still air. “As long as you serve
my
sort of breakfast.” He tipped his glass in mock salute and took a long pull of the golden liquid. The false warmth of the brandy tickled his senses and flooded his being with calm.

“Was there any doubt I would?” she responded with a musical laugh.

The sound wound around his heart and swelled his emotions. It left him with a rare magnanimous notion. “Maybe”—he pursed his lips—“I’ll even stay for the next fortnight to help you prepare instead of returning to town as planned. Could use a quiet week to finish this—”

His grandmother responded more quickly than a wallflower responds to an invitation to dance. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Have I ever let you down?”

She raised her penciled-in eyebrows until they almost disappeared under her fussy black lace cap.

“I resent that,” he muttered.

“Did I say anything?”

He glared at her. “How many people are invited, Ata? I suppose I should know if I’m to be imprisoned for the duration.”

“Not that many really. Just two or three dozen here on the estate. And perhaps there are a few more—a mere handful, really, staying at the Hearth and Horn in the village. And then I suppose there are others who have arranged lodging in the neighborhood.”

“The total number is…?”

“About two hundred, I would think.”

“Two, blasted, hundred?” He closed his eyes and lowered his head into his hands.

She poured another glass of fire and brimstone for him. “Maybe three.”

“And who are the people who have finagled an invitation to stay under this roof?”

“Well, we’re a bit ill-paired. There are a few too many females, I’m afraid.”

“There can never be too many females,” he said wolfishly. “Perhaps this won’t be so bad after all.”

His grandmother took on a serious expression suddenly. It saddened him. He had forced a promise from her years ago that she wasn’t to ever be distressed again—no matter how loud he barked.

“No, Luc. You’re not to sniff about them.”

He stiffened. For the love of…“Don’t tell me you’ve invited the deserving crows?
Not the Widows
Club
? Even you know we can’t have a passel of weeping nuns at Madeleine’s wedding.” He glanced at her somber attire. “Present company excluded, of course,” he said gruffly.

Silence.

More silence.

Ata’s eyes narrowed.

“So”—he forced a smile—“I see we’ll be enjoying the scintillating company of the widows for the next few weeks. How charming. How utterly, bloody, charming.”

“Quite.” She plucked at her gown. “But, don’t forget your promise. They’re not to be dallied with. They’ve been through enough.”

“Right. No dallying. No bloody dallying…just a bit of weak tea and conversation. But no dallying.” He paused and felt one of his brows rise as he muttered, “Does that include no tarrying?”

Ata blinked.

“You know…tarrying along shadowy corridors, or in the gamekeeper’s hut. You did mention a rake’s kiss being good for England’s females, didn’t you?”

It seemed that his grandmother did indeed have a level to her tolerance of his bad manners and he had exceeded it. Her pained expression was proof enough.

“Oh, all right. You know, you’ve elevated silence to an art form. Very well. I’ll pay the penance. What may I do to please you?”

“You’re to come down and entertain the widows. Now. Politely.”

“Now? Some of them are here? When did they arrive?”

“They’ve been here for two days already, Luc. You’ve just been oblivious to it.”

“You know I prefer to take my meals in here. I have my work and all.” He waved his ink-stained fingers over the scattered papers on his desk and on the floor and then stilled when he faced Ata’s stony expression again. “And how would you suggest I entertain them?”

“With archery. I like to whisper to them that they can envision their dearly departed husbands at the bull’s-eye. It does seem to cheer them up quite a lot.”

The edges of the letter fluttered in the breeze as her sister read it. Rosamunde deposited the two heavy bandboxes she was carrying on the ground and leaned against the red oak. To calm her nerves she hummed, something Alfred had always forbidden.

The late summer sun was high in the sky and the shade was a welcome relief. Here, in the endless series of fields that resembled nothing more than a massive well-ordered patchwork quilt, Rosamunde finally let exhaustion overtake her. She rubbed the sensitive flesh of her forearms where the handles had cut into her. They had walked far enough and fast enough for the prickle of immediate fear to recede along with the slight chill in their bones. Carrying life’s possessions was hot work.

Sylvia raised her large, dark eyes from the note. “I wish you had told me about this earlier.”

“Dearest, it was too absurd to even consider when I received it a fortnight ago. But I found the idea gained merit with Algernon’s arrival.” She cursed under her breath. “I still can’t believe Alfred broke his promise and left the cottage to his cousin.”

“Well, I believe it,” replied Sylvia. “Alfred was excellent at breaking promises.”

“It’s a wonder his cousin gave us a year of peace. But then, Algernon seems to take pleasure in giving a proper face to the outside world.” Rosamunde looked away. “I knew if I showed you the letter before we left you might refuse.”

“I should think
you
would be the one digging in your heels. I mean, really, Rosamunde, the idea of fleeing to London with so little in our pockets was ill-advised. But this…” She shook her head. “Please tell me we’re not going to Amberley—to stay with the Duchess of
Helston
? You’re mad. Why, I’ve heard people in the village describe the new duke as being eccentric and very ill-mannered, not at all like—like his brother.”

Rosamunde looked toward a flock of sheep whose heavy coats were prime for sheering, too disheartened to face her sister’s doubting expression. “We’re staying at the invitation of the
dowager duchess
. And we’ll probably see little of the duke. We’ve nothing to fear.”

“Nothing to fear? Do you really think the new Duke of Helston doesn’t know what happened eight years ago between his brother and our family? And even if luck is with us and he doesn’t know, do you really think he’ll be in the dark for long?” Sylvia whipped her head around. Long strands of her black hair caught in her face and she brushed at them. “Why, half the
ton
will be down from London for his sister’s wedding. Everyone will whisper and cut you at every opportunity. And you,” Sylvia paused for emphasis, “you who have avoided society for the last eight years like the plague? Does this dowager know our history?”

Rosamunde shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Let’s go back. He won’t have missed us.”

Rosamunde looked at the angle of the sun in the cerulean sky. Strange how the weather could be so beautiful on such a dark day in her life. “Oh, he’ll have missed us. In fact, we had better keep walking.” She took the letter from Sylvia and grasped her bandboxes again to keep going. “We’ll be lucky if Algernon’s hunger outpaces his desire to kill us once he learns we’ve gone. I’m counting on his famous appetite and Cook’s popovers. She promised to stave him off as long as possible. I’m also hoping his avaricious nature will help us. The solicitor prepared all the ledgers. He will well enjoy counting his newly inherited wealth.
Again
.”

Sylvia’s beautiful face was distraught.

“We haven’t a choice, my love,” Rosamunde continued softly as they trudged up a long hill. “I won’t spend another night in that godforsaken place. I’ve given enough years of my life and yours for my mistakes, and I’ll not do it all over again with Alfred’s cousin—especially when his interest is…well, I’d rather not think about it.”

“But we can’t go to Amberley. You know we can’t,” her sister moaned.

“We haven’t the means to go anywhere else.” She paused and continued in low tones. “I wish you would reconsider and return to Edgecumbe. I beg you to go. You know I’ve hated the sacrifices you’ve made. It only makes me feel worse.”

“We agreed not to reopen the subject, Rosa.”

“No,
you
said you wouldn’t talk about—”

Suddenly they were at the crest of the hill and before
them lay, in all its majesty, one of the most beautiful castles in southern England…Amberley. The warm honey-colored stone reflected the early afternoon sun. The architect had practiced care and restraint in the symmetry of the design; two great turrets flanked the impressive middle. The inhabitants clearly possessed a fine fortune given the staggering window tax they must be forced to pay. There was mullion glass upon mullion glass, the myriad panes glittering in every direction. And this was only the rear of the castle.

Stately gardens swathed the estate from end to end. Seeing the profusion of blooms, Rosamunde’s eyes misted for the first time. Her own garden had been her consolation and her salvation in the end. She had been able to lose herself and her memories there and it was the only thing she would truly miss.