Beauty and the Duke (2 page)

Lady Rebecca peered shyly at Christine. “Miss Sommers. Mr. Darlington said you are a passionate paleontologist. I guarantee it is of no offense to find another kindred soul in a woman.” She pressed a fisted hand to her breast. “I, too, am passionate. I so envy Mr. Darlington’s expedition to Australia. You must as well. He was telling us all about it on the way over here.”

Lord Sedgwick coughed into his gloved hand. “I believe he also said he had not broken the news to anyone, Elf.”

Christine did not understand. The look in Joseph’s eyes left her floundering and sifting through the past week’s conversations for clues as to Lady Rebecca’s reference. “Perth? Australia?”
Her
Perth?

“Yes. Perth,” Joseph said and she saw a sheepish look in his eyes. “I approached them last week.”

“He is the new team leader,” Amelia said, pride obvious.

Joseph slid his hand over Amelia’s, pulling her nearer to his side. “We could not tell anyone until Lord Bingham informed me of the final decision this afternoon.” His gaze slid to Amelia. “Now is as good a time as any to share the rest of our news. Amelia has consented to be my wife and will be traveling with me as my assistant.”

Christine stared at them, dumbfounded. The bile of bitterness rose in her throat and she desperately tried to swallow it, but could not.

After a moment of awkward silence, Lord Sedgwick cleared his throat and took his sister’s arm. “I think this conversation no longer concerns us, Elf.”

“But this is all so terribly romantic,” Lady Rebecca said, her melodic voice fraught with youthful romanticism. Her brother dragged her away before she could say more.

Christine suffered momentary panic that she might actually tear up. This made no sense. Amelia took Christine’s hands into her own. “I so wanted to tell you everything, but Joseph wanted us to be together when we shared the news. I thought for sure my excitement tonight must have given something away.” She peered up at Joseph with utter adoration in her eyes. “But we couldn’t be happier.”

A cool gust of wind pushed against Christine’s mantelet and stirred the refuse on the streets, bringing with it the unpleasant scent of the Thames. She tucked a wisp of her hair behind her ears and remained silent.

She had planned everything so perfectly. And even if she had not, the stipend Joseph would receive from the museum was hardly enough to support a wife. Swallowing the constriction in her throat at last, Christine focused again and realized Joseph and Amelia were waiting for her to respond. And she still did not know what to say.

“This project is important to me, Christine,” Joseph finally said when she remained speechless. “I have a chance to make a name for myself. That won’t happen at Sommershorn Abbey. You must know that. I’m sorry, but there it is.”

Joseph then peered down at Amelia, the action so tender, Christine was left even more confused. “We will be traveling to Gretna Green later tonight,” he said. “You will understand why we cannot remain for the entire ceremony this evening. I will have to leave after they make the announcement about my appointment.”

Amelia touched Christine’s arm. “It is not our want to hurt you.”

And yet they had hurt her. She felt as if Joseph had plunged a knife into her heart. Behind him the sun was
about to leave the sky. The same sunset that tinted the clouds amber also colored the tips of his blond hair. For the first time in all the years since she had known him, she realized she had never taken the opportunity to slide her fingers through that golden hair or to tell him how she felt about him. Seeing his affection for Amelia made her feel the loss even more for she was losing them both.

She swallowed again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you would have said something unhelpful and neither of us wanted to be made to feel guilty,” Joseph said quietly. “You have Sommershorn Abbey. You don’t need Amelia and me,” he added, as if that adequately explained everything, as if Christine had not worked hard and sacrificed her own dreams to make the school a success.

“Unhelpful, as in…” she fumbled through her thoughts. “How can you support a wife on a professor’s stipend? I know how this museum finances its expeditions. Most of the expense will come out of your pocket.”

“Sometimes one has to have the courage to act, Chrissie,” Joseph said. “Or the moment will pass, and it will never come again. I will not be that man who wakes up tomorrow regretting what I did not try today. Your father once told me that it is far better to have failed trying than never to have made the effort at all.”

Someone bumped Joseph, interrupting his conversation. Torchlight whisking in the breeze caught the sheen of long satin gowns, polished silver cufflinks, and tiaras. The last of the crowd was moving through the doors. Christine could hear the orchestra warming up.

Christine wanted to speak, to say anything to mend the rift that had opened between them. Her emotions
were illogical and incongruous, completely reckless and without regard to the fact that she was happy for Joseph and Amelia. But the words would not come. She could not accept that all her plans of five minutes ago had been dashed to the rocks and devoured by sharks.

She could not!

Then Joseph laid his hand on Amelia’s arm, and the moment for talking was gone.

He pressed his other hand against Amelia’s back, his gaze hesitating on Christine as if accepting that she would not follow. “You’ll be sitting at the head table with Lord Bingham and the other dignitaries,” he said. “We probably won’t have an opportunity to speak to each other later. I just wanted to congratulate you for having the courage to publish your father’s work. I know it would have meant a lot to him.”

Before she could tell Joseph to go to blazes and that she loved her father, despite what people may have thought, he had already turned away, placing Amelia slightly ahead of him, a stance that safeguarded her from arms and elbows. Christine watched them disappear, her height allowing her to follow his progress easily amid the thinning crowd. They were an attractive couple, she admitted, as they shuffled through the doors. The same doors Lord Sedgwick and his sister had entered minutes before. The urge to weep suddenly vanished.

Erik
.

Here in London. At this very gala.

And a newer more terrible thought than Joseph and Amelia traveling to the other side of the world took hold in Christine’s mind. Lord Sedgwick was a duke. He and his sister would probably be sitting at the same table of honor as she.

She raised her gaze to the heavens. And the night had only just begun.

Erik watched as Christine accepted another glass of champagne off a tray presented her by one of an army of footmen. Her fourth, Erik considered, as he sipped his own glass. Beneath an enormous chandelier, footmen threaded their way among the tables carrying large silver platters crowded with demitasse-size cups of melting sherbet. At the far end of the hall, an orchestra played a jaunty reel and most of the younger guests had already made their way onto the floor.

He found his sister enjoying the lively music. Becca was the reason he’d consented to come here tonight. But she was not the reason he stayed. He looked past her toward the elaborate entrance to the exhibits. The museum had closed its doors to the public hours ago and only the guests of the gala roamed the inner sanctum of the museum. Towering planters of palms and strands of orchids festooned the rotunda recalling the garden of Babylon, a place in history noted for wealth, luxury, and wickedness. He thought it an amusing contrast for the Fossil Society, an organization that fostered images of carnivorous monsters that once roamed the earth.

An hour had passed, during which the members present ceremoniously honored the achievements of their dead Society members. Christine sat farther down the table from him, her father’s plaque beside her, a simple tribute given to her for Professor Sommers’s work. Erik watched her gently polish it twice when she thought no one was looking—only to look up this last time and discover someone was watching. She eased a serviette over the plaque.

They had not spoken since their introduction outside on the steps of the museum. Tonight was the first time Erik had seen her in ten years. Her body was a little fuller and rounder, and looked softer in all the places a man would find his pleasure. She had the same full mouth he remembered. She had not worn spectacles when he knew her before, but she still had the same large, intelligent blue eyes that surveyed the world with a mild skepticism. Eyes that had a way of looking inside you.

The way she had always looked at him.

The way she was looking at him now. Half-annoyed—flushed, as if he’d caught her performing fellatio rather than the simple human act of remembering her father.

He grinned into his glass as if to tell her she could glare him to hell and back and it made no difference. He’d do as he pleased. She was still self-governing, opinionated, and willful, and completely unaware of the way every man at the table watched her, he thought as he shifted his attention to the boor beside her. If Lord Bingham ogled her any closer he’d have his face in her bosoms. But Christine, as usual, was oblivious.

Before his thoughts could overrule his restraint, Erik forced himself to turn in his chair and look back to the dance floor. Bingham was just one of dozens Erik had met since arriving in London two days ago.

Someone suddenly jostled his elbow, nearly spilling his champagne. Erik saved his glass as Lord Bingham plopped his large form down on the chair next to him. “How are you enjoying our little soiree, your grace?” Bingham jovially offered a glass of champagne, then frowned slightly as he noted the glass Erik already held in his hand. “Capital stuf’ for putting the life into
you. Only the bes’ for those who know the difference between quality and mere French swill.” He winked. “Men of our means like their quality. Right-oh chap? Drink up, I say.” He tipped his glass and drank.

Erik’s gaze moved past Bingham to where Christine had been sitting a moment before. Her chair was empty. A quick search of the crowd found her moving among the tables toward the door. He’d noted Darlington and the little blond who was to be his wife had slipped out after the awards ceremony. Christine was no doubt headed home.

“You’re wasting your time with tha’ one,” Bingham sniffed. “Set in her ways. A cold fish. Spends most o’ her time at Sommershorn Abbey managing the education of a bunch of girls. Can’t do much else since her father passed. Doesn’t run with our crowd. Not the right experience.”

Erik gave Bingham his full attention. For the most part people avoided Erik as if he were a case of poison ivy. They skirted around him—unless they wanted something from him. It always amused him when a person thought he knew Erik well enough to be his friend, a fact that would make some conclude he had a sense of humor.

Bingham cleared his throat. “Pleasant enough assistant when she is volunteering here though,” he hastily added. “Indispensable. Wouldn’t know what to do without her help cataloging the exhibits. Has one here herself, someplace.”

“Yes, I saw it. I believe it is located in the basement.”

Bingham swallowed more champagne. “We’ve not had anyone of your stature take an interest in our organization in quite some time. You are here in London for the Season, your grace?”

“Business only.”

“That’s right. You’ve not participated in our London Season in…how many years?” When Erik did not reply, his grin faded and he gave a little cough. “Darlington mentioned you had an interest in fossils. You have certainly come to the right place. Are you a collector? Or a seller?”

Adjusting his evening jacket, Erik rose. “My sister is the collector. Not I.”

“I see.” Bingham hastily followed Erik to his feet. “Frankly, I was surprised when Darlington came to me and asked for two invitations to this gala. He said you corresponded with Lord Charles Sommers. Professor Sommers to all of us who knew him well. God bless his saintly soul wherever it may be.” He chuckled, and the champagne in his glass slopped over and splashed on the man’s waistcoat. “Most thought the man belonged in Bedlam. Soft in the head, if you know what I mean. But his book is wildly popular with this society. Do you have an interest in the existence of dragons?”

Erik remained silent, waiting for Bingham to get to the point.

“I only ask because Professor Sommers rarely corresponded with fossil hobbyists,” Bingham said in an undertone. “His interests tended toward the serious collector. A person would have to have something valuable in his possession to hold Sommers’s interest. Perhaps more than personal business brings you to London?”

“Business is never personal, Bingham.”
Ever
. He’d learned long ago there was little he could not buy. “Now”—Eric looked toward the doorway through which Christine had just disappeared—“if you will excuse me.”

Bingham sputtered. “Yes, of course.”

But Erik was already walking away.

“Good night, Miss Sommers,” the watchman said as Christine passed him in the darkened hallway.

“Good night, Mr. Traverse. Please tell your mother I said hello.”

Cloak in hand, Christine hurried through the Hall of Unicorns toward the back door. This wing of the museum was only slightly quieter than the corridor she had left, as it was closed off to the public. But music from the orchestra reverberated against the ceiling.

She’d made a brief detour to the cloakroom, but other than the few times a guest stopped her, congratulating her on Papa’s award or asking about Joseph’s new appointment or why Aunt Sophie had not attended the festivities tonight, she had made a successful exit. No one could accuse her of running away if no one knew she’d escaped.

As Christine rounded a corner, she nearly collided with…Erik! A gasp escaped her.

He was standing with his arms crossed, his shoulder leaning against the doorjamb, quite at his leisure with her effort to elude him. He had the most piercing eyes she had ever known, and they did not waver from hers. All night she’d been forced to smile and pretend Erik Boughton was not sitting five feet down the table from her. And now she no longer need pretend. Such was the irony of her life. She was almost relieved to finally face him.