Sherry Thomas - Beguiling the Beauty

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.

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.

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.