A Breach of Promise - Anne Perry [103]
Monk could only wonder. It might well have been. Young blood is hot, and passion and curiosity are potent forces. Perhaps Zillah was not the virgin she claimed. He could not find himself regarding that prospect with horror, only a sadness that the thought, the idea, should be enough to bring this public ruin on both herself and Melville. After all, it was a purely private matter … if, indeed, it was a matter at all.
He left at last to go to Rathbone’s rooms and admit that he had nothing certain, only innuendo which might and might not be a weapon if used sufficiently skillfully. He turned over in his mind the subjects of marriage and beauty, and the set of values by which it seemed society judged a woman and led her to judge herself. If a girl was pretty and at least reasonably agreeable, unless some appalling scandal attached to her, she was certain of finding a husband. The prettier she was, the wider her choice, until it came to the aristocracy, where only a ravishing beauty could hope to overcome the barrier of poverty or ignominious family background.
So much depended on appearance. Why? One might suppose man was a creature with only one sense, that of sight. Did one acquire a wife merely to look at? Certainly good looks were most pleasing, a clear complexion, lovely hair, fine eyes. Actually, a beautiful mouth was the feature that most woke Monk’s hungers—and his dreams.
But why? Did one imagine that the curve of a cheek or an eyelid actually had meaning? Did a lovely face always indicate a lovely character?
That was idiotic! Any man who still possessed the wits he was born with knew better than that.
In his mind—yes. But in his heart?
What of humor or courage, loyalty, gentleness, and for heaven’s sake, intelligence?
He pushed his hands into his pockets and strode across the busy street between hansoms, drays, a wagon piled with carpets, and a coal cart, and stepped smartly up onto the curb at the far side. Unconsciously, he increased his pace.
Hester had all the latter qualities. And yet when he had become enchanted by a woman in these last years that he could remember—and according to the evidence, before that as well—they had been lovely women with beautiful, vulnerable faces who looked as if they were gentle, pliable, as if they needed him and would lean on his strength: utterly feminine women who complemented his masculinity.
He did not like the picture of himself that that painted.
And yet how many other men were the same? Offered a charming figure that suggested passion concealed but waiting, a pretty face that seemed innocent, agreeable, easily pleased, not too critical or too challenging, and one was immediately attracted, seeing behind all this a perfect companion.
No wonder girls like Zillah Lambert strove to fulfil that ideal. It was their prospect to social acceptability and financial security: a wedding ring; their own household; children; a change from dependence upon parents to dependence upon a husband who, with judicious management, might be persuaded to love her, cater to her, even indulge her.
He reached Rathbone’s rooms and the manservant let him in.
Rathbone was standing beside the last of the fire, considering retiring for the night. He looked tired and unhappy. His face lightened momentarily with hope when Monk came in, then he saw his eyes and the light in him vanished.
“I’m sorry,” Monk said sincerely. He hated this. He had wanted very much to be able to bring good news, not only for his own vanity but for Rathbone’s sake, and if he were truthful, for Melville’s also. The man who had created so much original and dynamic beauty of form should not be brought down by something so terribly unnecessary.
“Nothing?” Rathbone asked.
“She may have had what amounted to an affair with Lord Tainbridge’s son, but there’s no proof, only speculation. You could try threatening to suggest it in public, but I doubt you’d