Chapter 11
Beth rose the next morning feeling wrung out. Her head throbbed, her mouth tasted sour, and the negative aspects of the previous evening sat solidly at the front of her mind.
Why could she not act a prim and proper innocent? Perhaps she should take lessons from Miss Swinnamer's mama. Why could the marquess not see that a fighting spirit and a little worldly wisdom did not make her a trollop?
She remembered what he had said about her being a shrew. He couldn't really like a shrew. He couldn't like someone he didn't trust, and he had shown on the terrace that he didn't trust her at all.
She sighed bitterly. It seemed to be as he had said. Words once spoken had a life of their own. They could not be unsaid. Every time Beth and the marquess were on edge, that dreadful evening on the terrace came back to haunt them.
On top of her misery at this was her anger that he made no claim to purity of any kind and yet felt free to castigate her for some vague form of misdoing. She knew he was behaving according to his code, but the temptation to lash out at him was tremendous.
And then, of course, she would be called a shrew.
The duchess sent for Beth to share a late breakfast in her suite, and she felt obliged to go. Some bread and coffee made her feel better, but the duchess's cheerful chatter was hard to respond to.
"I was pleased to see you and Lucien so at ease," the duchess said. "His few days in Town did him good, as I knew they would. He's more himself and that should make it easier for you, my dear. And there isn't much more of this falderol to endure. We have a week of festivities here, culminating in the reception for all the local people, and then we will remove to London. Then it will be only two weeks to your wedding."
Two weeks. Buttered bun turned to sawdust in Beth's mouth. She had known the date set for the event, but now it loomed frighteningly close. "It is all rather rushed," she protested. "It will cause talk."
"Yes, but the duke wants it done," said the duchess apologetically. "And your first child will be born after the nine months, so the speculation will end then."
Beth swallowed, and the duchess looked at her with shrewd eyes. "My dear, do you know about marriage? I feel I stand in the place of a mother to you."
"I know all about marriage," said Beth hastily and then saw the shock in the duchess's eyes. "I mean, I have read widely."
"What extraordinary books you must come across," the duchess remarked. "But even so it is easy to be... confused on such a subject. My older daughter, Maria, thought that the act of sleeping in a bed with a man caused babies. By the time I talked to her, she had already convinced Graviston that they should have separate bedrooms because she snored. She thought her troubles were over."
Beth was aghast. "How could you force her into such a distasteful marriage?"
"Distasteful?" said the duchess. "Oh no, it was a love match. But Maria felt, being but eighteen, that she did not want children just yet. Having heard that 'sleeping together' caused babies," the duchess explained with a twinkle, "she thought she could have Graviston's kisses and all they promised without consequences."
Beth desperately wanted to ask whether she could have the babies without the kisses and all they promised, but she lowered her eyes.
The duchess looked at the young woman thoughtfully. "Do you know, Elizabeth, I think I will you give you my little talk anyway. Books can be so unreliable."
And she did so.
Beth listened, wide-eyed. So that was what "making a meal of it" meant.
In the end, rosy-cheeked and with the picture of Venus and Mars in her mind, Beth protested, "But surely all this... this playing around is not necessary?"
"Not necessary, no," said the duchess calmly. "But if I thought Lucien would neglect such courtesies I would be very cross with him. Leaving aside any question of your pleasure, they are necessary for your comfort."
Beth remembered a thumb cold-bloodedly rubbing against her nipple and the effect it had achieved, and raised her hands to her heated cheeks. "Oh, I would much rather not!"
The duchess came over and gathered her into her arms. "Oh my dear, I am sorry to have distressed you. As I said, my daughters' matches were love matches, and though they were a little nervous, they did not go to their marriage beds afraid. I can see how it is different for you and Lucien, thrown together as you are."
She patted Beth's shoulder and her tone lightened. "But count your blessings, Elizabeth. He is a very handsome man, well-trained in courtesy. You must find him a little bit appealing, yes?"
Beth shook her head. It was not so much a denial as a gesture of despair at his undoubted physical appeal which she did not welcome at all.
The duchess sighed. "Then I would ask you to think that it is much the same for him." When Beth looked at her in surprise she explained, "Certainly he is not a virgin, but he must come to you without love. If he is sharp at times, remember his nerves are stretched, too."
Beth wished she could bring herself to tell the duchess what she had done and seek her counsel, but it would shock her so. It was impossible.
After that explicit description of the intimacies of marriage, it was also impossible to face the man with whom she would be doing these things. Beth took to her bed, claiming a sick headache.
Over the next days Beth dutifully appeared at public functions and stood by Lord Arden's side as they listened to deputations from this place and that, all expressing the warmest best wishes for the future. All these speeches also mentioned their wish for the speedy production of an heir to Belcraven. As the horrible Lord Deveril had said, the purpose of marriage was quite clear to all.
Beth could only think of the means of getting that heir.
After one of these events, her husband-to-be waylaid her before she could escape back to her apartments. "You are doing wonders for my reputation," he said with a smile, tucking her hand in the crook of his arm. "All these worthy souls know an admirable woman when they see one. They are not used to thinking me to have such sense."
He was trying to be kind, but Beth's nerves were sensitized beyond bearing and she tried to pull away.
He would not release her. "Walk with me," he said, still kindly, but implacably.
Beth had little choice but to stroll with him toward the yew walk.
"You must not be afraid of me, Elizabeth," he said bluntly.
"Is that a command?" she asked. She had intended it to be light, but it came out deadly serious. She looked anxiously up at him. It was as if she had lost the connection between her will and her words.
He was frowning slightly, but with puzzlement, not anger. "What has happened to you recently, Elizabeth? You're like a whip-shy horse. Has someone done or said something to upset you?"
"No," said Beth quickly, too quickly. The last thing she wanted to talk about was the duchess's explanation of the marriage act. To move the conversation on she asked, "What would you do with a whip-shy horse?"
"Feed it to the hounds?"
"What!" Then she saw the teasing light in his eyes.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Of course I'd try to repair the damage first." He stopped and turned to face her, putting a hand up to cradle the side of her face.
Beth flinched and tried to pull away. He tightened his hold. "For God's sake, stop that! What's the matter with you?"
The matter was that every intimacy made her think of Venus and Mars. She had no notion of how to deal with it graciously and was terrified of where it might lead. "I don't like to be handled," she said stiffly, his hand a burning brand against the side of her neck.
"Why not?"
Beth stared at him. "Surely it is normal—"
"Not particularly. You're intelligent enough to know we have to learn to be comfortable with one another, and yet you're making no effort—"
"I'm sorry it's such an effort," Beth snapped.
He sucked in his breath with irritation but took his hand away. "Is it because of how I touched you that night?" he asked.
Beth swallowed. "Yes." It was a lie. It hadn't helped, for it had given vivid force to the duchess's talk, but it wasn't the main problem.
He actually looked uncomfortable, almost guilty. "I'm sorry for it then. At the time it seemed necessary, but it was not good of me, regardless of your...." He took a careful breath. "I won't do that again, Elizabeth. You have my word."
Beth was aware of a mixture of hope and disappointment. "You won't touch me there again?"
"You know that's not what I mean."
He seemed to be once again implying she had vast knowledge of men. "All I know, my lord," she snapped, "is that you had better keep your hands to yourself until I am legally obliged to endure your loathsome maulings!" With that Beth stalked away, ignoring the muttered curse behind her, nerves twitching for fear of attack.
He let her go, however, and over the next few days Beth was allowed to hide away between events without his interference.
Then one day she found herself carelessly alone in an open carriage with the marquess as they returned from a visit to the village school. They had gone with the duke and duchess, but the marquess' parents had accepted an invitation to take tea with the vicar. It was only as she realized the consequences that Beth thought it might have been a deliberate maneuver.
The marquess lounged back—if he was feeling any irritation of the nerves it wasn't obvious, thought Beth waspishly—and looked at the gift the children had presented to them. It was a carefully polished board with a design made of brass nails. It had the de Vaux coat of arms and the initials E and L. "Do you have any idea what we are supposed to do with that?" he asked lazily.
"Hang it over the door, perhaps?" she suggested, knowing full well the de Vaux arms were carved in granite over the main door of Belcraven.
"Or over our bed?"
Beth couldn't help a start.
"There you go again," he said. "We are going to have to deal with this one of these days, you know."
Beth could feel her color flare. She glanced nervously at the coachman and groom. "I am naturally nervous," she muttered.
"Or worried about what I will discover."
Beth stared at him. Was that what he thought? "You promised never to mention that again."
He met her eyes. "I apologize then. But your reactions argue a very strange state of mind. I am bound to be suspicious."
Beth looked again at the servants. Did he know they couldn't hear such a soft-voiced conversation, or did he just, with de Vaux arrogance, not care? She couldn't let his insinuations go unchallenged. "You might suspect," she hissed, "that I am suffering from normal maidenly modesty."
"I might," he said with dry lack of conviction.
"You are a loathsome man!" she snapped and was sure she saw the groom twitch. Well, she doubted they were fooling the Belcraven servants.
"Along with my loathsome maulings," he drawled, still relaxed. But she could see the anger in him.
The rest of the journey passed in total silence.
When he handed her down from the carriage by the porte cochere, Beth stalked away, eager to escape. He caught up and gripped her arm. "Slowly," he said. "Remember our agreement."
Beth glanced at the coach, just pulling away. "If you think we fool them, you are more stupid than I imagined."
"But you have never imagined me stupid, Elizabeth. The servants observe a great deal, but that is no reason to behave outrageously. You promised to act the part in public."
Beth turned on him. For once, rare blessing there was no servant in sight. "You promised to believe me an honest woman."
"Not quite. I promised to act as if you were. And am I supposed to believe you to be a naive little widgeon? A woman who reads the classics."
"There is surely some ground between an empty-headed idiot and a brazen hussy!"
"No man's land," he commented thoughtfully. "Is that what you are claiming still?"
"I am no man's," Beth stated, confused.
"You are mine."
"I am not. I am my own woman and always will be."
A spark lit in his eyes and his hands came around her throat. She froze. "What—"
"I have this urge to throttle you," he said in a strange, contemplative voice. "I wonder if Nicholas is right?"
Beth gaped at him. He'd run mad. When she swallowed nervously she could feel the tightness of his thumbs across the front of her throat. Just a little tighter and she would be in mortal danger. Where, for heaven's sake, were the ubiquitous servants?
Then his thumbs slid up until they rested on the soft underside of her jaw, making small circles against her jawbone, bringing a sweet, melting sensation she couldn't fight, though she tried. He lowered his head.
"Don't," she pleaded, but he ignored her.
His lips were firm and warm and gentle, but Beth was frightened. She tried to twist away, but his hands trapped her. She felt the moistness of his mouth on hers and the invasion of a teasing tongue. She moaned a protest but at the same time she could feel that melting sensation weaving through her, softening her bones.
His lips left hers slowly and she felt their absence. He ran a thumb across her trembling lips. "Perhaps Nicholas is right," he said. "But I apologize again. I have no wish to frighten you and, as you said recently, there's no need for my loathsome maulings yet, is there? Ah, Thomas...."
Beth jerked around to see a footman standing stonily nearby. How long had he been there?
"Perhaps you would escort Miss Armitage to her apartments," the marquess said. He looked down at Beth. "A new compact?" he offered.
Beth swallowed. That kiss had not been loathsome at all. The fact that he remembered her comment, though, told her she might actually have hurt him. The duchess had perhaps been right about the state of his nerves.
"Very well," she said. "A new compact."
She followed the footman but looked back. The marquess was still watching her, frowning. Was he angry? Or was he, in fact, as anxious and unsure as she?
* * *
Lucien saw his betrothed's anxious, puzzled backwards glance. She had reason to be anxious, but she was enough to make a man fit for Bedlam. She defied him and challenged him, and his every instinct clamored to overpower her, to make her call him master.
He could bully her, he could force her, but he was equally sure he could seduce her if he really tried.
The ridiculous thing was that he suspected he could do nothing. The thought of hurting Elizabeth, even in such a minor way as stealing an unwilling kiss, was repugnant.
He had wanted to throttle her, but it had been a need to mark her, to make her notice him and not some phantasm she carried in her overeducated head. He'd found in kissing her the same need. He wanted to seduce her, to ravish her, to drive all her clever, caustic thoughts out of her head until she was subject to him, needing him.
He'd never felt this way about a woman before, and he wasn't at all sure it was healthy.
As a result of these thoughts he took a leaf out of his betrothed's book and went to ground, in his case in the billiard room, aimlessly potting balls.
Hal Beaumont found him there. "Blue-devilled?"
Lucien looked up. "Weddings are hell."
Hal laughed. "You should have eloped."
"Elizabeth said that once. Perhaps I should pay more attention to her suggestions."
"Perhaps you should. She seems to be a woman of sense."
Lucien dropped his cue on the baize. "Not at the moment, she doesn't."
"I can't say either of you are showing to advantage. You can tell me to go to the devil, Luce, but I have to ask. What's going on?"
"Go to the devil," said Lucien amiably.
Hal shrugged. "As you will. I've been halfway to hell and back as it is." He must have seen something on the marquess' face, for he grimaced. "I apologize. Nasty kind of emotional pressure to exert." He sighed. "It's just that a brush with death changes things. I hate to see people making stupid mistakes. I wouldn't like to see you in an arid marriage."
"I don't much want to be in one," said Lucien grimly. He looked around. The billiard table had been set up in a wide gallery which still boasted massed ranks of medieval armaments on the walls. "Come on. It must be this room that's depressing us both. If one of those hooks gives way we'll be sliced to ribbons. Let's find more convivial surroundings."
Hal's strong right hand stopped him. "Why, Luce? If it's all been a mistake there must be a way out. I can't believe Miss Armitage is desperate to hold you to this marriage."
It went against all sense of right to lie to Hal. Lucien tried to give him part of the truth. "It's an arranged marriage. Elizabeth is my parent's choice."
Hal seemed to read a great deal from the words. After a moment he released his grip. "Then make a go of it. She's a warm woman of intelligence and humor. I think you suit very well."
"Like a Bedlamite and a straitjacket," snapped Lucien and escaped. Hal, being a man of sense, let him go.
* * *
The next day was the reception for all the local people. The gentry and other local worthies were entertained in the ballroom with wine, fine dishes, and Mozart. The lesser tenants and local residents were in the meadow where various large carcasses were roasting, jugs of ale never seemed to empty, and a band played for dancing.
Beth paraded around both locations on the marquess' arm. She exchanged pleasantries with the doctor, the lawyer, and the prosperous farmers. She made stilted conversation with the wives of small holders and farm laborers. It wasn't that she felt above them but that they were so clearly in awe. Couldn't they see that despite her new finery, she was just like them?
The simple fact was that all these people gained pleasure from a few words from the future duchess when they would have thought nothing of a day spent with Beth Armitage, schoolmistress. It was a preposterous situation and yet Beth couldn't deny them that pleasure when this celebration was clearly a red-letter day in lives of endless, tedious drudgery.
She did enjoy the children, for they were more natural with her. She sat down at one point with a group of little ones to teach them a finger song.
The marquess stood by watching. When she finally escaped he said, "You do that very well."
"It is my profession."
"Not anymore, I'm afraid."
Beth didn't argue. "I'm less at ease with their parents. I feel so awkward, as if I'm acting in a play. 'Enter future duchess, stage right.' I have never been very good at that sort of thing."
"Nonsense. They love you. You don't just speak to them. You listen. You make it seem as if you are, for a moment, one of them."
Beth looked at him. "But I am one of them."
He was arrested. After a pensive moment he shook his head. "Not anymore, I'm afraid." There was a trace of apology in it.
"I know," said Beth with a sigh. "But at least I can remember." She looked around the meadow full of people—chattering, dancing, eating, drinking. "Can you imagine," she demanded, "what it feels like to be one of these people? To worry about food for the table, a roof over your head, medicine for a sick child?"
"No," he retorted. "But if necessary I will put food on their table and a roof over their head, and send a doctor for their child. Who has the greater worry in the end?"
Before Beth could make a response he looked behind her. "Here's someone of the same lowly order as yourself. I'll leave you to wallow in your righteousness."
Beth abruptly found herself abandoned to the company of Major Beaumont, feeling very much as if she had been scolded, and possibly with justice. More than that she felt she might have hurt him again. It was time she started thinking of sensibilities other than her own. The marquess was arrogantly sure of his high place in the order of things, but he also took his responsibilities very seriously.
She wished he hadn't gone, so she could try to make amends, but for now all she could do was to continue to act her part. She chattered to Beaumont, trying to look like an ecstatic bride to be.
"Do you know, Miss Armitage," he said as they strolled back toward the house, "I wish you would not feel such a need to perform."
"What?"
"There's no need," he said gently. "Lucien has told me all about it."
Beth's eyes opened wide. "All about it?"
Mr. Beaumont studied her shrewdly. "Well no. He did not say quite why you had been chosen to be his bride, merely that it was his parents' wish."
"And it surprises you to find the chosen one so plain and ordinary?" Beth asked waspishly.
"Begging for compliments, Miss Armitage?" he teased. "You know you are neither."
Beth looked at him in surprise. "On the contrary. My mirror tells me daily that I am no beauty. And I set no store in flattery, sir."
"Perhaps you don't see yourself in animation," he said with a smile. "It's true your features are quite ordinary, but they become lively when you talk and you have what are called 'speaking eyes.' They shine with the light of your quick mind."
Beth could feel herself turning pink. "Please, Major Beaumont, you must not say such things to me. And they are quite untrue."
"Do you mean Lucien hasn't told you this? I'd thought him more adroit. In fact," he added with a light of humor glinting in his eyes, "he's a devil of a flirt. But if he is going to leave the field to others...."
They had arrived at the rose garden close by the house. It was now full of the better quality of guest who were strolling about and admiring the flowers, but Beth and Mr. Beaumont were some distance from the nearest people. He stole a rosebud from a bed and brushed it softly against her cheek. He leaned closer, and she felt his warm breath against her ear as he murmured, "Tell you what, Miss Armitage. I think you're wasted on him. Let's elope."
Beth choked with laughter. "You are quite outrageous, sir!" She was free of the tangled nervousness she felt with the marquess and was quite enjoying herself.
He smiled appreciatively. "Yes, I know. I'm the devil of a flirt, too. Shall we?"
Despite his declaration as a flirt there was a touch of honesty in the question which startled her. "Why are you saying such things when you know I cannot?"
He smiled still, but there was a wistfulness there. "I know a treasure when I see one. I would like a wife, you know, but what do I see around me? The Phoebe Swinnamers and the Lucy Frogmortons. You are a different type entirely."
There was no doubting his honesty, no matter how absurd it all seemed, and Beth was at a loss. "I know that, Major Beaumont, but...."
"But I have startled you." All humor was gone, and he met her eyes honestly. "When I first mentioned an elopement, Miss Armitage, it was a mere pleasantry. It is becoming more solid and desirable second by second. It will not do and I apologize."
He looked down at the creamy rosebud in his hand. "I am going to leave and you will not see me again before your wedding day. After that it will be as if this conversation never took place, as it never should. But before that, Miss Armitage," he said as he looked up again and held out the rose, "if it should seem wise to you, you may remind me of it."
Numbly, Beth took the flower and watched as he walked away. In truth, if there had been any way out of her predicament, she might have been tempted by Mr. Beaumont's offer, for he was a much more comfortable man than her betrothed. She could rub along with him without quicksands and violence.
Then she looked across the garden and saw Lucien de Vaux laughing with one of the tenants. The sun gilded his bright hair and he was relaxed and graceful. The air seemed suddenly thinner, and Beth knew that any place on earth other than this beautiful setting for a beautiful man would be bleak for her.
She moved quickly to join another adoring group.
In a little while the marquess was again by her side introducing her to yet more people to whom the Duchy of Belcraven was everything. She could do her part now almost by rote and had time to study the marquess' performance with these people.
He did take his job seriously.
He was surprisingly amenable. He knew most of the people by name and could often make flattering reference to some past encounter. He clearly understood the farmers' land and the major concerns of the professional men's occupations. He knew, too, that the women's lives were not of idleness and made mention of egg money, dairy work, and concerns over children.
He could flirt gently with the wives of all ages without giving offense—Beth remembered Mr. Beaumont saying he was a devil of a flirt and knew it to be true. It made her bitter that he never used his skill on her. Then she had to admit that he had tried once or twice and now doubtless expected to have a poker wrapped around his head did he do anything so foolish again.
He could depress pretension firmly but subtly so that the offender realized his or her mistake without public shaming. Much though she hated the necessity Beth thought she should study his technique.
She was surprised, though, by it all. Lucien de Vaux was good at his trade. He would, in time, make an excellent duke.
"And why are you frowning?" he asked as they moved on again, leaving the local corn factor and the ironmonger content. "Am I offending your radical sympathies again?"
"Tiredness, I'm afraid," Beth said in as conciliatory a tone as she could muster. "And I think I need to apologize. You do take your responsibilities seriously, don't you?"
"Of course." She thought he was pleased by her words. "It's a strange business, though. I am in training for a job I hope will be a very long time coming, and in the meantime I often have too much time on my hands."
"Would the duke not let you share in the running of the duchy?"
He looked at her skeptically. "The two of us in harness?"
Beth had forgotten the problem of his birth. "I think one needs to train for this kind of thing," she said. "It will be years, if ever, before I feel I belong in the role of duchess."
"You'll get used to it in time. Now, however, I think you should go and rest. The event is all but over. Tomorrow we leave for London and there, I gather, you are supposed to cram a Season into a fortnight. You'll need every scrap of stamina."
And that was the way it was. The next day they all set off for Town with three coaches. Beth traveled with the duchess in her chariot, the one which had brought her from Cheltenham, while servants were conveyed in the other two. The duke drove himself in a curricle while the marquess rode Viking, the horse with which the boy had been careless.
Beth was guiltily aware that she had forgotten about Robin Babson. The large black stallion showed no sign of injury and was restive and difficult to handle, even for the marquess. It was unfair to even think of a child trying to control such an animal.
When they stopped for refreshments, Beth looked over the many servants but saw no sign of the boy. Had the marquess beaten him half to death? Dismissed him? She had to know.
As they took a turn around a small orchard next to the inn she raised the subject. "I met a young boy in the Belcraven stables. He said he worked with your horses, but I do not see him here."
"You must mean Robin. He's a troublesome scamp." It was an indulgent comment but didn't explain the boy's absence.
"Where is he?"
"He and Dooley are bringing my bays to Town by easy stages. Why?" The last word held a note of suspicion.
"I took a liking to the boy," Beth explained. "I gather he'd been in hot water for something to do with Viking. Is the horse all right?"
"Yes, but Jarvis thought he might have thrown a splint and dusted the lad's jacket for him." He looked down at her with a frown. "I hope he didn't come running to you to complain."
"Oh no," she assured him. "The subject came up quite by accident." After a moment she added, "He did seem worried you'd thrash him again when you found out."
"I might well have done if the damage had been serious. He's inclined to be careless and that horse cost me eight hundred guineas."
"For a horse!" Beth exclaimed.
"Yes," he replied with asperity, "for a horse. And if you give me prosy lecture on the extravagance of the aristocracy I'll doubtless thrash you, Elizabeth." Beth wasn't at all sure he was joking.