Chapter 12
Back in the safety of the carriage Beth could at least be reassured that he wasn't a cruel master to his servants no matter how he was going to behave to his wife. He ought to know that Robin was afraid of horses, but she had given her word to the boy. She decided she would try to sort out this minor problem. It would take her mind off her own predicament.
When they reached London, however, it soon drove thoughts of Robin out of her head. It was a whole new world.
She had only twice been to London, and though she and Aunt Emma had visited the Royal Academy exhibition at Somerset House and strolled by the Queen's Palace, she had never ventured within the more select areas of Mayfair. Her previous experiences had given her the impression that London was universally noisy and dirty, but she discovered there were islands of peace and beauty for those who could afford them.
Marlborough Square was surrounded by about twenty fine mansions, some fronted by courtyards set apart by wrought-iron barriers, and others with magnificent steps leading up to great, gleaming doorways. The center of the square was a fine garden around a fountain. Trees were in fresh leaf and flowers bloomed.
The carriage drew up before a large double-fronted house. The arms blazoned proudly above the door confirmed that this was Belcraven House. The doors swung open and an army of servants trooped out to take care of the family. Of whom Beth was now supposedly one.
She felt as if she had been politely escorted from one prison to another.
Once in the house Beth never had a moment to herself, and she certainly never set eyes on Robin Babson. She was taken on an exhausting round of shopping, had endless fittings for clothes, and was dragged to one social affair after another every evening. The Season was scarcely begun and yet there was no shortage of gatherings at which the Belcraven heir and his bride could be displayed.
It was usually three or four in the morning before Beth rolled into bed, but she was not afforded the luxury of rising at noon like the rest of Society. She was up in the morning for extra lessons in court etiquette and the correct handling of social inferiors. It was strongly impressed upon her by the duchess that soon everyone short of royalty would be her social inferior and any mistakes in her interactions with them would be disastrous.
Beth felt a rebellious desire to sit down with the housemaid and discuss the position of woman in modern society, but she knew the maid would be as distressed by this as the duchess.
After luncheon, the cycle began again with morning visits, salons, a drive in the park, an opulent dinner, the theater, a soirée, a ball or a rout. Everyone stared at her; people said the same boring things over and over. Even interesting events such as the maneuvers of Napoleon and the defeat of Murat by the Austrians were gossiped to death with so little insight as to be tedious. Beth felt she never wanted to attend another social event for the rest of her life.
The marquess was nearly always by her side, but they were never alone. This meant there was no opportunity to grow closer but at least they could not quarrel. As a consequence, he ceased to be a person to fear and even at times became her support. He was surefooted in this quagmire and could be depended upon to rescue her if she faltered, if only for the sake of the damned pride of the de Vaux. He could even at times be depended on for a little intelligent conversation though it was clearly unfashionable to be too serious, even about the prospect of war.
Beth constantly hoped to encounter a friend, for Miss Mallory's had catered to some of the higher families and Beth had made friends with some of the girls of her own age. The friendships had lapsed as their lives had settled into different patterns—Beth's into study and teaching and her friends' into social life, marriage, and motherhood—but she had every faith that some of them could be revived now she had entered her friends' world. She never encountered any, however, and could not always remember married names or even their place of residence.
Nor was she successful at making new friends. In this artificial environment where she felt as much an object of curiosity as a freak, there was little basis for true understanding.
Beth was sure at least some of her troubles could be laid at Phoebe Swinnamer's door. The beauty and her mother had come up to Town, and Phoebe was affecting an air of hurt restraint as if she'd actually been jilted. Heaven knew what stories the girl was telling, but if the marquess stopped to say good evening to her it was as if the whole room held its breath to listen. The one time when he was somehow inveigled into standing up with her, other dancers were tripping over each other as they attempted to watch his every expression.
If they saw anything, they saw the marquess throw Beth a look of mock despair which made her want to laugh. Their situation was not comfortable, but Beth was relieved to see that he was not enamored of another. She remembered he had expressed horror at the thought of marrying such a vain widgeon. Poor Phoebe.
It was not so amusing however when she found herself in conversation with the girl, aware of nearby ears stretched to catch every word.
"How tiresome for you, Miss Armitage, to have your wedding rushed so," the girl drawled. "I would have—" Phoebe broke off and lowered her lashes. She would doubtless have blushed had it been within her control. "I will," she corrected sweetly, "insist on plenty of time to make all proper arrangements."
This was clearly a rehearsed speech. Beth lost all sympathy for the little cat "Will you?" she said. "I am sure your husband will be pleased to know that your desire for show and ceremony outweighs your desire to be his wife."
The beauty stared glassily but rallied. "I merely meant, Miss Armitage, that I would wish the wedding to be done properly."
"How kind," countered Beth with a smile. "I'm sure the duchess would appreciate your advice. Pray go and tell her in what ways you think the wedding will fall short."
Phoebe had lost her script and was close to losing her composure, which in her case meant that the flawless perfection of her features was slightly troubled by emotion. "La!" she said with a little laugh. "How you do take me up. I declare it must be exhausting to converse with one so clever as you. You cannot help but be aware, Miss Armitage, that it is usual in our circles for there to be a longer period between the betrothal and the wedding."
The "our" clearly did not encompass Beth. Beth was framing an annihilating and yet permissible reply when she became aware of the marquess beside her. "Alas Miss Swinnamer, you must surely know," he said with razor-edged meaning, "that I disdain to do the usual. I'm sure one day, when some man falls into the snare of your beauty, he will rush you to the altar just as I am rushing Elizabeth."
This masterly speech scored so many points that some titters were heard. Mrs. Swinnamer, who had been hovering nearby, swept down to shepherd her daughter away. The mother looked flustered and angry, but Phoebe wore only the slightest frown. She glanced back once, exquisitely puzzled, and it occurred to Beth that the girl had never considered until that moment that the marquess was not truly smitten by her beauty.
"I confess, I feel sorry for the poor fool," she said to him as they moved away from their audience toward a refreshment room.
"Don't," he said firmly. "She's like a honey trap—to be avoided at all times."
"If you had avoided her," Beth pointed out, "we would not be subjected to such sugared ambushes."
He steered her to a seat in a relatively quiet corner. "Would you like wine? Or they have negus and orgeat."
"Negus, please."
He signed to a hovering footman and commanded it. "If you have any complaint," he said, "you must make it to my mother. She was the one throwing the beautiful Phoebe at my head."
"She believed her a suitable wife for you?" asked Beth, puzzled. She'd thought the duchess more astute.
"She thought her a possible wife," he corrected, "and was nobly willing to do her best." The footman arrived, and the marquess passed Beth her chilled drink. "It was all my fault, I confess. Phoebe was making a dead set at me and I was falling into the trap. Not of her beauty," he said, "but of her lacquered gloss. I developed an obsessive desire to disturb it. It could have proved fatal if I hadn't come to my senses enough to flee her orbit entirely."
It was one of the relaxed times when he talked to her as if she were just another human being, and perhaps one he liked.
She sipped her drink and said, "I'm sure even Phoebe must wake up with her hair disordered and sheet marks on her cheek."
"Do you think so?" he queried lazily. "That was one of my almost fatal questions. Whether she could preserve the perfect finish throughout a wedding night."
Beth froze. The negus went the wrong way, and she spluttered and choked. He rescued her glass before the contents spilled over her green silk gown. Beth finally gasped a breath.
"Are you all right?" he asked. "I didn't think it was quite that funny."
Beth rose to her feet. "I'm perfectly recovered," she said, with another little cough which gave her the lie. "I think I have a partner waiting."
He placed her glass on a table and caught her up, staying her with a hand on her arm. "I claim precedence," he said. "What's the matter?" He studied her features for a moment then said, "Ah, the dreadful prospect of the marriage bed. More maidenly modesty?" The familiar bitter edge was back in his voice.
"That is surely not unreasonable?"
"It's damned inconvenient," he said, and she could tell the use of the word damned was deliberate. "You will have to make up your mind, sweeting, whether you wish to be treated as a delicate bloom, to be protected from all crudity, even the need—especially the need—to think. Or whether you wish to be treated as an equal."
"As an equal," said Beth instantly. "But that surely does not disallow a little maidenly modesty, my lord. Does a man not suffer some qualms before a new event? A duel, for example?"
He took her at her word. "I'm a virgin," he said. "In the matter of duels, that is. Is that how you regard our wedding night? Pistols at twenty paces?" The mischievous twinkle she was coming to know too well entered his eyes. "Wrestling would be nearer the mark," he murmured. "Or a sword fight."
Beth could feel herself color but knew she had no right to complain. She'd asked for this. "I hope that peace, not combat, will mark our marriage bed."
He was serious again. "If you are as honest as you claim to be, Elizabeth, blood will mark our marriage bed. Blood is not usually a product of peace."
If she had been pink before, Beth knew now she must be pale. His words were perfectly true and yet there was a hint of violence, and a reminder of his lingering doubts.
He sighed and took her hand. "I'm sorry. I'm not very good at this. I've been trained to treat women one way, and you are asking for something different. No matter how much of a sturdy plant you wish to be, I think it would be wiser for me to treat you as a delicate bloom for a little while yet. You may be made of steel, but my nerves aren't up to the strain."
He led her into the ballroom where a county dance was in progress which could easily be joined. He wove them adroitly into the pattern.
"For a little while yet...." Until their wedding night was over, her composure ruthlessly reduced to wild lust, her blood spilt, his doubts finally satisfied.
Beth fixed a bright smile and surrendered to the mindlessness of the dance.
* * *
From then on he treated her with a warm courtesy which at the same time was chillingly impersonal. Beth missed the brief moments of relaxed conversation but was willing enough to sacrifice them to avoid the quicksands.
Phoebe Swinnamer, too, seemed to have been routed and had all her attention fixed on the young Earl of Bolton who appeared to be as much of a cold stick as herself.
This was some relief, but Beth still had the endless daily round of entertainments at which she was always under curious scrutiny and must always appear to be a lover on the verge of marriage—in the most polite and decorous way, of course.
The marquess occasionally escaped to a club or time with his friends, but Beth had no such relief. One night, to everyone's amazement, she burst into tears as they were about to leave for the theater. Simply because he was closest, she found herself in the marquess' arms.
He settled her on a sofa and kept an arm about her. "Maman, this has to stop," he said.
The duke and duchess shared a glance.
"Miss Armitage isn't used to this way of life," said the marquess. "It's a strain on me, but it must be far worse for her, surrounded always by strangers. It's less than a week to the wedding. Let her rest. Everyone will understand."
"If she appears to be sickly...." said the duchess doubtfully.
"Is it any better for her to collapse in public than for her to miss a few events?"
By this time Beth had pulled herself together. "Please," she said, quite touched by the marquess' concern. "I am recovered now."
"No, you're not," he said roughly. "You're as white as a sheet and have black shadows under your eyes." With a touch of humor he added, "You're doing nothing for my reputation as a lover, you know. Go to bed and we'll tell the world you have a cold. Anyone can catch a cold."
Beth took out her tiny lacy handkerchief and blew her nose. "I sound as if I have one," she sniffed.
"Exactly," he said, providing a much larger and more practical one. "Tomorrow you can receive some callers, sniff a lot, and retreat again. If you rouge your nose a little to give it verisimilitude, it should gain you at least two days of peace and quiet."
Beth couldn't help it; she chuckled. "What a master of deceit you are, my lord," she said. She felt the temperature immediately drop.
"Aren't we all?" he replied coolly and rang the bell. Once she was safely in the custody of her maid, the marquess, the duke, and the duchess took their leave.
Beth was left lying miserably on her bed wondering how every moment of harmony and kindness was soured. Was there any hope for them at all?
His plan did gain her the respite she needed, however. Beth spent two peaceful days in her room, reading and resting. By the time she was "recovered" there were only two more days before the wedding and the duchess used that fact as a reason to curtail their social activities.
This did not leave Beth with time on her hands, for she was expected to assist the duchess in supervising arrangements and had final fittings for her wedding gown. Also, a bewildering number of relatives began to arrive in Town and all paid calls. The only good point was that the marquess exempted himself from these occasions, saying blithely that he'd known all the old frumps from the cradle and had no need to be introduced. Beth was convinced that even if absence did not make her heart grow fonder, it provided fewer occasions for discord.
What that had to offer for the rest of their lives, she didn't like to think at all.
Beth's resting period also liberated Lucien. Once his bride-to-be was excused from the endless round of socialization there was not much point in his attending. He was not short of entertainment, for the Company of Rogues had assembled to bid farewell to Con and Dare, who were off to join Wellington's army on the very day of the wedding. The focus of the Company, as always, was the Delaney house in Lauriston Street. Nicholas and Eleanor had returned there after their family visit to Grattingley, and it was always open house for their friends.
Lucien spent most of his evenings there.
Three days before the wedding, Eleanor was bold enough to venture a saucy query. "Shouldn't you perhaps stay home with Elizabeth, My Lord Marquess?"
"Like Godric and Godgifu, sitting by the hearth?" he replied. "She's resting, and anyway, it would be no fit pattern for our elevated future."
Eleanor frowned slightly at his tone and he repented of the bitterness. But before he could say anything she summoned Nicholas. "Who were Godric and Godgifu?" she demanded.
He looked intrigued but said, "King Henry I and his wife Matilda. A somewhat sneering reference by the Normans to their domestic happiness and their attempts to Anglicize their court." He looked over at Lucien and added, "She refuses to buy an encyclopedia and just drags me around everywhere."
"I suppose a husband should be of some use," Lucien said and grimaced as he again heard bitterness ring through.
"Just consider," said Eleanor to Nicholas, smoothing over the moment, "if Miss Fitcham had been the kind of schoolmistress to actually teach her pupils something, I doubtless would have no use for you at all."
"Do you think not?" he said lazily.
Eleanor colored and rose to her feet. "If you are going to be bold, I'm escaping while I can." She turned and fired a parting shot at Lucien. "If it was good enough for the king of England, My Lord Marquess, I cannot see how it is beneath you."
"Broadsided, by God," said Lucien with a laugh and gave her the victory. He turned to Nicholas. "How do you live with a sharp-witted woman?"
"In constant delight. She is also warm-hearted. Is Elizabeth cold?"
This was the attack direct. "I don't know," Lucien said at last.
"Luce," said Nicholas, "you are rich, handsome, and the most skillful, the most outrageous, flirt in England. You even had Eleanor bedazzled in front of my very nose. How can you not know if your bride is warm or cold?"
Lucien realized he'd never flirted with Elizabeth Armitage. Assaulted her, yes, threatened and berated her. But flirted with her? No. It was not a matter he could discuss, even with Nicholas.
"How can I not know?" he repeated lightly. "Because she's a cactus and I'm an inflated bag of pride and consequence, and I'm afraid to get close enough to find out."
Nicholas's lips twitched. "There goes the de Vaux succession, I gather."
"Oh," said Lucien, "there'll have to be an heir for de Vaux even if it leaves me limp and useless...." Hearing his own words he burst out laughing.
"Perfectly natural," agreed Nicholas with a grin, "if only in the temporary sense. Don't I recall you saying once that your minions inflate your consequence with a foot pump every day? I'm gaining a whole new insight into the bed manners of the great."
"Have some reverence," Lucien chided, still fighting laughter. "Not that I've not always wondered about my parents...."
"Don't we all."
Thought of his parents—of his father who was not his father—effectively sobered Lucien. "Do you ever feel grateful," he asked, "not to have the responsibility of carrying on a line?"
"As my brother is disinclined to marry, I probably have that duty. I don't find it unbearable. But then, I'm not all puffed up with pride." He burst out laughing. "You know, I'll never be able to hear that phrase again without lurid imaginings." He shook his head. "Eleanor renders me limp with satisfying regularity but leaves her spines at the bedroom door."
"Eleanor has no spines."
Eleanor's devoted husband hooted with mirth. "Has she not, indeed! You got to know her when circumstances had her somewhat subdued. I tell her it's no wonder she was whipped so often as a child. The remarkable thing is that it had so little effect."
"How do you keep her in line, then?"
Nicholas grew serious in a way his friends had reason to know. "In what line?"
It was a challenge and Lucien reacted by stiffening. "Within the line of appropriate behavior."
Nicholas's warm brown eyes became remarkably cold. "I've never stayed within that line myself. Why should I try to impose it on anyone else?"
"She's your wife, damn it."
Nicholas shook his head. "She's Eleanor. I never wanted to become the guardian of another adult human being and God was good and granted me a wife able to accept freedom. Are you going to try to keep Elizabeth 'in line'?"
Lucien knew he was already trying to do that. But what else could he do when heaven only knew what the woman would do if he let her loose? Wear rags. Hobnob with the servants. Preach revolution. Give her body to any Tom, Dick, or Harry? He realized he didn't really care about the rest, just that. Even though she'd preserved her virginity—or so she said—what was to restrain her once that was gone? Mary Wollstonecraft's daughter was a prime example of where her mother's teaching led.
"Elizabeth is no Eleanor," Lucien said.
"No. I gather she's better educated."
"Crammed full of the Wollstonecraft's immoral teaching."
"Have you read it?"
"No."
"Come on," said Nicholas and rose to lead the way out of the room. Lucien was in the hall before it occurred to him that there wasn't one damn reason in the world why he should follow at Nicholas Delaney's bidding. Except that he was Nicholas Delaney.
They went into the library. Nicholas lit a lamp and took two books from the well-filled shelves, finding them with ease. Mary Wollstonecraft's A Vindication of the Rights of Man and A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.
Nicholas touched the second. "Every man should read that, if only to understand. I think in your case you should read it carefully."
Even Nicholas could stir Lucien's anger. "I am supposed to convert to the cause of radical feminism?"
Nicholas smiled. "The earth would crumble at the shock. No, but at least you would speak the same language."
"It would be better if Elizabeth learned to speak mine. What do you think of Mary Godwin's elopement with Percy Shelley?" Lucien challenged. "He leaves a wife and two children behind. And takes his mistress's friend along for variety."
"I think," said Nicholas seriously, "if I had met Eleanor when I was married to another.... But I'm not sure that applies here. I think all of them—wife, mistress, mistress's friend, and the poet himself—are quite mad." He shrugged. "I refuse to think of such strange poetical antics. I'm trying very hard to unload the world from my shoulders. It's not very fair to Eleanor to expect her to carry my weight and all that, too."
Lucien was pleased enough to have Nicholas change the subject. "And Napoleon?" he asked, to keep the talk drifting the right way.
"The same."
"And Deveril?"
At that name, Nicholas nodded. "I have a score to settle with him," he admitted quietly, looking every bit as dangerous as he could be. "But I won't pursue it. There's no good to be done. It would merely be revenge."
"Revenge can be sweet."
"I have never found it so."
"What about all our antics at Harrow?" Lucien put down the books in his hand.
"They weren't revenge. They were boyish stratagems."
Nicholas picked the books up and returned them to Lucien's hand.
Lucien met his friend's eyes for a tense moment but then gave in. He made sure, however, that the talk stayed off his business. "I was astonished to see Deveril in England," he said. "I thought he fled with Thérèse Bellaire?"
"Thérèse would deny anything so gauche as flight," Nicholas pointed out as he extinguished the lamp. "But yes," he said as they left the room, "Deveril was with us. An extremely unpleasant traveling companion." A flicker of something passed over his face which made Lucien wonder about that strange journey when Madame Bellaire had kidnapped Nicholas. He had been kept with them for many days, then put on board another ship headed for the Cape Colony. It had taken him nearly four months to get home, during which time many people had feared him dead.
"If he's back," Nicholas continued, "she must have dismissed him. After all, he was never her lover."
They were alone in the hall. Lucien hazarded a question, for he had a morbid curiosity about the cold-hearted courtesan. "What exactly was he to her?"
Nicholas shrugged. "Someone who shared some of her tastes. Slimy things tend to huddle together. He has a crude, but vigorous imagination." He went on smoothly before Lucien could think of a comment or further question. "Being a greedy man, he was also very interested in her scheme. He traveled with us to be sure of getting his share of the money."
"He must have succeeded," said Lucien. "He was never poor but word is he's come back filthy rich—the emphasis as always being on the filthy. That's why he's got his toe back into Society. Money will always open doors."
Nicholas looked at him alertly. "Rich? There wasn't that much money, and Thérèse intended most of it for her own use."
"Perhaps he's just putting on a show. But he's taken a house in Grosvenor Square. He's driving some damned fine cattle—topped my price for Millham's bays and it irks me to see him out with them. He's a hard-handed driver. Rumor has it he's looking for a wife, and not an heiress. More a question of buying something to his taste."
Nicholas grimaced. "That any parent would sell their child to such as he.... But I wonder. Luce, where all his money comes from. I wonder, in fact, whether he didn't manage to beat Thérèse at her own game."
"Cheated the Madame out of her lucre?" asked Lucien with a grin. "You may say revenge isn't sweet, but I could relish that."
"Justice, not revenge," said Nicholas with a matching grin. "Fiat justicia et pereat mundus. It's not complete, though. I don't see why Deveril should enjoy the ill-gotten gains."
"Nor do I, by God. What shall we do about it?"
Nicholas looked at him. "Nothing for the moment. He'll keep. You are getting married, which takes a certain amount of concentrated effort. As I found out to my cost. You also have some reading to do."
Lucien looked at the books. "You expect these to make a difference. I think I understand Elizabeth perfectly. I just don't approve."
"And I took you for a man of sense. We never understand another human being and to think we do is the most dangerous illusion of all." Nicholas was completely serious and when that happened it was wise for all to pay attention. "I wish," he said thoughtfully, "we'd come back sooner and had an opportunity to meet your Elizabeth. I suspect she could use a friend or two."
Lucien was guiltily aware that he'd never considered his betrothed's lack of friends. "I could bring her over one day."
"If you wish, of course. But it's only three days to the Wedding of the Season, and she'll doubtless appreciate peace and quiet rather than more strangers. Bring her around after your honeymoon. I think, in view of this Deveril business, we will stay here for a few more weeks."
They walked towards the drawing-room door, but there Nicholas stopped with his hand on the knob. "Giving advice is rarely a good idea, Luce, but I can't resist. No matter what problems there are between you and Elizabeth, the marriage bed is no place for them." He looked up. "Fight if you have to, but in bed just love her. And if you can't do that yet, wait until you can."