Chapter 13
The wedding was to be held in the ballroom of Belcraven House and on her wedding eve Beth found herself drawn there. The large room with its gilded pillars and arched ceiling was illuminated by only a cold touch of moonlight which reduced its magnificence to shades of silver and gray. The flowers were already in place—in huge urns, on trellises, and hanging on the walls. The moist perfume weighted the air and made it hard to breathe.
She was for once quite alone. The servants had finished their work here and were in their beds, resting before the long hard day they would have tomorrow.
In the pale light, the room looked rather like a chapel, but Beth was glad she was not to be married in a church. There was nothing spiritual about this enforced joining. Though it was sugared by civilized behavior, it was as brutal as the calculated abductions of ages past, where the affections of the woman mattered not a whit, only her fortune.
"And my fortune is just my misbegotten blood," she murmured. "Wealth beyond measure to the de Vaux."
She had to admit that the marquess had mostly been kind and considerate in recent weeks, particularly so during the past few days. She could even confess that she was not immune to his charms. He was a beautiful man and viewed only as an objet d'art there was pleasure to be found. He was intelligent and, after his own fashion, sensitive. She could have enjoyed his company if they weren't in this terrible situation.
After all, she would never have known his company if it weren't for this terrible situation. With a caught breath Beth realized that even if she were given the chance she might not be able to find satisfaction any more in her old life. Without him.
He had the power to move her. The formal touch of his hand was often more than a touch; the sense of his body nearby could catch her breath; a look in his eyes could set her skin to tingling.
Perhaps this more than anything caused her to face her marriage with dread. By this time tomorrow she would be totally in his power, in the grip of these wanton sensations. And yet he felt nothing.
She wrapped her arms around herself as she shivered. She desperately wished the duchess had left her in misty ignorance of where the marquess's power over her might lead. She remembered that horrible encounter on the terrace at Belcraven and the way he had been able to set fire to her body while his expression stayed cold as ice. Now she was constantly assailed by the vision of him cold-bloodedly manipulating her into some frantic state, a state she knew was just a few touches away....
The duchess walked into the room carrying a branch of candles. Leaping flames picked out the red walls and the gilding and made them dance. The room became gay instead of mysterious.
"Is something the matter, Elizabeth?"
"No," said Beth, unable to fabricate an explanation for her presence here in the dark.
The duchess put down the candles and came over to take Beth in her arms. "Oh, my poor child. Please do not be afraid. Truly, there is nothing of which to be afraid in Lucien."
"Nothing?" Beth queried, pulling herself out of the comforting embrace. "Nothing? After tomorrow he could beat me half to death and no one would care!"
"What?" exclaimed the duchess. "Has he ever struck you Elizabeth? If he has I will flog him myself!"
"No," said Beth hastily, for the duchess was truly enraged. She swallowed the response that he'd twice threatened to.
"Thank God," said the duchess and calmed. "There is something of violence in Lucien, I will admit, but there is in most men. Let us be honest, Elizabeth, we are glad of it when we want them to defend us or fight for our country as so many of them will have to do very soon. Lucien is a gentleman, however, and can control himself. You must not fear him. If he ever hurts you, you must tell me, and I promise he will regret it bitterly."
There was some reassurance to be found in this, but Beth was surprised to find she was ambivalent. She pinned down her reluctance to accept help and realized she preferred the battle between the marquess and herself to be an honest fight, just the two of them. How strange.
"Now tell me," asked the duchess. "Why are you smiling like that?"
"I really don't know, Your Grace," said Beth. "It is all so ridiculous, though. I never wanted any of this." She shook her head. "I think I had best go to bed and rest."
The duchess watched Elizabeth walk away and sighed. She had observed her son and his bride-to-be and was perplexed. At times they acted well and at others they ignored one another. Sometimes, if they had the opportunity to talk, they appeared to rub along together marvelously; she had been pleased to see her intelligent son using his brains instead of sinking to the inanities of most of his fashionable friends. At other times, however, they almost seemed to hate each other and now, it would appear, Elizabeth was afraid of him.
She thought of speaking to Lucien, but Marleigh informed her he was out with his friends. As usual. She went instead in search of the duke and found him in the library.
He stood courteously until she had taken a seat opposite him, but he watched her warily. The duchess realized she had never sought him out like this before, and following the thought, she had a revelation. Their whole life since Lucien's birth seemed now to have been distorted beyond reason. She forgot that she had come to talk of the marriage.
"Why?" she asked softly. "Why have we done this to ourselves?" She saw him almost flinch under the question. "William, why have we let such small mistakes ruin our lives?"
"Small?" he asked sharply. "Having an heir who is not my son is not a small matter to me."
She almost fled back behind the barriers of formality but steeled herself. "It happens, though. The whole world knows Melbourne's heir is Lord Egremont's, and there are other families in the same predicament. Do they all fall apart as we have done?"
He stood sharply. "We have not fallen apart. I have treated you with respect. I have treated Arden as my own son in every way."
"In every way?" she queried.
He turned back, and her heart caught at the feeling in his eyes. "I love him, Yolande. How many times have I longed for ignorance? He can infuriate me," he said with a slight smile, "but all offspring do that at times. At his best I could never wish for a finer son."
"Why then can you not forgive me?" she cried.
He came quickly over and fell to one knee by her chair. "Forgive you? I forgave you the moment you told me, Yolande. Have I reproached you?"
She felt quite strange. Was she really over fifty years old? She was flustered like a girl again. She reached out to touch his hair, first with her fingers, then with the whole of her hand as she caressed him. "No, my dear," she said softly, "you never reproached me. But you could not bear to touch me."
He captured her hand and pressed a burning kiss into her palm. "I have ached for you, Yolande, with a greater pain than I could ever have imagined. Sleepless nights. Dreams of you so real I would wake in horror, thinking I had been with you...."
"Horror?" she asked, clenching her hands on his. "Horror?"
"You will hate me for this," he said softly, but he raised his head to meet her eyes. "If I had given you another son, Yolande, I believe I would have killed Arden."
Her grip relaxed, but she did not loose his hand. "William, you could never have done that."
He pulled away from her, rose, and went to stand across the room. "Perhaps not," he said in a hard voice, "but I would certainly have arranged his disappearance. The dukedom belongs to a de Vaux. Ironically, I think Lucien could understand that, even if you cannot."
The duchess could feel the smile on her face and the tears in her eyes. She rose lightly and went to him. She wrapped her arms around him. "Well, it is certainly not a matter which need bother us anymore, my love."
His arms had come around her with a life of their own, and he looked dazed. "Yolande? After what I said?"
"Perhaps you would have done as you say. We will never know now." She reached up gently to touch his cheek. "I, too, have ached," she said unsteadily. Her fingers traced softly over his lips. "You called him Lucien."
The duke captured her wandering fingers and imprisoned them in his own. "I what?"
"You have never ever called him Lucien. It has always been Arden, even when he was a baby. Thank God for Elizabeth." She was beyond subterfuge and the simplest of words escaped her. "Love me, William."
His eyes darkened. "Yolande. It's been so long."
Fires kept banked for over twenty years were burning in her. "Have you forgotten how?" she teased. "Don't worry. I remember."
"Oh God," he groaned. "So do I." With that his lips came down on hers, and it was as if the years between evaporated and they were still young. Her hands slipped under his jacket and felt the same fine lines of his back. Her tongue tasted the special, wonderful taste of him. Her body easily found the well-remembered contours and fitted itself to them.
His lips left hers and traced down her neck. To come against the ruffled collar of her gown. "Since when," he growled, "did you take to wearing high-necked gowns?"
"Since I was forty," she laughed, giddy with delight. "Allow me a moment with my maid and I can correct it."
His hand slid down over the front of her sensible dimity gown and took possession of her breast. "I can play maid," he said huskily. "My memory is recovering remarkably quickly. I remember undressing you many a time, my golden treasure."
He turned her quickly and began to unfasten all the little buttons down her back, tracing kisses after his fingers.
The duchess came to her senses. "Here, William? We cannot."
"Here. Now," he said roughly. His fingers stopped their work and he gripped her, pulling her against his body. "Am I dreaming, Yolande? I can't bear it if I'm dreaming."
She tilted her head back. "No, my love. You aren't dreaming unless I'm dreaming, too. And I make you a promise, if this is a dream, I'm coming to your bed as soon as I awake."
He buried his head in her curls and laughed. "No man deserves to be this happy." His hands traveled up and his fingers brushed softly over her breasts. She trembled at the power of a wave of giddy lust.
"William!" she gasped.
"Yes. But I must be growing old," he said as he continued the delicate torment. "Bed does sound like an attractive notion. As I remember, making love on the floor can be deuced uncomfortable."
Reluctantly, the duchess agreed though she didn't know if her legs could support her to the upper floor, and she did not want to part from him. She was terrified this moment would evaporate. But she pulled free of his hands and said, "It will take me only a few moments to be ready."
He pulled her back into his arms. "I go with you," he said. He traced her face with unsteady fingers then kissed her hungrily. Then pulled back.
"Thomas!" he shouted and a footman popped into the room. "Go tell my valet and the duchess's maid they will not be required."
"Yes, Your Grace," said the footman, but his eyes bulged at the sight of his disheveled master and mistress entwined together.
As the footman left on his errand, the duchess chuckled and hid her face in the duke's shoulder. "What will they think?"
"Who cares?" He placed his hands beneath her breasts and pushed their fullness up, then slowly and deliberately he lowered his lips first to one nipple then the other. As they swelled beneath the cloth he brought his teeth to bear gently so that the duchess moaned and clutched at him.
"I told you my memory was returning," he said with a grin "Let's to bed, reine de mon coeur."
* * *
The marquess returned to Marlborough Square rather early. Tonight had been the farewell party for Con and Dare, but it had also turned into a farewell to his days of bachelor freedom.
It had been pleasant enough, but he'd begun to find the bawdy jokes of his friends tiresome and their advice inappropriate to his bedding of Elizabeth Armitage. He'd noticed Nicholas twice turn the conversation when it became too crude, which he wouldn't have bothered to do in other circumstances.
In the end, though, Lucien had slipped away and walked home to clear his head. It would not be a bad idea anyway to have all his wits about him tomorrow.
It had only occurred to him this evening that he'd never tried to bed a woman without the positive desire to do so. Sometimes it had been only a momentary lust; at other times, as with Blanche, it had been something much deeper, but the desire had always been strong.
Did he desire Elizabeth Armitage? Not particularly. He admired her spirit and her wit; when animated she became quite pretty, but she stirred no ardent feelings in him, apart from the times she'd roused his temper.
The one time he'd kissed her there'd been something, but he had ended it without regret, except the regret that he had forced on her a kiss she did not want. What if she resisted consummation? He doubted he could bring himself to force her.
Even if she was acquiescent there was no guarantee that he would feel desire. It was going to be damned embarrassing if he couldn't perform.
He entered the house. "Everyone abed, Thomas?" he inquired of the night footman.
"Yes, m'lord. The duke and duchess retired not long ago, m'lord."
The marquess went up the stairs feeling mildly surprised that the footman had volunteered that extra sentence. He then became aware it had been said in a strange voice. He looked back at the young man in his livery and powdered hair. The footman was sitting in the chair provided at night, upright and alert. Impersonal, as a good servant should be.
He was not to know that the young man was still stunned by the sight of those rarefied beings, the Duke and Duchess of Belcraven, making their way, disheveled and laughing, up the stairs, arms wrapped around each other. At their age, too.
The marquess thought of going to speak to his mother as she was presumably still awake. He felt strangely restless and in need of something. At the duchess's door, however, he heard faint voices and didn't knock.
The maid? No, a man's voice. The marquess did not particularly want to see the duke. As he turned away, however, he thought he heard a faint shriek. He turned quickly back, but the sound was followed by laughter.
He stood looking at the mahogany panels with perplexity. If he didn't know better, he'd think there was a private orgy going on in there.
His mother and whom, was the disturbing question. A strange thought that was all the fault of Elizabeth Armitage and her dubious, radical morals.
He went quickly to the duke's suite which was around the corner. A knock on the door brought no one, so he opened it. In the three rooms there was no sign of the duke. His bed was turned down, his nightshirt laid out, his washing water cooling and unused.
The marquess walked slowly back past his mother's rooms and unashamedly listened again. The sounds were faint but quite unmistakable. A smile broadened to a grin. Thank God he'd been wrong all these years. In some quite illogical way, he felt the evidence of his parents'—he hesitated a moment over the word in his mind and then let it lie—his parents' intimacy gave hope for his own marriage.
He was soon deep and dreamlessly asleep while elsewhere in the big house the duke and duchess scarcely slept the whole night long.
Beth felt like a doll the next day, her wedding day. She was moved and placed by others. As she was supposed not to see her bridegroom before the evening wedding, she was confined to her rooms. She felt some slight disgruntlement that he doubtless was free to go where he wished, but in fact the arrangement suited her well enough. She was in a fine state of nerves and was sure she would disgrace herself in public.
The duchess spent some time with her in the morning and seemed to be in quite extraordinary spirits, despite looking tired and even yawning once. Beth also received a flying visit from one of the marquess's sisters, Lady Graviston. The former Lady Maria was petite and very smart but not of an analytical nature. She appeared to accept her brother's choice of bride without question, said all the right things, then talked for twenty minutes about her three lively children. She then kissed Beth's cheek and announced she must be off if she were to look her best for the wedding.
The marquess' other sister, Lady Joanne Cuthbert-Harby had previously sent a polite note of regret as she was "expecting an interesting event" at any moment. It would be her fifth child. All this evidence of fecundity did little to soothe Beth's nerves.
The duke visited her. He, too, seemed to be in marvelous spirits but then he was seeing the fruition of his plans. He brought with him the marquess' bride gift, a splendid diamond parure, far grander than the one she had rejected. It included a tiara with diamond drops which swayed and twinkled in the light. Beth tried to balk at the tiara but was soon persuaded it was appropriate to her position. She found, faced with the awareness of the night to come, she had no heart for minor battles.
Even Miss Mallory, when she arrived, was little comfort. There was such a vast gulf between them now, made greater by deception, that Beth found her time with the lady more trial than support.
"I have to confess," said Miss Mallory, as she sipped her tea, "that it is delightful to travel in such comfort. So kind of the duke to send a carriage just for me. And this house is very beautiful."
"You must come to visit Belcraven Park sometime, Aunt Emma," said Beth, not without a touch of dryness.
Miss Mallory did not seem to notice. "I have heard it is famous. You look very fine, Beth." She showed her principles had not been totally undermined by wealth, however. "Are you happy, Beth? There is still time to change your mind if you have doubts."
Doubts, thought Beth. Doubts was a mild word for it. For her aunt's sake, however, she smiled and lied. "Very happy. The marquess and I get along remarkably."
"Well, I am relieved. Though I could understand the duke's predicament, I did not like his solution, and I was very surprised you so quickly agreed. I was afraid you had been swayed by worldly considerations, and perhaps," she added in a whisper, though they were quite alone, "lust."
Beth could feel herself go red. "Certainly not!"
"Of course, of course," said Miss Mallory, quite pink herself. "You saw in the marquess the finer feelings. You are wiser than I. How unfair it is that when we see a handsome man or a beautiful woman, we are inclined to think them shallow or thoughtless."
Beth could not face more discussion of her marriage. "How is the school? I do miss it," she said, then added quickly, "even though I am so happy here."
"And everyone misses you, my dear. I have had such a time finding a replacement. The applicants are either quite silly or too harsh. I believe I have one now who will do, however. Little else has changed, except that Clarissa Greystone has left at last."
"Really? How came that about?"
"Her family's fortunes took a turn for the better. She should be here in London now, making her curtsy. After all the fuss she made, the silly girl seemed quite tearful to be leaving us." The lady rose to her feet. "Well, I suppose I must find the way to my room and prepare for all this grandeur. I could hardly believe it when the duchess said the Regent is to give you away!"
"Is it not incredible?" agreed Beth, though in truth, she had long since grown numb to surprises, and would probably not even blink if a dragon were to invade the room and gobble up Miss Mallory whole.
The older lady's eyes twinkled. "I tell myself it gives me a family connection to royalty. I hope to heavens the duke's arrangements for your fictitious background hold up though, Beth, or there will be a dreadful scandal now royalty is involved."
"Arrangements?" queried Beth.
"Did you not know?" said the woman. "I suppose they thought you had enough on your plate."
She sat down again and leaned close. "You could not be admitted to be Mary Armitage's daughter, Beth, because she had five other children and a wide family, none of whom has ever heard of you. A check of your birth date would show you to be illegitimate. Fortunately, Denis Armitage—Mary's husband—had a scapegrace brother who wandered all over the place, living on his wits. An utterly hopeless case. This Arthur Armitage married a curate's daughter in Lincolnshire and then deserted her. The duke has apparently had all the records fixed so that the wife—what was her name? Marianna—gave birth to a baby. Mary, so the story goes, placed her niece in my care and paid for your raising."
"And what happened to my 'parents'?" queried Beth, not altogether pleased at this new genesis.
"Marianna Armitage died of fever when you were less than two. Arthur fell into the Wash when drunk and drowned. About ten years ago, I believe. It should all hold up."
"Do you know, Aunt Emma," said Beth quietly, "I wonder if I will ever become accustomed to making life fit my wishes, as they do."
"They?"
"We," Beth corrected, forcing a smile. "The rich. The highest levels of Society. Go and pretty yourself up, Aunt Emma. The Prince will doubtless want to shake your hand."
Miss Mallory took alarm at this and hurried away.
Beth sat quietly contemplating a tasteful arrangement of delphiniums. What she had long suspected was true. There was only one person in the world she could meet with on terms of equality and honesty these days. The marquess.
It should be an excellent basis for marriage, but in fact she felt dreadfully alone.
In time, like a child, Beth was bathed, dried, and perfumed. Her hair was trimmed and arranged so as to display the tiara to the greatest advantage. She was then dressed in white satin, with an overdress of Valenciennes gathered into scallops all around the hem and flowing into a train at the back. She was festooned with the diamonds around her neck and her wrists, a brooch between her breasts, and drops trembling like tears from her earlobes. The beautiful tiara held a filmy veil on her curls.
When she looked at herself she found the usual magic had worked. Like all brides, she was beautiful. She even looked worthy of the heir to a dukedom. She wished she felt anything like she looked.
She was escorted downstairs by the duchess and a cluster of bridesmaids of good family—young women she scarcely knew at all. She made her curtsy to the Regent and received his fulsome compliments with admirable calm.
To orchestral music she walked into the crowded ballroom beside the gargantuan figure. She felt scarcely a twinge of nerves. Dread of the coming night numbed her to all other problems.
Because of the Regent all the guests paid homage as they passed, a dizzying, jewel-encrusted wave rippling the length of the room toward the marquess. And he looked far too magnificent for Beth Armitage to handle.
His wedding attire was almost as fine as hers. His knee breeches were of white satin and his jacket of cream-gold brocade. His buttons were diamonds set in gold, and a magnificent blue diamond shot fire from among the folds of his cravat. But he was perhaps more brilliant than his adornment. His hair was spun gold in the thousand candles, and his eyes were sapphires. He took her hand from the Prince and kissed it. The warmth lingered there throughout the ceremony.
Beth said her vows firmly, as did the marquess. She wondered if at times the beautiful words threatened to choke him as they did her. It seemed almost sacrilegious what they were doing, and yet she knew marriages based on practicality rather than love were not uncommon.
"With my body I thee worship...." That wasn't what he intended to do with his body and everyone here knew it. She hoped the horrible Lord Deveril was not here to point out again the reality behind the glitter.
Another reception line, and now—extraordinarily—she was "my lady." The Marchioness of Arden. It all seemed laughably unlikely. When she had touched hands, it seemed, with the whole world, there was a moment's respite before the toasts and the dancing. The marquess summoned two glasses of champagne and drank his as if he needed it. Beth did the same. She was wise enough by now not to gulp it, but she was surprised by how soon the glass was empty.
When another waiter stopped nearby, she replaced her empty glass and took a full one. The marquess looked at her in surprise, then took another glass himself and raised it. "To marriage," he said.
Beth raised her glass and threw a challenge. "To equality."
He sighed. As she drank down that glass, too, he said, "I hope you ate."
"I had a tray in my room," said Beth with perfect honesty. She neglected to tell him she'd hardly been able to force down a scrap. She took the indirect warning, however, and resisted the temptation to take another glass. She could already feel some effect from the wine, and though it was pleasant, she didn't want to overdo things. She imagined the new marchioness falling flat on her face and giggled.
She heard the marquess give a faint groan. He took her hand. "Come along. We're supposed to be at the head of the room for the toasts."
He led her there in the old style, hand in hand, and the crowd parted before them like the Red Sea. There were further murmured congratulations and the usual wedding asides—"...lovely bride,"
"...so handsome,"
"...so fortunate,"
"...must have cost a fortune."
"What do you think must have cost a fortune?" she asked him quietly. "My dress or your jacket?"
"Your diamonds," he said.
"Did they?" she queried, glancing at her glittering bracelet "Perhaps I should give them to the poor."
"I'd only have to buy you another set and another and another until we were in the back slums ourselves."
She glanced at him and saw he was, in a sense, serious. The pride of the de Vaux demanded that the ladies be festooned with a fortune in gems. "I wonder," she mused, "how many diamond parures stand between us and poverty?"
"If you put it to the test we will find out. And I'm glad," he said with a smile, "that you finally feel one of the family."
Beth felt a chill at how easily that "us" had slipped out. And yet it was ridiculous to keep fighting against reality.
They had arrived at the dais which had seats for the Regent, the duke and duchess, and themselves. They took their places as the loyal toasts were made, which meant Beth consumed yet more champagne. When the toasts were to herself she did not drink but found herself increasingly lighthearted.
By the time the music started for their minuet a deux she was not at all nervous.
As the first bars played she and the marquess executed full court obeisance to the Regent. Then they turned to face each other. As she curtsied to her new husband Beth remembered his warning about this dance and thought it strange. It was certainly interesting to be performing before hundreds of people but it was, after all, just a dance.
It was not, after all, just a dance.
Beth had forgotten the intensity of focus of the minuet a deux. Monsieur de Lo had been able to stare into her eyes throughout a performance without disturbing her in the least; now she found the need to maintain eye contact with the marquess made her heart race.
The stately movements had them circling one another, shifting and changing, eddying like leaves on restless water, touching only to spin away again. And always, his blue eyes speaking secrets into hers. Her breathing became shallow, her nerves were sensitized so that even the swirl of her silk skirts against her skin sent shivers through her. When they came together, when his fingers took warm grasp of hers, it was as if they bonded; when they parted it was as if something whole had been torn apart.
Beth didn't know this world. It frightened her.
At last it was over. She could curtsy then look away. But he held her hand after she rose and placed a warm, even heated, kiss on her skin. Beth felt almost as if he would ravish her then and there. Her face burned; thoughts of the wedding night surged back to obsess her.
Her next partner was the duke which gave her an opportunity to regain her external composure. A further glass of champagne seemed to help drive back her inner demons. She danced with the Duke of Devonshire and the Duke of York. In fact, she thought, it was quite beneath her dignity now to dance with anyone lower than a duke, except a marquess, she supposed. This made her giggle, and the Duke of York pinched her cheek approvingly. She drank more champagne and found she could partner her husband again without a care in the world.
Next she came down in the world with a bump. The marquess presented her to her next partner, a mere commoner.
"Mr. Nicholas Delaney," the marquess said, "and his wife, Eleanor. Two of my closest friends."
Two? thought Beth suspiciously, viewing the handsome woman. But something magical between Nicholas and Eleanor Delaney defused suspicion. Even when the marquess led Mrs. Delaney away to join a set, laughing at something she had said, Beth could not feel jealous.
Though Nicholas Delaney was not as handsome as the marquess, she could see how a woman could love him. His rather unruly dusky gold hair and his lean, tanned cheeks might be unfashionable, but they were remarkably attractive. There was also a disarming warmth in his sherry brown eyes.
As he led her onto the floor, he said, "I consider this quite barbarous, you know."
Beth looked at him in alarm. Had the marquess told him the basis for this marriage?
His brow quirked at her alarm. "Such a performance over a marriage," he explained. "Eleanor and I were married very quietly. I'm afraid after all this you'll need your honeymoon more as a repairing lease than a holiday."
A holiday? Beth had never thought of that impending nightmare, the honeymoon—when the marquess would finally have her in his solitary power—as any kind of pleasure. She realized she had no idea whether they were to stay here or go back to Belcraven. Surely the latter. "It will be pleasant to be in the country," she said.
"Yes. Eleanor and I intend to spend most of our time at our place in Somerset."
In another time and place Beth felt as if she could have had a real conversation with this man, but at the moment all she seemed able to produce were banalities. "We were at Belcraven until recently."
He laughed. "Red Oaks certainly isn't anything like Belcraven. That isn't the country. It's a town within walls."
Beth was startled into a chuckle. "You have it exactly. I would much rather live in a small house."
"So much easier to manage. When you return to Town you must come and visit us. We have a small house in Lauriston Street." He grinned at her. "We're very informal."
She grinned back. "That sounds wonderful."
He must have a magic touch. He had broken through her constraint and for a moment she felt normal, ordinary, sane. But then they were caught up in the vigorous country dance and there was little farther opportunity for discussion.
Afterwards, when he rejoined his wife, Nicholas Delaney said, "We should have befriended her sooner."
"Why?" asked Eleanor.
"She's terrified and feels very alone."
Eleanor looked at the bride who was standing with her husband and his parents, smiling and appearing reasonably happy. But she didn't doubt Nicholas's judgment; he had a gift for it. "Do you know what's going on?" she asked.
"No, but it's... treacherous. I think you, of all women, could have helped Elizabeth. But it's too late now."
"You think they should never have married."
She said it as a statement, but he shook his head. "I think they'll suit marvelously well if they give themselves a chance." He smiled at his wife and raised her hand for a kiss. "We know better than most how easy it is to dice with a chance of heaven. And nearly lose."
She smiled at him, wishing as she always did that they were alone. They needed no one else, except Arabel. "Can't you say something to Lucien?" she asked.
"I have, though I didn't understand how serious it is. There's nothing more to be done now. He's as keyed up as she is."
Eleanor looked at the handsome marquess. He, too, looked merely the proud and happy groom but here, because she knew him, she could see the artifice as well as Nicholas. The sparkling brilliance that made him look like a glittering gem was his response to tension and trouble. And it was dangerous. She looked her concern at her husband, an infinitely fascinating man but one who had never terrified her.
He shook his head. "He's beyond a soothing lecture. We can only hope his natural kindness wins out over his arrogant bloody-mindedness. And, I suppose, that he's read the books I gave him."
A waltz struck up and he led her toward the floor. "Books?" Eleanor queried in amazement. "Lucien?"
He tutted. "I do have a few volumes other than erotic texts."
"Of use to a man on his wedding night?" she queried naughtily.
They took their position for the waltz. "If you remember our wedding night," he said, "you will admit that a manual of clever moves would have been irrelevant."
Eleanor knew what he meant. Frightened by a series of strange events and by dim memories of a drugged rape, what she had needed, and found, was sensitivity and kindness.
"Are there books to teach magic of the heart?" she asked.
The music started and they began the twirling dance. "The Bible?" he suggested with a slight smile. "The Koran. The Veda. The Abhidhamma Pitaka. The Bhagavad-Gita...."
"You are trying to make me feel my ignorance," she said without rancor. "But I can at least guess that they are all books of religion. Are you saying you gave these to Lucien?"
"I wish I had thought of it," he said with a laugh. "In fact, I gave him Mary Wollstonecraft."
"You expect them to spend tonight debating the rights of women?" she asked skeptically.
"I think it would be a very good thing," he replied. "But having a mind above this prurient interest in other people's beds...." He drew her slowly closer, until they were joined together in a way that was quite improper. Fortunately by then he had also migrated them out of the room into a quiet corridor.
Eleanor was ready for his lips when he kissed her. She could feel the familiar aching melting, the longing for home, for Nicholas. She clung to him. "I'm trying to imagine," she whispered when the kiss ended, "what it would have been like if it had been like this on our wedding night. This hunger. And the knowledge that it would soon be satisfied to the full."
One sensitive finger played knowingly at the base of her skull, sending a shudder through her. "I wonder if a wedding night is ever like that," he said. "A knowledgeable wedding night seems to be a contradiction in terms." He sighed. "As I said to Elizabeth, this is a barbarous affair. I think it's time to leave. I have no wish to watch the victims led to the sacrificial stone."
"I will be pleased to be home. I would be pleased to be returning to Somerset." It was a strong hint.
As they descended the grand staircase he said, "So would I. But I think we have to look into this matter of Deveril. I may have forsworn petty revenge, but I don't like seeing him at such high water. I'd rather see him in the mud."
"So would I," she said, remembering the horrible man who had tried to buy her, then ruin her into marriage. "But he's a dangerous man, Nicholas."
"So am I," said Nicholas Delaney calmly.