Chapter 15
A part of Beth's body reacted to the question like a child offered sugar plums, but her mind balked. If he had carried her to the bed then and taken her, she would not have resisted, but she could not, at that moment, consent. She was too overwhelmed by the strangeness of it all. Having regained a degree of sanity she was afraid to return to that wild disintegration.
She shook her head against his shoulder.
He sighed and released her. But then he slipped his fingers to twine with hers and pulled her into her bedroom. Beth could feel the thudding of her heart as he studied her. A part of her still wanted him to persuade her.
But in the end he let her go. "Ring for your maid. We'll speak to the duke and duchess and set off. Don't dally."
With that he left for his own rooms and Beth collapsed down on a bench, not at all sure she was grateful for his restraint.
An hour later, armored in a new walking dress of sage green crepe, Beth rejoined her husband. He was safely conventional in blue and buff and that moment of uninhibited passion seemed like a fevered dream. Together they went to find the duke and duchess.
The duchess kissed Beth on the cheek. "How smart you look, my dear. I understand Lucien is wafting you off to Hartwell. The duke and I spent part of our honeymoon there."
Beth noticed the duchess flash a look at the duke and saw that austere gentleman smile. For some reason she felt embarrassed, as if she had witnessed an intimacy.
The duke also gave Beth a kiss. "Welcome to the de Vaux family," he said with a degree of complacency which Beth longed to disturb. He obviously thought his stratagem was working perfectly. Beth was sourly pleased he would have to wait longer than nine months for his pure-blooded grandchildren.
In fact, she was surprised at how vinegary she felt. The worst was over and she had not been subjected to intimate assault. It appeared that the marquess was willing to wait until she was ready to consummate the marriage. They were going off to some peace and quiet in a small house in the country. She should be feeling sweet, not sour.
She determined to be sweet, not sour.
As soon as she was in the luxurious chariot, this time with the marquess beside her, she set herself to be pleasant. The weather certainly contributed to good humor, for the late spring countryside was at its very best.
"Tell me more about this estate, Hartwell," she said.
He was lounged at his ease and showed no sign of amorousness, thank heavens. "As I said, it's a cottage ornée. Quite pretty, I think, with charming rustic gardens." His lips twitched into a grin. "Deceptive simplicity sums it up. It takes a great deal of work and money to preserve its bucolic charms, but it's charming all the same. There's a stream at the end of the garden and an orchard and a dovecot."
"Should I have brought my silk and lace shepherdess outfit?" Beth teased.
"Like Marie Antoinette at the Petit Trianon? Definitely not. But the real charm of Hartwell is that we may wear exactly what we wish." He reached up and unknotted his cravat, unwound it, and tossed it onto the opposite seat. "Voila! Freedom."
Beth undid the strings of her high straw bonnet, pulled it off, and tossed it to lie over his neckcloth.
His eyes sparkled and he undid the buttons of his shirt.
Beth eyed him warily. "This is not a competition I am willing to engage in, my lord."
He smiled. "Lucien—or I'll strip naked here and now."
"Lucien," Beth said hurriedly.
"Lucien, my darling?" he suggested.
"Just Lucien," she replied. "I call your bluff. You would not strip naked here."
"You really must learn not to challenge me, my lady," he said softly, echoing the words she had used earlier. But then he laughed. "I'll not take you up now. You did, after all, fulfill my condition. And I want no forced endearments."
Beth looked down for a moment to gather her thoughts. "I want to thank you," she said. "You are being very kind."
"You needn't sound so damned surprised." When she looked up in alarm she saw he was mostly teasing. "I'm not a candidate for sainthood," he said. "Love, sex, marital duties," he grimaced at the term, "call it what you will. It should at least be pleasant for both parties. I refuse to settle for less. We have the rest of our lives."
"Not quite that if I am to bear the heir to Belcraven," Beth pointed out, amazed that she was having this calm discussion on such a subject.
He flashed her a look of exasperation. "If you continue to be such a pedant, the rest of your life is likely to be a very short period of time."
Beth frowned at him. "You are constantly threatening me with violence."
"Oh, come now," he drawled. "There must have been a moment or two when I was less than bloodthirsty."
"Now who's being the pedant?"
"What's good for the goose...." he said.
"That," she retorted, "sounds remarkably like another challenge."
He didn't deny it. "'What dire offense from amorous causes springs, / What mighty contests rise from trivial things?"
"Pope. Rape of the Lock," she said promptly. "Trivial," she mused, then offered, "'Women are systematically degraded by receiving the trivial attentions which men think it manly to pay to the sex, when, in fact, men are insultingly supporting their own superiority.'"
"Must be the divine Mary," he sighed, but there was still humor in his eyes. He thought for a moment then countered with, "'Friendship does not admit of assumptions of superiority.'"
Beth frowned. "I don't think I know that. It sounds like an excellent sentiment, though, and one Mary Wollstonecraft would have endorsed."
"I confess, I don't know where it comes from either. I think it was something Nicholas Delaney once quoted to me." He took her hand. "Last night we pledged friendship, Beth. Can I hope it still holds?"
She was alarmingly sensitive to his slightest touch but struggled not to show it. "We seem destined to squabble. It's a strange kind of friendship."
"The only kind," he said with a grin. "I don't have a friend whose eye I've not blacked."
"Violence again," she protested, but lightly.
He laughed. "I promise never to black your eye."
"Not even if I top your best quotation?"
"Not even then."
"Very well." Beth grinned at him. "'Friendship is a disinterested commerce between equals; love, an abject intercourse between tyrants and slaves.' Oliver Goldsmith."
With a shake of his head he gave her the victory. His thumb rubbed absently against the back of her hand and he considered his words. "Would it make any difference, I wonder, who was the tyrant, who the slave?"
"Not to me. I have no desire to be either."
He kissed her hand and let it go. "Then we must work at friendship. I don't suppose," he said dryly, "it will be particularly easy. Idem velle atque idem nolle, ea demum firma amicitia est."
"You fear our tastes are too different?" she said. "How then do you suppose we recognize each other's quotations? And I do like your friends."
"That gives me hope," he said with a grin. "You obviously have a taste for rogues."
* * *
They arrived at Hartwell in excellent humor and it proved to be as unalarming as he had promised. It was a small house of two stories boasting only four modest bedrooms. It sat comfortably in pleasant gardens bordered along one edge by a stream. Beyond the walls the rest of the marquess' estate was given over to farming. The staff proved to be only five, and Beth felt she could manage that well enough.
She was relieved to find that she and the marquess were to have separate bedrooms, but was aware that there was no lock on the linking door and that she could not use one if there were. She had been coerced into this marriage, but she had agreed, agreed to a marriage in full. To be acting a farce over it at this point would be ridiculous.
Beth was disconcerted by her mental confusion about the intimacies of marriage, for she had always considered herself a practical woman. Despite their new harmony, any thought of the marquess and the marriage bed plunged her into a morass of fascination and fear. She hated the turmoil of it. She would much rather postpone the whole business until she could approach it in a calm and rational way.
But would he wait? Despite his strange words about waiting for her to seduce him, about waiting for pleasure, she did not expect much patience from such a man. Would his resolve last even the day? And would she perhaps not be better to get it over with?
There was no amorousness in his manner as he took her on a tour of the house, the gardens, and the outbuildings. In the stables they once more discussed riding lessons but this time without heat. She was touched to discover he had carefully selected a horse for her and had it sent to Hartwell to await them. The dappled gelding which carried the feminine name, Stella, seemed quiet and had a friendly look in its eye.
At six o'clock they ate a well-prepared but simple meal in the small dining room. The maid brought in all the dishes, including the cold desserts, and then left them to serve themselves. Beth felt it was the first normal meal she'd eaten since leaving Cheltenham but thought it wiser not to say so. Wiser not to raise any kind of controversy.
They talked mainly of poetry, contrasting Ben Jonson's statement that a good poet is made as much as born with Socrates's statement that poets work not by wisdom but by inspiration and an almost magical gift. Beth was surprised at how much she had to stretch her mind to hold her own. Hal Beaumont had obviously been telling the truth about the marquess' intellectual abilities. Beth was rather alarmed. She had once anticipated facing a fribble on this marital battlefield.
When they eventually called truce they settled for a less demanding activity—a few hands of casino. Then Beth played the piano for him, though she knew her performance to be competent rather than gifted.
It was superficially the most commonplace of evenings, but Beth's nerves were stretched like the strings of the instrument she played.
Eventually, unable to bear the situation any longer, she announced her intention of going to bed. He rose. She looked at him in alarm. He merely opened the door for her, kissed her fingers, and bid her good night.
She desperately wanted to ask what his intentions were but dared not. Redcliff prepared her for bed and left. Beth lay awake listening for movement next door, for the turning of the knob. She didn't know whether she would greet her husband's appearance with alarm or relief, but as the clock ticked the minutes away she began to think it would be relief. She couldn't bear much more of this tension....
The Marchioness of Arden drifted into sleep; she woke the next morning still an unsullied virgin. She told herself firmly it was exactly what she wanted and a sure way to foil the duke's plans.
* * *
They stayed ten days at Hartwell and the first day was the pattern for the rest. Every morning they rode, and Lucien proved to be a surprisingly patient and understanding teacher. Beth made progress but paid for it with aches and bruises. He taught her piquet and won a small fortune from her. She beat him at draughts every time. They sat in pleasurable silence reading books from the small but excellent library; later they indulged in fiery discussion of their reading, welcoming the sharing of ideas and insights but also seeking to gain points in the ongoing competition of their lives.
As they strolled in the garden or walked briskly across the fields, they discussed the international situation and the danger of Napoleon defeating the allies gathered against him and recommencing his attempt to rule the world. Lucien was sure he would be defeated and clearly longed to be with his friends who were preparing for that fight.
One day he even quoted the words Shakespeare put in the mouth of Henry V. "'And gentlemen in England now abed/ Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, / And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks/That fought with us—'" He broke off. "The where and when are yet to be decided. I doubt it will hold off until Saint Crispin's day, however."
If it would have served any purpose Beth would have laid down on the grass and told him to take her and be off to fight. But there was no guarantee that one act would achieve the end, nor that their first child would be the necessary son. Nor, she supposed, that it would live. The burden of privilege demanded that he stay as safe as possible and breed on her until the line was safe.
As Nicholas Delaney had said, it was all barbarous.
Apart from that outburst he avoided high emotion and most personal or controversial topics, though they did, tentatively, share some of their views on the liberty of the individual and theories of government. Beth was surprised to find him liberal for his class, though she was still tempted at times to blast him for arrogant shortsightedness.
He touched her only in the way a gentleman would touch any lady—to hand her over an obstacle, lift her down from her horse, or offer an arm when walking. Sometimes, though, Beth would catch him watching her, and the expression in his eyes would send shivers through her.
On June 15th, their last day at Hartwell, a lazy, sunny afternoon, they sat reading on the grassy bank of the stream. Lucien was in comfortable country clothes. His pantaloons were loose fitting, his jacket casual, and he had left off his cravat in favor of a knotted neckerchief. A straw hat shaded his eyes. Beth herself was in the lightest and simplest of her muslins with a wide villager hat to protect her from the sun.
Birdsong surrounded them and the busy clamor of the insects. Occasional soft splashes announced the presence of feeding fish.
"Perhaps you should do some angling here, Lucien," Beth said lazily. "You could catch our supper."
He looked up from his book with a grin. "Not unless you want to feast on gudgeon and chub, a nibble per fish. There's little in this stream worth catching."
"Could you not stock it?"
"I believe my father tried. It's not a good stream for sport fish. For one thing it almost dries up in a drought."
They were interrupted by the demanding quacks of a family of ducks which paddled busily around the bend, mother in front and ducklings in an orderly line behind, all except one which straggled, lagging absentmindedly then putting on a mad dash to catch up.
Beth chuckled as she reached for the bag of oats she had brought to feed them. "I do believe, our little sluggard is of a poetical disposition," she said to Lucien as he came forward to join her at the edge of the stream. "He is clearly so taken by the beauties of the scenery that he forgets to paddle."
"We'll have to name him Wordsworth then," said Lucien, watching his wife as she scattered the food widely on the water.
Despite her bonnets, the sun had brought out a few freckles on her nose which he found charming. Here in the country, living quietly, she had begun to relax and show him her spirit, her wit, and her humor. He was rapidly becoming entranced. If he'd considered the matter he would have said days spent in country walks and evenings with just one person, reading and discussing ideas, would soon pall. Now, however, he was reluctant to return to London and the social round.
There was something magical about Beth. On first acquaintance she seemed ordinary, and yet many things—the tilt of her head when she was curious, the twitch of her mouth when she was amused, the way her eyes lit up when she laughed—all transformed her into a spellbinder. It was a fragile magic, however easily banished when she was unhappy. He was desperately afraid of destroying it forever. Watching her now as she talked nonsense to little "Wordsworth" and scolded his mother for snatching food from her infant's beak, he longed to take her in his arms here on the sunny, grassy bank, and teach her the wonders of love.
Beth looked up and caught him studying her. Her eyes questioned him.
"I was just standing guard," he said lightly, "in case your enthusiasm pitched you into the water."
Beth hastily looked back at the ducks. It had happened before, this awareness. A perfectly ordinary moment would be broken by turbulent thoughts, disturbing sensations. Did he feel any of it, or was it just her own anxious mind?
He crouched down beside her so his breath warmed her cheek as he said, "Perhaps I should teach you to swim. There's a place near Belcraven which is deep enough and safe."
Beth felt her heart speed. She couldn't imagine going into water with him, perhaps being held by him there, their clothes pressed damply to their bodies. Or would he bathe naked as men were said to do? Her mouth dried and she knew her face was red. She kept her head down and concentrated on the ducks. "I don't think I would care for that, Lucien".
"Tut-tut," he murmured and brushed a curl back from her heated cheek. "Doesn't Shakespeare say, 'True nobility is exempt from fear.'? A marchioness should be afraid of nothing."
Beth rose quickly to her feet and faced him, dusting the last few oats from her hands. "He also says, I recollect, 'Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge?' I pray you, Lord Arden," she said with mock appeal, "of your mercy spare me the water."
He laughed as he rose gracefully to his feet. He touched her nose gently with one finger. "Will you always have a quotation to cap each of mine? You've spent too much time buried in books, my lady."
"Apparently an excellent training for marriage, my lord."
"Only to me, I suspect." He collapsed down again on the grass near their books. "Come and sit by me, Beth."
Before, they had been sitting feet apart, but it was not unusual for them to sit closer. Now, however, she sensed some significance in his request. She was very aware that today was their last day here.
Heart racing, but hoping she was outwardly composed, Beth did as he asked. As soon as she was settled on the rug on the grass, he tossed his hat aside and slid over to lay his head in her lap. "Read to me," he said and closed his eyes.
The weight of him across her thighs was like a brand. Beth's mouth was so dry she doubted she could articulate at all. But she was able to study him, laid out there before her in all his strength and beauty like an offering on an altar. Her fingers itched to work through the golden curls that fell over his smooth forehead, to trace down his straight nose to the elegant curve of his firm lips.
His blue eyes opened and spoke a challenge. "No?"
"Of course," she said hastily, not sure why it was so important to deny the effect he was having on her, the effect he surely knew he was having on her.
She picked up the new volume by Mr. Coleridge with unsteady fingers and began to read, "'In Xanadu did Kubla Khan / A stately pleasure dome decree....'"
Though a strange work, it seemed innocent enough, or had seemed innocent enough on first reading. Now, with her husband's body stretched by her, his handsome head nestled against her abdomen, the poem took on new meaning. Her voice trembled slightly as she read, "'As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing....'"
It was the last lines which struck her most, however:
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honeydew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
Without opening his eyes he commented, "An adequate description of the pampered aristocracy, though not what poor Samuel means, I think. Are your eyes suitably closed, my houri?"
"No," she admitted, for she was feasting on his beauty.
"'Beware! Beware!'" he quoted from an earlier line. His eyes flicked open and held hers. "'For thou art with me here upon the banks/ Of this fair river; thou my dearest friend.'"Captured by his gaze, Beth licked her lips. "I don't recognize that."
He curled smoothly to his feet, leaving a chill where he had been. "Wordsworth, of course, though I don't remember which poem." He gave her a hand and pulled her up. Beth wanted to ask if she was his friend, if she was only his friend. Another line of Wordsworth had sprung disconcertingly into her mind and echoed there: "'Strange fits of passion have I known....'"
He retained her hand and quoted teasingly, "'A perfect woman, nobly plann'd. To warn, to comfort, and command....'"
It sounded like the description of a mother or even a governess. "I'm not sure I wish to be that kind of woman," Beth protested.
"No? I thought it would be the Wollstonecraft ideal. You may like the next two lines better. 'And yet a Spirit still and bright / With something of an angel light? It's time to return to the house, I think, my angel."
He turned away and gathered up their books and the rug, leaving Beth itchily dissatisfied.
As they walked back she admitted this friendship, this virtue, this talk of spirits and angels, which would surely have delighted Laura Montreville to ecstasy, frustrated her. Why? Because her thoughts were constantly on more earthy matters. How long could they go on like this, like Wordsworth and his devoted sister, Dorothy? For despite their strange family connection, brother and sister they most certainly were not. Would he really wait for her to make the first move? It was so unfair. She had no notion what to do.
That night, their last night at Hartwell, Beth suggested a walk in the moonlight. It was a perfect June evening and the full moon sailed beneficently over them. Again it turned his springy curls to silver gilt and Beth remembered that time at Belcraven and that casual thumb on her nipple. She shuddered, but this time it was not with fear or disgust.
"Are you cold?" he asked with concern.
"No, of course not. Someone walked over my grave, I suppose."
They were in the laburnum walk, and the long yellow blossoms were all about them, filling the air with their perfume. Beth sighed.
"Will you be so sorry to return to Town?" he asked.
"I will, a little. This simple life is more to my taste, but I know we must."
"When the Season's over we can return here if you wish."
"What would you normally have done?"
He shrugged. "Brighton for a while. Some time at Belcraven. Visiting friends."
"Do you miss your friends?" asked Beth curiously.
He smiled, teeth white in the moonlight. "I have a new friend."
She had to speak of it, but she turned away. " Do you not mind?" she asked.
"Having a friend?"
"Having only a friend."
He turned her with gentle hands. "Do I appear to be driven crazy with frustration?" he asked. "I'm able to enjoy a woman's company without demanding more."
Beth raised her hands helplessly and let them drop. "I know nothing."
He took her chin gently and raised her head so he could study her face. "I don't mean to tease you, Beth. If you want me, you have only to say."
She stared up at him, trying to read his secret thoughts in his features. "I don't know."
No flicker of regret or frustration marked him. He smiled and dropped a butterfly kiss on her lips. "When you do, you have only to tell me." He then drew her hand through his arm, and they turned back to the house.
As they reached the French doors through which they had left, it became unbearable to Beth that they simply go off to their separate rooms as they had every other night. She said suddenly, "Kiss me, Lucien."
He stopped and looked down at her, a smile tugging at his lips, warmth growing in his eyes. "Like a manservant with a maid? Well, why not?"
He placed his hands on her shoulders and slid them, soft as warm velvet, up her neck to cradle her head. Beth closed her eyes to savor his touch and felt his thumbs rub, gently rough, against the line of her jaw as he stepped closer and his body brushed against hers.
"Hold me, Beth." he whispered.
She put her arms around him and, driven by some unsuspected need, pulled him hungrily close. His hands released her and his arms came around as tightly so they were fused, as it seemed, into one.
He tilted her head and set his lips to hers and that touch became a point of light burning in the dark behind her eyes. The whole of him—his' arms, his body, his spirit, and his mind—seemed to whirl about her and that point of contact.
When his lips slowly left hers she was still spinning and whirling. His mouth trailed softly, moistly down her neck. She let her head fall back and he explored the front of her throat. Then his hands came up along her ribs to cup her breasts.
A shuddering response swept through her. Her wanton body recognized it with delight, but her mind flinched in alarm. She felt like a person who has prayed for gentle rain and received a raging torrent.
The French doors were pushed open and knocked against them.
They broke apart and turned sharply to see the horrified face of the butler. "My lord. My lady. I beg your pardon!" The red-faced man fled. Beth and Lucien looked at one another and burst into laughter. Beth could feel her face burning, though. She had never been so embarrassed in her life. She hastily readjusted her disarranged bodice.
"He probably thought it was the footman with the maid in the shrubbery," Lucien chuckled. "Well, it establishes our reputation as romantics." He looked at her, still smiling but thoughtful. She could see the passion in his eyes and yet he was once more in control of himself, and she was glad of it. Someone had to be in control in these wild waters, or they would surely drown.
For all that, she wanted to be in his arms again.
He made no move in that direction and merely held the door for her to pass through, then locked it after them.
They went through the parlor to the small hall. He picked up the lamp set ready for them there and carried it as they walked up the stairs. The lamp formed a globe of light in the dark of the quiet house, as if they lived inside their own magic circle, alone.
Though they walked apart, Beth was aware of him as if they touched. Surely he would come into her bedroom now and complete the swirling madness they had started with that kiss.
Did she want it? Oh, she didn't know. It terrified her and yet drew her.... One thing she knew, she wanted it done. They couldn't live on this knife edge much longer. Surely once it was done they could relax and be comfortable again.
He entered her bedroom but only to put the lamp down on a table there. He turned to look at her and Beth fretted over what she should do.
"You look terrified again," he said.
Beth tried to protest, but her voice formed an unconvincing choke out of her denial.
"It is doubtless very foolish of me," he said with a whimsical smile, "but when I love you first, my angel, I want my wife to be that fiery termagant who called me a baboon."
She watched helplessly as he strolled towards the door.
He turned and cocked an eyebrow. "I could be seduced out of that, if you wished to try."
At that moment, deeply stirred by the teasing humor in his blue eyes and driven by strange forces within, Beth would have made the attempt if she had any notion of what to do. While she was struggling to think of a provocative remark, he quietly left.
Collapsing sadly on her bed, Beth had to admit he was right. On their wedding night he had called her a wounded bird and though this time at Hartwell had been a time of healing, she still felt bruised in her spirit. She did not fear him anymore, but she didn't have in her the spirit to call a marquess a baboon. If that was the Beth he wanted, it would take a little while yet.
She could not bear to disappoint him.