Chapter 9
For her part, Beth found her days too full for philosophizing. She was set numerous tasks to do with the ball, given advanced etiquette lessons, and taken on drives and shopping expeditions. Three times they went to Oxford for silk stockings and satin slippers, artificial flowers and kid gloves. She had the feeling that much of the activity was designed expressly to keep her busy but, if so, she was grateful. Not only did it allow less time to think, it provided an opportunity to learn. Resigned to the fact that this was to be her life, she observed everything and learned quickly.
She even began to accept the constant presence of servants and not be awkwardly aware of their every action. But she could not make herself unaware of them as people.
When one day she came across a young boy crying in the garden, she stopped in concern. She remembered seeing the lad in the stables. Though he had a sharp face and a crooked nose, there was something appealing about his lively features and bright eyes, and she did not like to see him sad.
"What's the matter?" she asked gently.
He looked up, alarmed, then leapt to his feet. "Nothing, ma'am," he said, scrubbing at his damp face.
"Don't run away," Beth said. "You work in the stables, don't you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Will you be in trouble for not being there?"
He hung his head. "No, ma'am. They won't expect me back quick after old Jarvis took a whip to me."
Beth could tell from the way he moved that his punishment had not been brutal, but she offered sympathy. "Oh dear," she said. "Did you do something very bad?"
He nodded, head still lowered. He couldn't be very old, Beth thought. Not much over ten. She sat on the ground close to him. "I'm Beth Armitage," she said. "What's your name?"
He looked down at her with a frown as if the question posed a problem. "I'm Robin," he said at last, slightly defiantly. "Robin Babson."
"Well, Robin. Why don't you sit here for a moment and tell me what's been going on. Perhaps we can prevent further punishment."
He sat down and grimaced. "Don't reckon," he said morosely. "Me and old Jarvis don't get on."
"What did you do this time?"
"Let go of an 'orse. Viking. The marquess's big stallion. He's done sommat to his leg."
"Oh dear," said Beth, dismayed. She knew the value Arden placed on that horse. "That does sound rather serious."
"When he comes back he'll kill me," said the boy with a gulp. "That or get rid o' me."
"The marquess?"
The boy nodded, fresh tears breaking out to streak his face.
Beth wished she could promise to intercede on the boy's behalf but didn't think she had sufficient influence in that quarter. Despite their truce, she was not at all sure any words of hers would outweigh damage to Arden's favorite mount.
"How did you come to let the horse go?" she asked.
The boy looked up warily then obviously decided to trust. "He snapped at me. I got scared...." In a mumble he added, "I don't like horses. Ruddy great brutes."
Beth stared at him. "You don't—? But then why are you working in the stables, Robin?"
"He put me there."
"Who?"
"Lord Arden. He brought me in and gave me a job in the stables."
Beth had only the faintest notion of what he meant, but one thing was clear. "If you don't like the work the marquess will surely find you something more congenial, Robin. Especially as you are not suited to working with horses. I'll speak to him—"
"No!" exclaimed the boy, eyes wide. "Please, ma'am. Don't do that. He promised I can work with his horses!"
"But you don't like horses," Beth pointed out.
The boy looked away, stubbornly mute, and Beth frowned in bewilderment. "So you don't wish me to speak to the marquess on your behalf?" she said at last.
"No, ma'am." He stood and wiped his face on his sleeve. The effect was to smear rather than clean. "I'm sorry for bothering you, ma'am. Please don't say nothink to him."
Beth was genuinely touched. She suspected that this waif was as much astray at Belcraven as she and, for some reason, as bound. "I won't, Robin," she assured him. "But if you need help you must ask for me and I will do what I can."
"Thank ye kindly, ma'am," he said and ran off.
Beth sighed. Would the marquess really beat the boy again, she wondered, and perhaps more severely? She didn't like to think so, and yet many masters would feel themselves well within their rights. She knew so little of Arden, but she did suspect him to be capable of violence.
And what was she to do about it? She was so unused to violence that she wanted to hide from it, to hide even from the thought of it, but she couldn't live like that.
Beth rose and stiffened her resolution. Despite the awkwardness of her situation she would keep an eye on the matter of Robin Babson. She could not spend the rest of her life turning a blind eye to violence and cruelty, and Lord Arden would have to come to understand that.
* * *
The marquess returned on the day of the ball. When he strode into the duchess' boudoir, where she and Beth were taking tea, Beth almost saw him as a stranger. He looked quite unlike the cold, forbidding despot she had built in her mind.
He had taken the time to change, of course, but there was something of the outdoors and exercise still about him. He was relaxed, and the exhilaration of the drive was still in his eyes.
Had he heard about his horse? she wondered. And what had happened to poor Robin? She could not believe he was just come from a scene of violent retribution.
He kissed his mother's cheek and grinned at her. "You are blooming, Maman. We should force you to hold grand entertainments more often."
"Silly boy. You are the last of my children to marry. I hope not to do this kind of thing again."
He was still smiling when he turned to Beth, but the warmth became impersonal. "Elizabeth. I hope you are not being run ragged by all this."
If this aloof tone was the best he could do, thought Elizabeth, they were in the suds. "Of course not," she said, assuming a lively manner. "But anyway, this all has the attraction of novelty for me, my lord. I never realized the amount of hard work involved in celebrating a wedding."
"Only the wedding of the heir to a dukedom," he said dryly. Beth thought she detected a genuine dislike of pomp. How strange. More and more Lucien de Vaux was becoming a conundrum she very much wanted to solve.
"So after the wedding we can live quietly?" she queried.
He produced a creditably fond smile, but it covered implacable intent. "I hadn't planned on it, no. We have the pride of the de Vaux to consider, my dear. Will you dislike a life of fashionable entertaining very much?"
The silent message was that her likes and dislikes carried no weight with him at all. Oh God, thought Beth, they were back to their old ways. Quicksands indeed. They never said what they meant and never meant what they said.
She turned away, making a business out of pouring him some tea. "If I do dislike it," she said as she passed him the cup, "you will be sure to hear of it... my dear."
After a startled moment he smiled in a genuine manner. "I fear I will... my sweet despot." Cap that, his eyes said.
Beth was tempted but didn't know where it would all end. The marquess was not a man to bow out of a conflict. She contented herself with fluttering her lashes and aiming at him a sweet, hopefully simpering, smile. She had the satisfaction of seeing his lips twitch with genuine humor.
Beth noted the duchess watching them with a misty smile and thought, don't build on this too much, Your Grace. We are both learning well to be actors.
"I have brought you some eligible men, Maman," said the marquess. "I hope you don't mind."
"Mind! Of course not, you dear boy. There can never be too many eligible men. Who? And where are they?"
"Amleigh, Debenham, and Beaumont. I've left them in the morning room enjoying more substantial refreshment."
The duchess frowned slightly, though there was a twinkle in her blue eyes. "The last time Lord Darius was here he attempted to build a champagne fountain. And Mr. Beaumont has always caused a great lack of attention among the younger maids."
"Well," said the marquess turning sober, "he will doubtless be a focus of interest again but in a different way. He's lost his left arm."
The duchess mirrored his sobriety. "Oh, the poor man. How is he?"
"Well as always, really. And he manages nearly everything. He don't like to be fussed."
"I'll tell Gorsham," said the duchess. "And I'll go odds it will only increase his attraction among the maids and every other female in the vicinity. I look to you to control your guests, Lucien."
"Of course, Maman," he said with a boyish grin. "I gather you wish this to be a devilish dull affair."
His mother laughed. "Of course I do not. How would anyone believe it was your betrothal ball if it went off smoothly, you wretched boy? Go away and look to your friends before they find mischief."
He kissed her cheek again before he left, but Beth only received a slight wave of the hand. She looked up to see the duchess studying her enigmatically. Nothing was said, however, and soon she was sent to her room to prepare for the evening.
Laid out on her bed Beth discovered a beautiful gown, the one the duchess had ordered from London and that the marquess had been sent to collect. Beth had approved the selection without much interest, but the picture in Ackerman's Repository had not prepared her for the beauty of the garment.
The ivory figured silk, inset with satin panels edged in pearls, glowed and shimmered in the candlelight. Beth had never even seen such an exquisite gown in her life. When she touched it it rustled and slithered against her fingers in an orchestration of sensuality. Redcliff hovered over the gown with all the pride and protectiveness of a mother with a new baby.
By the gown rested a bouquet of pink and ivory roses packed in damp moss, and a small package.
"What is this, Redcliff?"
"'Tis from the marquess, I believe, miss," said the woman with a knowing smile.
Beth felt a strange reluctance to open it. It would, surely be a gift and perhaps not one she wished to accept. But she had no choice.
It was a fan. With a turn of her wrist Beth flicked it open. It was a work of art. Ivory sticks carved into lace supported fine silk painted in the Chinese style. The pin was gold and the endpieces were overlaid with mother-of-pearl. She turned her hand again and it flowed smoothly, as a good fan should, back into its closed position.
It was an elegant, appropriate, well-thought-of gift. For some reason that disturbed her. What was her husband-to-be? The scholar or the rake, the friend or the man of violence? Perhaps all of these. A man could quote Sallust and still be a brute.
Redcliff wanted her to rest, but Beth preferred to read, a pastime denied her recently. Mrs. Brunton, however, did not suit her mood, and she picked up some volumes of poetry she had brought from the library. Dipping here and there she came across Pope's Rape of the Lock:
Say what strange motive, Goddess! could compel
A well-bred Lord to assault a gentle Belle?
O say what stranger cause, yet unexplored,
Could make a gentle Belle reject a Lord?
What indeed? thought Beth, on reading these relevant lines. Most people would think her mad. Most people would not realize how painful it was to be thrown into such foreign circumstances, no matter how luxurious. On the brink of what to most young ladies would be a night of triumph, Beth Armitage wanted only to be back in her small, chilly room at Aunt Emma's preparing a project for the next day's classes.
When Redcliff indicated it was time, she took her bath in delicately perfumed water. She dried herself and dressed in stays, silk stockings, and shift. Then the maid assisted her into the gown. It was as if it had a life of its own; it flowed and hissed and demanded only the most graceful, the most elegant movements.
She had not realized how fine the fabric was. It was true that over her shift the outfit could not be considered revealing, and yet it did not hide her figure as she would wish. She had not realized how low the neckline was, nor how cleverly shaped to emphasize her breasts. It did not seem at all proper, but she had to wear it.
She had insisted that a cap be ordered to match, but it too proved to be a shock. Cap was obviously a word open to interpretation. This was merely a bandeau of matching silk and pearls upon a stiffened frame. It was trimmed with satin ribbons which formed a love knot at one side.
"Should I dress your hair in a knot behind?" asked the maid.
A knot sounded very decorous, and Beth agreed, but when it was done Beth knew it had not helped. With her hair drawn tightly up, her neck appeared more slender, and when the diamond necklace was clasped around it, positively swanlike. Resigned, Beth allowed the maid to assist her into the long kid gloves and fasten the bracelet over one wrist. Redcliff then clipped the pendant diamonds onto her ears and pinned the brooch in the center of the knot of ribbons on her bandeau.
It only remained to step into her satin slippers and stand before the mirror. Beth knew what she would see. It was Beth Armitage at her prettiest—slender but well-rounded, clear-skinned and glossy-haired. The problem, as she had known, was that she still was no beauty. She did well enough and her hosts would have no cause to blush for her, but this, the best that could be done for her, left her still just a passably pretty young woman. She would rather not appear to have tried.
She was surprised when told the marquess had come to escort her downstairs but accepted her fate with resignation. Tonight was their acting debut.
She had forgotten to wonder what he would look like. Her breath caught at the sight of him in formal black and pure white, his tanned skin and golden hair thrown into brilliance. She felt that little tremor inside which warned her again that she was not immune to his charms.
Why should she wish it when he was to be her husband?
Because it was a matter of pride not to go willingly into slavery.
"How pretty you look," he said in a friendly way.
Nerves abraded, Beth responded sharply, "I could say the same to you, I think. Fine feathers do make fine birds, do they not?"
His eyes flashed, but his smile never faltered. He drew her arm into his and they began their walk.
"Are you suggesting, Miss Armitage, that under this magnificence, I am a mere sparrow?" His tone was still light.
She glanced up at him. "Too small. A rooster, perhaps?"
He met her look and, though he continued to smile, his eyes were chilling rapidly. "You assume I will not take vengeance when you are in all your finery? You could be right. But perhaps I will hold a grudge."
That was too close to the mark. Beth knew she was guilty of holding onto her resentment. "Then we can be a pair of broody hens," she said bitterly, "sitting on our grievances until they hatch into disaster."
She intended it to be a kind of peace offering and perhaps he took it that way for he laughed. "I refuse to be any species of fowl. I prefer to be thought of as a hawk. Noble hunter, sharp of claw."
That was too frightening an image. "I'm sure you do," Beth said tartly, "but I think it is more a case of a magpie, snatching at small glittering things of no particular value."
"And you, my dear," he retorted, good humor fled, "to stretch the analogy a little, are developing into a harpy, all teeth and claws."
Without warning he opened a door and swung her into a room. A bedroom.
Beth looked up at him wide-eyed, fear shivering along her nerves. Why could she not control her clever tongue? Why could she not remember he was quite unlike any man she had ever known?
He was dangerous.
Beth the radical reminded herself she had determined to stand up to the marquess. Beth the cautious whispered that she hadn't reckoned on doing it alone, in a bedroom.
"What are you doing?" she said. It came out rather squeakily.
He was not touching her, but he was standing close, deliberately looming over her. Beth forced herself to not step back. "I am reminding you of our bargain," he said tersely. "Are you going to behave yourself tonight?"
It was the wrong word to use. Beth intended to honor her bargain, but she did not like to be told to behave herself. She raised her chin. "Do you not see me dressed like a peacock," she asked bitterly, "sporting the family jewels?"
"You know that is only the minor part."
Beth sneered. "I am not going to call you a baboon in front of your friends and neighbors, my lord."
His lips tightened. "Not good enough, Elizabeth. The only sane reason for this match is that we are in love. Madly, crazily in love. Good breeding takes away the necessity for us to be demonstrative, thank God." He took a step back, but that was no relief, for he used the space to let his eyes wander dismissively over her.
Beth could feel herself color.
"But," he drawled, "we need a certain something in the eyes, don't you think?"
Beth forced a careless shrug and gave him exactly the same slow dismissive scrutiny. "It will be an effort, my lord, but I will try."
She heard his breath hiss between his teeth. He stepped closer again and placed one finger beneath her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Make sure you do, Elizabeth, or I will take payment for the dishonored debt."
"You do not try at all," she said fiercely, jerking away from his touch. "Can you not see this is no way to make me be as you would wish?"
He moved away and turned to face her, one brow raised. "How then? I have been as kind as I know how and had it thrown in my face. I have offered you kisses and had them rejected. I have left you be and returned to sharp words. At the moment, my dear bride-to-be, I simply want to be sure there will be no scandal from this evening. I'm not considering your feelings at all."
"That is blunt," said Beth, shocked by his all-too-accurate analysis.
"You once said you preferred plain speaking. You have it. Behave yourself."
Beth felt a tremor and did not know whether it was fear or anger. "Like most animals, my lord, I do not like the whip." She took a deep breath and fought for composure before this quarrel spun out of control. "If you would stop reminding me you have the upper hand I think I would behave a great deal better." She meant it to be a conciliatory suggestion, but he did not take it that way.
"I see no sign of that," he said implacably. "But if you behave well I will have no reason to wield the whip, will I?"
Beth clenched one fist and drove it into her other palm. She had never felt so close to violence. "But it is always there!" she protested. "I can never for one moment be unaware of your power!"
He shrugged, and she could tell he was genuinely perplexed by her words. "That is the way of the world, Elizabeth. You cannot change it and neither can I. If I promise never to compel you to do anything, that won't alter the fact that I could, and probably with the full force of the law behind me."
He offered a smile and she could tell he was making a genuine effort to be kind. "There's no need for all this heat, my dear. I am not likely to be a demanding husband, and pretty women generally find it easy enough to control their men. I know many men who live under the cat's paw."
It was as if a chasm yawned between them, as if they spoke different languages entirely. Anger drained from Beth, leaving only sadness. "You need not fear that, my lord," she said quietly. "I will never try to use feminine wiles to rule you."
With that she turned away toward the door but waited politely for him to open it.
"You will notice," he said as she walked out ahead of him, "that I suppressed the obvious rejoinder."
Beth responded to his light tone with one of her own. "That you would prefer feminine wiles? You are bound for disappointment there, Lord Arden. I have none."
"How fortunate then," he drawled, "that I have wiles enough for two."
It was, she supposed, a gallant attempt on both their parts to restore some kind of harmony, but the evening loomed before them, full of traps and disasters.
They walked along in silence until they were nearly at the open doors of the drawing room. A rumble of conversation escaped the room, lightened by exclamations and laughter. Through the door Beth could see a number of glittering people, and she knew there were many more out of sight. She came to understand his concern about appearances. They were about to go on stage before the cream of the county.
She stopped and turned to him. "I'm sorry if I've been unreasonable, my lord. I no longer seem to know right from wrong, sense from nonsense. When we are struggling to keep afloat in strange waters, we do not always take care of others."
He considered her seriously and again she had the impression that he was at least trying to understand her point of view. He began to reply, then glanced over her shoulder. "We are observed. I am going to give you a very small kiss, Elizabeth. It will do our reputation as mad romantics a world of good and cut down," he added dryly, "on the required number of languishing looks."
Despite an urge to escape, Beth stood still as he held her by the shoulders and touched his lips to hers. As he said, it was gentle and unalarming, but it was not without effect. It was their first kiss and contained a grain of something of worth—perhaps concern, or even the greater warmth of embryonic friendship. Beth was aware that it was precious and raised one hand to gently touch the side of his handsome face.
He gave her a swift suspicious look. With a sinking heart, she realized he saw the gesture as evidence of boldness. Quicksands indeed.
She was not a blushing schoolgirl, after all. She was mature and confident, with at least book knowledge of men and yet, because of her foolish words, if she relaxed for a second he saw her as wanton. With a sigh, she replaced her hand on his arm and allowed herself to be drawn into the lion's den.
The large, gilded drawing room was hung with huge Gobelin tapestries separated by ornate pilasters. The arms of the de Vaux, repeated again and again in blue, red, and gold marched across the ceiling lit by hundreds of candles in scintillating chandeliers which seemed to spark flashes from ostentatious jewelry and avid eyes. Conversation ceased. To Beth it appeared they were the focus of hundreds of pairs of eyes.
Her hand clutched at the marquess's arm.
The duke and duchess came forward to stand by their side. Then the duke introduced Beth. All these friends and neighbors applauded, but Beth was sure she could see incredulity in some eyes and envy in others. When the guests looked away and recommenced their chatter, Beth knew that now they were talking about her.
She could imagine the words. "Such a dab of a thing."
"Nothing special about her at all."
"Can't hold a candle to...."
Abandoning notions of independence, Beth thanked the heavens that the nature of the occasion made it proper for the marquess to stay by her side, for she might otherwise have given in to panic. As it was she found her nerves jumping from the number of people—and these were only the ones invited to dinner—and the way they looked at her as she and the marquess circled the room talking to first one group then the next.
There were impertinent questions. There were jealous looks from a number of young ladies and their mamas. There was insincere, gushing familiarity. She was amazed and embarrassed by the number of people who tried to toady to her. She was really just Beth Armitage, schoolteacher.
The three young men brought from London seemed to have no problems with the betrothal. Beth wondered what the marquess had told them, for these guests must know him well.
Lord Amleigh was a handsome, dark-haired young man with lively gray eyes. He seemed rather intense, almost fiery.
Lord Darius Debenham was sandy haired with blue eyes. He would never be described as handsome, but his lively features were full of attractive good humor. He looked exactly the kind of man who would try to build a champagne fountain.
Major Beaumont was rather like the marquess in build and almost matched him in looks in a dark-haired, dark-eyed way. She noted with sympathy his empty sleeve.
The three were talking to two local men—Mr. Pedersby and Sir Vincent Hooke, both ruddy-faced and a little too loud.
It was Major Beaumont who stepped forward after the introductions. "Well, Miss Armitage," he said, raising her hand and kissing it with the air of a practiced flirt. "So you are Arden's secret treasure. I can quite see how it is. You are definitely out of the usual way."
Beth glanced up sharply to see if there was innuendo in that comment, but if so it was well-concealed. "Thank you, sir," she said. "I have never sought to be one of the herd."
"But you are the very leader of the flock," said Sir Vincent with a silly laugh. "The flock of beauties who have hunted poor Arden down."
Beth glanced to the marquess for help, but he was laughing at some remark by Lord Darius. She gave in to the temptation to vent her irritation on a suitable target. "Flock?" she queried lightly, making play with her fan. "Sheep? But sheep do not hunt. Or starlings? Pray tell me, Sir Vincent. Which birds hunt in flocks?"
"Well...." Plump Sir Vincent had turned even redder and was opening and closing his mouth like a fish. "A manner of speaking...."
"Perhaps you meant wolves," said Beth kindly in her best schoolmistress manner. "The collective noun, however, is pack. Or lions? A pride?"
She became aware that the marquess, along with everyone else in the group, was listening to her.
"Are we starting a zoo?" he asked mildly. "A pride of lions? Perhaps it should be a pride of dukes."
Beth couldn't help a laugh. "Or marquesses. What about a peep of chickens? We could change that to a peep of maidens."
"A gaggle of geese becomes a gaggle of dowagers," he returned with a grin. "No, that doesn't work too well. I have a better one. A leap of leopards. A leap of libertines."
"Should I perhaps 'peep' at that one?" asked Beth, delighted at this quick-witted and absurd conversation. "And what would you do with a shrewdness of apes, my lord?"
"A shrewdness of schoolteachers," he said triumphantly. "We are neglecting our guests, my dear."
Beth became aware of the five young men watching them with various degrees of astonishment. For a few moments she had forgotten her circumstances and discovered something precious. She could not remember matching her wits like that before and it was a heady delight. She flashed a quick, self-conscious look at the marquess and met a similar one of his own. He, too, had been surprised.
It was Viscount Amleigh who stepped into the silence. "You'd need a very special word, Miss Armitage, to describe the hunting beasts of Almack's."
Beth smiled at the young man who had doubtless been pursued there with great determination. "A militia of mamas?" she offered.
"A desperation of debutantes," was the marquess's dry contribution. "I think we should stop, Elizabeth, or we'll get an unconquerable reputation for bookishness." He turned to his friends. "I didn't bring you three here to enjoy yourselves, you know. You're supposed to be lessening the desperation of some of the local debutantes. You, too, Pedersby, Sir Vincent."
The men good-humoredly took their marching orders and went off to pay addresses to the young ladies sitting quietly with their parents.
Still relaxed from that exchange of wit, Beth grew careless. "Do you regret your bachelorhood, my lord?"
He looked down at her coolly. "What has that to say to anything? I do not blame you for our situation." There was a slight emphasis on the pronouns.
Forgetting where they were, Beth felt anger boil in her again "Well—"
She gasped as her elbow was taken in a vice like grip and pain shot up her arm. She found herself in a chair.
"You are unwell, Elizabeth?" asked the marquess kindly.
The duchess hurried over. "Is something the matter, my dears?"
Beth shook her head, hiding her shock. "Not at all," she said. "I felt a sudden pain," she glanced up at the cool eyes of her betrothed, "...from my ankle. I sprained it last year and it sometimes betrays me."
"I hope it will not prevent you from dancing, Elizabeth," said the duchess.
Beth stood. "Oh no, Your Grace. It was the marquess's excessive concern that forced me to sit in the first place."
They were back into conflict again. At that moment the meal was announced and, as it was a betrothal event, Beth had to place her hand on his arm and lead the procession to the formal dining room.
"What a remarkable liar you are," he said with cool admiration.
"Yes, aren't I?" replied Beth, too angered by that moment of brutal dominance to choose her words.
They went ten steps in silence and she could not resist the urge to look over at him.
His lips were tight and his eyes cool. "Yes, it was unwise, wasn't it? If you fight me, Elizabeth, you will lose and be hurt into the bargain. You can hardly expect me to be concerned about your sensibilities."
"What happened to our truce?" she asked with quiet intensity.
"It holds as long as you behave yourself."
Beth bit back angry words and faced forward again. Her situation, she thought bitterly, reminded her of a forlorn hope, when soldiers facing defeat without chance of survival, charged bravely, foolhardily, at the enemy. She could be compliant and enslaved, or she could fight and be defeated.
She could at least die with honor. A flaming row was out of the question and so, as they took their seats, she took up more subtle weapons. "I promise," she said sweetly, "to be exactly the kind of bride you deserve, oh noble one."
The marquess, after a brief startled moment, assumed a similar loverlike manner, raised her hand, and placed a warm and lingering kiss upon it. A ripple of laughter and sentimental looks greeted this action and set the tone for the meal.
"'Use every man after his desert,'" he murmured, "'and who should escape whipping?'"
Beth raised her brows. "I do not recollect any member of the peerage being tickled at the cart's tail recently. And yet," she continued amiably, "doesn't the Bible say, 'Whatsoever a man soweth, so shall he reap'?"
"But I'm a lily of the field," he countered. "I neither sow nor reap."
"Aha!" she exclaimed. "You've mixed your verses, my lord. The lilies of the field toil not, neither do they spin. It's the fowls of the air who do not sow and reap. I thought," she queried gently, "you did not wish to be considered any species of fowl."
"Very clever," he said with a smile which acknowledged her victory. But then his smile became a triumphant grin and Beth waited warily. "And so you reduce me to a cock? Unwary lady...."
Even Beth was aware of the rude meaning to which he alluded, and she turned pink. But she knew as well that there was a warm stirring inside her at his words and the almost sultry look in his eyes. She fought it.
"Every cock is proud on its own dungheap," she shot back in an attempt to drag the contest back into safer waters.
Mirth glittered in his bright blue eyes. "As in upstanding?" he asked.
The contest had passed out of Beth's control and beyond her true understanding, but she knew she had to retreat. She grabbed the first quotation that came to mind. "Small things make base men proud," she declared and directed her attention firmly to the soup which had somehow arrived before her.
She found it difficult to swallow the first spoonful. There was something dangerous emanating from her left.
She slanted a wary glance in his direction. He was in control and his face was politely amiable but outrage glittered in his eyes. Beth ran the words back through her mind, seeking the unintentional offense. Oh, heavens. Base. That was it. He thought it was a reference to his birth.
"I am sorry," she said, trying to sound sincere while keeping her tone and manner light for the sake of those nearby. "I didn't mean... I didn't mean anything... personal, my lord."
Her words appeared to anger him more. "So you do realize what you were implying," he commented in the same light tone but through tight teeth. "You must tell me your opinion of my endowments when you have more personal experience."
Beth hadn't the slightest notion what he meant but took the only wise course and addressed her soup.
By the time six types of fish were being offered Beth had nerve enough to direct an innocuous comment to him and he was restored enough to answer it. Knowing silence would be cause for comment they began to converse and even slowly returned to playful flirtation. But now it was a careful, wary business, despite their smiles.
The marquess threw insincere flattery at Beth and Beth reciprocated. Gradually, despite their discord, Beth went from satisfaction in holding her own to pleasure in matching wits. But she was careful—as careful as a person can be when walking over ground set with invisible traps.
She thought she saw genuine amusement in the marquess' eyes now and then, but it wasn't the unguarded warmth of their earlier exchange. At one point when she capped his praise of her eyes with a positive laudation of his, he murmured, "It would be more ladylike just to simper, my dear."
Beth, by now outside three glasses of wine, simply opened her eyes wide and said, "Really?"
He bowed his head and laughed. They received yet more indulgent looks. Beth thought his humor was genuine. But then he had been draining his wine glasses with regularity, too.
The whole company was relaxed by good food and wine, and when the speeches started, wit, both coarse and fine, began to fly. The Regent was toasted and all the royal family. The soldiers and sailors received their due.
Then the duke rose. "My friends. This is a joyous occasion indeed for us, and we are pleased to share it with you today. It is not often a family is so fortunate as to welcome within it a bride who is so like a daughter."
Beth could feel her eyes open wide and resisted with difficulty the temptation to look at the marquess with alarm. He laid a hand over hers in what would look like fondness but was, she hoped, reassurance. If not, it was control.
"The duchess and I had wondered when Arden would choose a bride. So many young men these days seem to find no need for one, to their great loss. We would have been happy to welcome any young woman who found favor in his eyes, but thank him sincerely for choosing our dear Elizabeth."
Everyone joined in the toast and then the marquess rose to reply. "Some young men," he said with pointed looks at his friends, "do indeed seem to think a bride a low priority in life. I can assure them they are wrong. Does Euripides not say, 'Man's best possession is a sympathetic wife'?" Beth stiffened at the word possession, knowing it had been deliberately employed, but she maintained her smile. "Euripides was right. I have already found my life enlivened by my bride-to-be, and I look forward with confidence to yet greater delight."
The words were without offense and yet something in the delivery caused titters and guffaws. Beth knew she was turning pink, and it was one part embarrassment to three parts anger. Why did society ordain that the men make all the speeches? She would delight in an opportunity to land some clever shots of her own.
"The heir to a great house," he continued, "cannot choose the single life, but I felt no urgency to seek a bride. You can see then that Elizabeth caught me quite unawares. We make no secret of the fact that she brings no fortune or proud bloodlines to this match, and I am pleased by this. For how can anyone doubt that we are joined by the strongest compulsion...."
The emphasis he placed on the word sent a shiver down Beth's spine. It seemed an age before he added, "Love."
She looked up and their eyes clashed. "There is something inexpressibly charming in falling in love," he added blithely. "I recommend it to all you lonely bachelors."
Beth looked down at her plate, wondering how many would recognize that quotation from Moliere, which went on to say that the whole pleasure of love lies in the fact that love is soon over. But at least she and the marquess need not fear the loss of something they did not have. She realized she was missing some of his speech, but if that was the style of it she did not regret it.
"I ask you," said the marquess in conclusion, "to drink again to Elizabeth. And to families. And to love."
Everyone did this resoundingly, and Beth could detect no ambivalence in the smiling faces. Perhaps people heard what they expected to hear. Or perhaps, as Shakespeare had it, "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players..."