Chapter 8
Once in town the marquess lost little time in going to Blanche's house. She threw herself into his arms. "Lucien, love!"
He buried his head in her sweet-smelling hair and sighed. "You know why I have come?"
She pulled back and smiled sadly at him. "It's goodbye? I saw the notice of your engagement. Is she worthy of you, love?"
He let her go and said fiercely, "What do you mean by that?"
Blanche went as white as her softly draped gown. "I'm sorry, Lucien. I didn't mean it badly. If you have chosen a bride from nowhere you must love her, and that's all that matters."
He ran a hand through his curls. "We shouldn't even be discussing it."
"Well then," said Blanche lightly, though she was still pale, "let me order tea, and I can tell you all the scandal."
He sat across from her and let her chatter.
Blanche hoped he could not tell how hard it was for her. She had prepared to receive her conge ever since she had seen the notice, but she had not been prepared for the shadow in his eyes. What had happened? It clearly was not a love match he was entering, but more than that she could not guess. She ached for him.
When she interrupted her light account of the latest crim-con to refill his cup, he asked abruptly, "How can a man tell if a woman is virtuous, Blanche?"
She looked up, puzzled. "Do you mean, if she's a virgin?"
"No. Just the tenor of her mind."
Blanche shrugged. "I could ask, why should a man care? He could see how easily she was shocked, I suppose."
He laughed without humor, put down his cup, and pulled her up and away from the table. "And are you easily shocked, my winter rose?"
She knew she had colored, which didn't happen often these days. "I think you've shocked me now, Lucien. You said this was goodbye. You're as good as married."
He drew down both the loose sleeves of her gown until her breasts were bare, then gently cupped them in his hands and pushed them up. "That's no impediment to making love to the most beautiful woman in London." He lowered his head to kiss the swell of each.
Blanche was already halfway to passion just from simple memory. "You said 'in England' the last time," she teased softly.
He looked up and smiled, and it was his old smile. "Did I?" He swept her into his arms and headed for the stairs. "Well, that diminution of your sphere must be my tribute to the obligations of matrimony, ma belle." He stopped to pay tribute to each sensitive nipple. "We are in London, aren't we?"
Blanche arched and clutched him. "That or heaven, dear one."
As he laid her on the bed, he held back her hair and let it drift down last to lie all around her like a silvery pillow. "That's all right then," he whispered and lowered his head to kiss her.
Later, he leaned over her and pushed her damp hair off her face. Gently he said, "It is still goodbye, my lovely one."
Blanche stroked his smoothly muscled shoulder. "I know it, love. You're not a man to keep a mistress when newlywed. I hope you never keep one again. I'll miss you, though."
He smiled. "That's soothing to my ego. If you want, you'll have the pick of London to replace me."
"Ah, but there's not many with your beauty," she said honestly and with a cheeky twinkle. "I like to just look at you, you know. Care to come back and pose a few times?"
He laughed and sprang out of bed to strike a noble pose.
"Mmm." She lay watching as, he dressed.
When he was ready, he took a flat box from his pocket with a trace of hesitation and came back to sit on the bed. "There's always been more between you and me, Blanche, than payment," he said. "Can you take this gift in friendship, with my gratitude? I never have enough friends."
Blanche had expected a gift, and in a way she had dreaded it. It smacked too much of a baser relationship. She felt tears tickling the back of her eyes at his sensitivity, even though she should have expected it. She opened the box to see a paper which proved to be the deed to the house in which they stood. She glanced at it, but her attention was snared by what was underneath—a glittering rainbow of a necklace, exquisite flowers of emerald green, sapphire blue, ruby red, and topaz yellow.
She gasped then laughed up at him. "Lucien, you gaby. What am I supposed to do with this?"
He grinned. "Save it for your retirement?"
"I'll wear it in private if I'm feeling low." She gave him her sweetest smile. "You will always have a friend in me, my dear, and," she added carefully, "you need never fear I'll try to be more."
She looked down at the necklace for a moment and then back, frowning slightly. "I would like to say something else. About virtuous minds. There's little I don't know about men and women, love, and little I haven't experienced, but you've always treated me as a woman of honor. Virtue is a standard society puts on us, often an unreasonable one. Honor is something within ourselves. Only we can give away our honor."
Moved by her words, he kissed her hands and her lips. "I will always honor you, Blanche."
With that he was gone, and she could let the tears fall as she smiled at the ridiculously gaudy necklace.
Lucien impulsively stopped by at White's. He was in no mood for his own company and found the Belcraven mansion a bleak place unless filled with guests. He was rewarded by the sight of Con Somerford, Viscount Amleigh. The dark-haired young man was frowning as he read the day's Times. When he heard his name, he looked up, and the frown was replaced by a smile. "Good day, Luce."
"It's good to see a friendly face, Con," Lucien said as he took the viscount's hand. "I'd no real hope of meeting anyone I knew. I thought everyone would be in Melton still."
"Was," said the handsome young viscount as he summoned more of the claret he was drinking. "Couldn't keep my mind on foxes with all this going on." He waved the paper. "Anyway, I heard Nicholas was in Town."
That could only be the Honorable Nicholas Delaney, leader of the schoolboy clique to which they had both belonged and which had been revived the year before for more serious business. "Nick's here? Why?"
"Same thing," said Con, indicating the paper. The viscount's gray eyes turned bleak. "There's nothing to do, of course, but he must feel as sick as I do over it after all he did last year." He looked soberly into his wine. "I'm rejoining my regiment."
Lucien felt a chill. "It'll come to that again?"
"Bound to."
"God damn it all, someone should have shot the Corsican." Lucien thought of all the friends who had lost their lives in the long war. Was it all to do again? "I wish to heaven I felt free to fight. Perhaps if I have a son...."
Con looked at him quizzically. "I don't think Boney'll wait that long. You're not even married yet."
"As good as," Lucien admitted. "Notice is in the papers. Doubtless in that very one you're reading."
The viscount blinked in astonishment but then raised his glass. "Congratulations! The Swinnamer girl?"
"No," said Lucien, making a snap decision not to reveal the truth to this or any other friend. "You won't know her. Name of Elizabeth Armitage. From Gloucestershire."
"Knocked you for a loop, has she?" remarked the viscount, clearly not giving the matter much attention. "Even so, old boy, I don't think the question of Napoleon will last ten months or so. It'll be this summer and you'd do best to stay home. It'll be bloody."
"What of you? You have responsibilities now." Con had sold out the year before when he inherited the title.
"The army's short of experienced officers," said Con. "Shipped the best regiments off to the Americas when Napoleon seemed done for. Dare's offered his services at the Horse Guards. I tried to warn him off, but they'll probably find something for him to do. I think that'll be it from the Rogues. But look," he said in a brighter manner, "there's a gathering at Nicholas's tonight."
"Who'll be there?"
"Stephen," Con said, adding in a sonorous tone, "being an important man in the government." Stephen Ball was member for Barham. "And Hal."
"Hal!" exclaimed Lucien, a grin starting. Hal Beaumont had been his closest friend until their paths had split when Hal joined a line regiment and been posted to the American war. "I haven't heard from him in over a year. Thought he was still in Canada."
"Part of him still is," Con said gently. "He's lost an arm."
"Christ." Lucien stared at his friend numbly. He and Hal had been partners in so many youthful adventures, most of them depending on superb physical condition.
"Cannon exploded. He's come through it well enough. He'll want to see you. Was thinking of going up your way."
Lucien wanted to see Hal, too, but was aware of a reluctance to see him maimed and was instantly ashamed of it. "Tonight at Lauriston Street?" he confirmed briskly. "I'll send round a note. Is Eleanor here, too?"
"Of course. And the child. They're on their way to a family gathering at his brother's place. Just came up a bit early to get the latest news."
Lucien buried the shock of Hal's injury under the pleasant prospect of meeting friends. He wondered how Nicholas Delaney was now, four months after his return to England, seven months after their last meeting. That had been on the night when Nicholas had succeeded in gaining the plans of a plot to liberate Napoleon from Elba and restore him to power in France.
That success had been at great cost to himself, and in those days Nicholas had been tense and worn. His efforts had almost cost him his life, and his marriage, too. And after all the sacrifices it had all turned out to be a fraud. Or had it?
Napoleon, after all, was back in France and in power.
The beautiful Madame Bellaire had said in the end that the supporters of Napoleon had been tricked and that she was keeping the money for her own use. Had that been yet another lie? And if so, would Nicholas consider himself to blame in that he had only won the list of names from the woman and not relieved her of her ill-gotten gains?
Lucien had had letters from Nicholas which painted a pleasant picture of contentment with rural life, matrimony, and a new baby, but he'd be pleased to have it confirmed with his own eyes.
He'd be curious too to see the little Delaney. Arabel must be four months old. The babe had only been a few days old when last he'd seen her, and he couldn't say she'd shown promise of beauty back then.
* * *
That evening, when he was ushered into the elegant house at Lauriston Street the first sight to meet his eyes was Eleanor Delaney—looking finer and happier than she ever had—dressed in silk and jewels, with her baby in her arms. She turned and a wide, vivacious smile lit her face.
"Lucien!" she exclaimed as she came over to greet him. "We were so thrilled to receive your note. And you are due our congratulations." She reached his side and leaned forward for a kiss. "You must tell us all about your bride-to-be."
He had to work around a fragrant infant to kiss her cheek, which was a new experience. He looked down to be trapped by enormous gold-brown eyes fringed by outrageous lashes.
The child had incredible skin—he would never be able to call a woman's skin petal-soft again—and a sweet, soft mouth.
"Lord above, Eleanor. You can't let that loose on the world. There'll be no male left sane."
Eleanor smiled down in pride. "She is quite pretty, isn't she? But not much hair yet. There's no guarantee she'll be anything out of the ordinary later though. Babies are generally appealing."
"Appealing has nothing to do with it. She's a man-slayer."
Eleanor chuckled with pleasure at this praise. "Here," she said and passed the child over. "Be slain. I just have to have a word with Mrs. Cooke."
"Eleanor!" protested Lucien as the child settled in his arms. "Come back here!"
"Nicholas is in the drawing room," she called as she disappeared.
Lucien looked down at the child. It was disconcerting to be so readily accepted. Arabel was not the slightest bit disturbed by being in strange arms and appeared fascinated by his sapphire cravat pin. Delicate starfish fingers reached aimlessly for it. "Typical woman," grumbled Lucien with a smile. "Fascinated by something glittery. Come on. Let's find Papa."
But as he crossed the hall the thought of a child of his own became for the first time something other than a burdensome duty.
He entered the drawing room to find his host, Nicholas Delaney, talking to some members of the Company: Sir Stephen Ball M.P.; Lord Darius Debenham—third son of the Duke of Yeovil; and Amleigh. They all turned and grinned at the sight of him with a baby in his arms.
"Good Lord," said Nicholas, coming forward. "I heard you were engaged to marry, but aren't you a bit beforehand?"
Lucien couldn't help a grin, but he said, "This, if you can't recognize it, is yours."
Nicholas took the babe easily, and Arabel broke out a bright smile and a chortle. "So it is."
Lucien found simple pleasure in seeing how healthy Nicholas appeared—his skin tanned, his gold-flecked brown eyes clear and happy. He'd known from Eleanor's radiant looks that nothing had occurred to tarnish their new-built marriage, but now it was confirmed.
He hadn't realized what a burden of concern he'd carried until it was removed.
The business Nicholas had involved them all in last year had seemed a jape at first, very like the schoolboy plots they had indulged in at Harrow. It had stopped being a joke when Lucien had realized how it was hurting Eleanor to know her husband was so often with another woman; he had become a great admirer of Eleanor Delaney.
It had taken longer for him to realize how playing the lover for Thérèse Bellaire was slowly destroying Nicholas.
He hadn't really understood until the night he'd tried to be noble and distract the predatory Madame's attention to himself. She'd managed merely with a look of her eyes to make him feel raped. When Nicholas finally drew her off, Lucien had been beyond feeling noble and had merely felt grateful. The one good thing, he supposed, was that since then he'd been more thoughtful in his dealings with women, knowing how it felt to be so casually defiled.
He remembered with a touch of shame the way he'd handled Elizabeth Armitage, doing in a cruder way what Thérèse Bellaire had done to him. It had been necessary, he'd thought. But if she weren't quite as he thought....
"Trouble?" asked Nicholas softly, a smile still on his lips but his eyes serious. Trust Nick to see beyond the surface.
"Some," admitted Lucien.
"We're here for a week," Nicholas said and left it at that. "Come and help yourself to sherry. You'll have gathered we're not standing on ceremony."
The conversation was all of Napoleon. Stephen, a slender blond man with shrewd, heavy-lidded eyes, was concerned with alliances and the balance of power; Dare couldn't quite suppress his excitement; Amleigh was angry with the resolute anger of the professional soldier.
They all turned as Eleanor entered the room with Hal Beaumont at her side.
He looked the same, Lucien thought. Almost. They hadn't met for four years, and heaven knew what Hal had experienced in that time. There were new lines in his face, but his smile still quirked to the right, his dark hair still waved handsomely, and he was even taller and stronger than he had been at twenty-one. Lucien was filled with tremendous joy that his friend was still alive.
"Hal!" Lucien went forward and took his friend's right hand in his own. His eyes went irresistibly to the empty sleeve tucked in between the buttons of his friend's jacket, and he felt a surge of rage at fate. And an awareness of frustrating impotence. This was something neither wealth nor rank could alter.
Hal read his face and shrugged. "There are worse things. The devil of it is, I won't be able to take my turn at bashing Boney." He in turn gave Lucien the once-over. "You look suitably rich and powerful, Luce."
Lucien took refuge in the familiar teasing about his high estate. "Noblesse oblige, old boy. Can't have the higher aristocracy groveling in the gutter."
"Assuredly not. Personally, I think you should wear strawberry leaves around your hat."
"I'm saving that for when I'm duke."
By then everyone else had gathered around, conversation became general, and Lucien had opportunity to try to come to terms with it all. He'd had friends who'd died in the war but none until now who'd been maimed. It was easy to forget the dead, or at least remember them as they had been, but Hal was a living reminder of suffering.
He looked at Amleigh and Debenham and wondered if this evidence of the consequences of war gave them pause. Or whether, as with him, it created a renewed desire to fight—to get revenge but also to assuage his guilt. Guilt he felt because he'd been here in England—getting drunk, dancing at Almack's, making love to Blanche—when that cannon had exploded, when the army surgeons had hacked off what remained of his friend's arm.
Even as he thought all this, he was smiling and adding the odd quip to the light-hearted conversation. They all knew there was no point in miserying over the matter, and Hal would hate it.
And, of course, the Marquess of Arden couldn't take the easy way out and go off to suffer and die. He had to marry and produce the next generation of great and noble de Vaux.
Which brought everything, as always, back to Elizabeth Armitage—whom he didn't trust but sometimes liked, and who, despite being so damned ordinary, was far too often in his mind.
Eleanor once more had the baby and was playing a silly game which seemed to involve talking nonsense and rubbing noses. It made sense to Arabel, at least, for she was smiling and making happy gurgles which sounded like a language of its own. A nursemaid was hovering ready to take the child away, but Eleanor was clearly in no hurry to part with her child.
Nicholas was being a good host and even taking part in the discussion, but half his mind was clearly on his wife and child, and probably always was. Lucien suspected Nicholas would rather be part of that strange gurgling conversation than discussing the amazing pig-faced woman with Dare. Lucien caught at least two shared glances between Nicholas and Eleanor which spoke of the joy they found in each other's presence, even hinted at more private, familiar, and anticipated delights.
He remembered he had once thought that Eleanor Delaney was the kind of wife he'd like as opposed to Phoebe Swinnamer who seemed to be the kind of wife he was expected to choose. All the candidates for Marchioness of Arden had seemed to be beautiful, well-bred fashion dolls with just brain enough to master polite conversation. Eleanor Delaney had a shrewd brain and a pleasantly natural manner.
Nicholas topped up Lucien's glass and followed his gaze to his wife. "She's still taken," he said lightly but added more seriously, "A newly betrothed man shouldn't be looking at another man's wife quite like that, you know."
It was an opening, deliberately given. Lucien wasn't ready to bare his heart, but he would appreciate any scraps of wisdom. "I was just wondering," he said lightly, "if you ever felt the urge to throttle her."
Nicholas quirked a brow. "Just because she left you holding the baby?"
"Not Eleanor. Elizabeth."
Nicholas looked puzzled for a minute but then smiled. "Ah, your Elizabeth. Want to throttle her, do you? I could suggest," he said with a grin, "that it is in lieu of other forms of intimate contact." He sobered. "But no, I never felt that urge. But then we hardly had a normal courtship and Eleanor is not one to stir the coals. And I," he added, smiling in self-mockery, "I have always prided myself on controlling everything, including my emotions."
Lucien wondered what lay behind the slightly bitter tone. "Whereas I," he responded to pass the moment off, "being a de Vaux, have never felt the slightest need for self-control in my whole life."
Nicholas laughed. "Hardly fair on yourself. So, what does your future marchioness do to stir the coals?"
Lucien found it difficult to express concisely the hundred ways Beth Armitage churned up his emotions, and so he fastened on the most obvious problem. "She's a follower of Mary Wollstonecraft."
Nicholas was raising his glass to his lips. It froze. A spark of incredulous humor lit his eyes, escaping in a full laugh. Wine splashed from the glass. "God Almighty!" he exclaimed when he'd got control of himself. "The whole story. Now."
Everyone else had turned to listen, and Lucien realized he'd gone too far. He shrugged and simply said, "Sorry."
Nicholas sobered and nodded. "Doubtless illegal," he said smoothly. "Can't have things like that with Stephen in the room." Again, he said, "We're here for a week."
Not having heard the first part of the conversation, the others were satisfied with this and conversation became general again. Nicholas made no attempt to pry, and though Lucien was aware of a few thoughtful looks from his host, there was no further reference to his personal life. He really didn't know if he wanted to have a heart-to-heart talk with Nicholas at all. There were too many secrets involved.
When Lucien left in the small hours of the morning it was with Hal. There was a light drizzle, but their greatcoats and beavers were adequate protection.
"Where're you staying?" Lucien asked.
"The Guard's."
"I could give you a bed at the palace for a couple of nights." They'd always referred to Belcraven House as "the palace." Lucien could remember wonderfully crazy games with Hal which seemed to involve charging along endless corridors and hurtling down flight after flight of stairs. The chance of coming across the duke or actually breaking some precious ornament had given the whole thing a delicious, and real, edge of danger.
Hal had found danger even more real since then.
"Just one bed?" teased Hal as they turned off Bentink Street onto Welbeck. "You're a bit close with your riches, ain't you?"
"As many as you want," said Lucien grandiosely and ran a gloved finger boyishly along a railing to disturb the beaded drops of rain. He felt like a schoolboy again. When they got home he'd maybe try sliding down the banister of the main staircase. "You can have your pick of at least ten, all well-equipped with the best down mattresses. You can push them side by side to give room to stretch. You can stack the mattresses in a pile until they're soft enough for your pampered skin."
"Like the princess and the pea?" queried Hal with a grin. "I'm far too plebeian for that. Could your blue blood detect a pea through ten mattresses?"
Lucien was snapped back to reality and maturity and all sorts of other unpleasant things. "Probably not," he said briefly. "But I rattle in the palace like one pea in a pod. Come and take up some space."
"Are you saying I'm a rattle, too?" Hal demanded lightly but with concerned and curious eyes. But he went on, "I'd like to. The Guard's is full of fogies. There's too many well-meant commiserations and altogether too much talk of war."
"Come along then. I'll send someone for your things."
They turned into Marlborough Square. When the Season began there would still be lit windows and traffic at this hour, but at this time of year it was quiet. Despite the flambeaux burning in front of each great house, the square was rendered eerie by the gray light and the misting rain. Lucien shuddered. "Come to think of it," he said, "why don't you come back to Belcraven and support me through the coming ordeal? My mother always had a soft spot for you."
"Won't I blight the celebrations?" Hal asked, the first sign he'd shown of awkwardness about his injury.
"Hardly. You'll be a hero."
"Heaven forbid." He looked sideways. "Why is it going to be an ordeal? Anything to do with whatever broke up Nick?"
Lucien wasn't ready to talk, not even to Hal. He made a business of finding the key to the big front doors. "Of course not," he said. He turned the well-oiled lock and let them both into the high, shadowed hall. A lighted lamp stood on a small table but, by his instruction, no member of staff waited in case he had need of some service. His and Hal's footsteps seemed to echo hollowly on the marble tiles.
He was not used to returning to a lifeless house. He'd never given such instructions before, and he suspected there were some bewildered hurt feelings below stairs. All Elizabeth Armitage's fault. Without saying a word she'd made him vividly aware of all the servants who were the constant fabric of his life.
He suddenly laughed. "Do you need anything else tonight other than a nightshirt, Hal? I've sent everyone to bed and it seems damned stupid to be knocking them up at this hour. Apart from the fact that I've no idea how to do it other than ringing the fire bell."
"Of course not. I've slept in my clothes in the mud more often than I care to remember. And, yes. I'd be happy to visit Belcraven again. You know your mother is my first and only love. Why don't you ask Con and Dare, too? They're merely waiting for orders."
Which was a very attractive idea, thought Lucien as they went upstairs. Something to do with safety in numbers.