Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (41 page)

      
She'd be safer away from him in the meanwhile. What if the next “accident” injured her instead of him? The thought was enough to make his gut clench with fear for her and their child, a totally new emotion for him. He'd risked his life without a care over the past half dozen years and never given the danger a moment's worry. Perhaps because he had nothing to lose before he met Beth.

      
“You've done nothing but nod and smile at me, then stare across the ballroom floor in a brown study since the music started.” Charlotte pouted as the dance ended.

      
Just then the young Duke of Westover approached Beth. Derrick's eyes narrowed. Westover was slender and blond. And he was fair slobbering down the front of Beth's low-cut gown. Damnation, her generous breasts looked about to pop from their moorings right into Westover's all too eager hands! Derrick could not wait to deposit Charlotte back with her circle of tittering friends and go to his wife, but the young matron was having none of it.

      
She fastened one dainty white hand over his arm and said insistently, “You simply must come and meet Daddy. I just saw him arrive.”

      
Having said that, she launched forth with a suprisingly steely grip on his arm, headed toward a portly bald man with a jowly, self-important face. He studied Charlotte's singularly unattractive father, who looked disturbingly familiar. Then suddenly Ben Binghamton's identity hit him.

      
Across the room, the same jolt of ghastly recognition had just struck Beth. “Please, I feel unwell,” she whispered to Bertie and Westover. “Would you be so kind as to excuse me, gentlemen?” But before she could turn to fly from Binghamton's presence, the young duke interceded.

      
“Perhaps a bit of fresh air would help. Allow me?” Without waiting for her agreement, he took her arm and whisked her toward the set of open doors leading out onto the terrace gardens.

      
It accomplished what she wished, escape. But as they made their way to the exit, Beth could see her husband in thrall to Binghamton's daughter, being led to meet Papa.
Please don't let that pompous old jackanapes recognize me!

      
Too late. She could feel the vibrations as whispers began to spread across the crowd after Binghamton stiffened his multiple chins and spoke to the Marchioness of Singleton. He had seen her and, in spite of her finery, had recognized her. Beth could well imagine his indignation upon being informed that she was now the Countess of Lynden.

      
Of all the passengers on the
Sea Sprite
, he had been the most priggishly insufferable, but because he was a Cit, it had never occurred to her that she would encounter him in the rarified atmosphere of an aristocratic ballroom. Derrick's plans to redeem his tarnished family name were ashes now.

      
Woodenly, she allowed young Westover to lead her down the curving stairs into the formal gardens of his city house. The perfectly manicured topiary and elaborate gazebos befitted the home of a duke, but Beth did not notice the enormous white and gold chrysanthemums waving in the evening breeze. Nor did she smell the lush fragrance of the honeysuckle. All she could think of was that awful Ben Binghamton spreading his venom the length and breadth of London.

      
“You seem distressed, my lady. Would it help to talk about it?” Westover said with a sincere smile.

      
“Once I tell you the cause of my distress, you may not wish to spend another moment in my company.”

      
“That would not only be unchivalrous but unkind. I would like to believe that I am neither.” His smile was gentle, sincere.

      
“I have been, as you English like to say, right properly dished up tonight.” Beth quickly outlined her voyage and capture by Algerine corsairs, the time spent in the seraglio and her rescue by Decatur, mentioning Derrick only at the last when he had assisted the American commodore in securing her release. When she finished, his expression was troubled but not condemning.

      
“You have suffered much and come through it quite bravely, I believe. You are to be admired, my lady, not ostracized.”

      
“I fear your mother will not agree,” she replied gently.

      
Westover sighed. “Probably not. She's quite of the old school, very starchy, outspoken to the point of telling Prin-ney his immoral behavior is a disgrace to England!”

      
“She did not!” Beth had heard much whispering behind their prince's back, but no one bearded the vain old devil openly since the Beau had done so—and suffered disgrace for it.

      
“Right to his face. At Brighton three years ago.”

      
“And she's still received at court?”

      
“She's his first cousin,” he replied, as if the fact were a blemish rather than a distinction.

      
Beth genuinely liked the boy. “Ah, then that would give her a bit of latitude Brummel did not have. Being American to begin with, I have nothing whatsoever to redeem me. And I fear that it would be in your best interests not to spend any further time with me, lest you upset your mother, but I do thank you for being so kind as to listen to my tale of woe.”

      
He took her hands, quite distressed. “Never say so! What sort of person deserts his friend in time of need?” he importuned earnestly.

      
Derrick had searched for his wife for the better part of the hour since Binghamton's disastrous appearance. The juicy gossip had already spread faster than smallpox on a prison ship. By morning Beth would be a pariah in London. He had to get her out of the city until the worst of the scandal died down. But first he had to locate her.

      
He feared she had bolted on her own, but their phaeton was still in the drive. It was much too far to walk. He was growing increasingly worried when from the edge of the terrace he saw her standing half hidden beneath the leafy canopy of a tree, her hands in those of Westover. The young pup looked about ready to kiss her, but she turned away and he followed like a lapdog as she made her way back to the stairs.

      
Derrick stood glowering down at her as she ascended. She was still so engrossed in conversation with Westover that she did not notice him. Damn, the woman had not one shred of propriety—to slip away alone with a man just as a maelstrom of scandal erupted all about her!
She did not come to
you
for comfort.
The thought rankled.

      
Beth looked up, suddenly sensing his presence. Derrick loomed above her, looking more formidable than the huge stone lions standing guard at either side of the terrace staircase. Westover, trailing her, practically collided with her when she stopped abruptly on the second step. Moistening her dry lips, she said, “I imagine the gossips inside have fair flayed me to the bone by now.”

      
“So you've chosen to sequester yourself with a sympathetic listener for the past hour,” he said with a meaningful glance at Westover, who had the good grace to flush with embarrassment.

      
“Terribly sorry, Lynden. I was not thinking of the countess's reputation—er, that is—”

      
“No, you were not, nor was she,” Derrick replied.

      
“Since my reputation is already in the black book, it scarce signifies if his grace was kind enough to offer a bit of sympathy,” she retorted. Why just once, in such a nightmare as this evening had turned out to be, could her husband not offer solicitude rather than condemnation? She avoided his outstretched hand and walked stiffly up the stairs, head held high, steeling herself to face the ugliness that awaited her inside.

      
Derrick made a curt bow to Westover, then turned to catch up with his wife. “Bloody hell, will you wait until I accompany you?” he hissed, seizing her arm and placing her hand on his sleeve just before they reached the doorway into the ballroom.

      
“You cannot protect me,” she replied woodenly.

      
Although she was right, he could not bear the desolation in her voice, or the thought of his powerlessness to control the whirlwind of scandal that was already enveloping them. “You've never been afraid of breaking social conventions before, puss. Show that bravery now,” he said as they walked into the crowded room.

      
The music continued, but the dancers stopped, parting as had the waters of the Red Sea. Like Moses and the Israelites, the Earl and Countess of Lynden passed through without looking left or right until they came to his cousin Bertie, who smiled and nodded encouragingly. At his side, Annabella stood frozen rigidly, her expression mirroring the shock of the other guests. She did not acknowledge them in any way. The dowager duchess was nowhere to be seen as they took their leave.

      
On the ride home they sat side by side in the carriage, letting the sounds of the city at night make up for their lack of conversation, each lost in private misery. At first neither could think of anything to say that would not make matters even worse between them.

      
Beth had been grateful for Derrick's arm by the time they'd reached Bertie. Dear lord, his cousin had been the only human being in the room who had not looked at her with scathing disdain or titillated pity. She could imagine the whispered conversations at Westover's behind women's opened fans and in the men's card room. If the young duke defied his mother and called on her, she would have to refuse to see him for his own sake. Bertie...she supposed Bertie could take care of himself if he chose to visit her.

      
Derrick's mind spun with plans to whisk Beth away from the scene of so much hurt for her. He knew the ton well enough to realize that now the “little season” had begun in earnest, other scandals would displace his shocking American wife's recent history. Then the city would empty of the upper ten thousand as they departed to spend Christmas at their country estates.

      
By spring, after their child was born, she could return to London...if she wished to, knowing that no one of consequence would receive her. Except Bertie, of course. He felt petty because that bothered him in some vague way, even though he knew the feeling was not jealousy. His reaction to young Westover had been foolish enough—a green stripling who would never take Beth's fancy. All she had wanted from the duke was someone to take her away from the odious situation. As her husband, that responsibility now fell to him. He would send her to Lynden Hall,even though he dreaded the idea of spending the long weeks without her. It was for her own good—not to mention her safety, he reminded himself.

      
Once they were in the library of the city house, he poured a sherry for her, a stiff snifter of brandy for himself and said, ”I think it best if you retire to the Hall now. I should be along in time for the holidays.”

      
His back was to her so he could not see her reaction.
He's trying to rid himself of me!
She felt pain lash her, then willed it away, replacing it with cold anger. It would do no good to bare her soul to this hidebound Englishman who could see nothing but duty. “I told you I'd be an embarrassment, Derrick, but you refused to listen. My coming to England in the first place was a terrible mistake.”

      
“Do not prattle to me about Naples,” he said, biting off each word. “You are my wife and you will go to the Hall until the scandal dies down.”

      
“And when, pray, will that be? Within the decade? I daresay you can have your heir enrolled in Eton before I need venture from the country again. How convenient for you.”

      
He threw the glass of sherry that she had refused against the fireplace. The wine caused the flames to flare for an instant as the crystal shattered and lay glittering on the dull gray hearthstones. “There is nothing convenient about any of this, m'dear, but we shall nevertheless have to get through it as best we can.”

      
“Spare me your tiresome English fortitude. I've had enough to last me a lifetime! I have not felt free since we set sail for this wretched, dreary country, filled with the stink of cabbage and coal smoke! I want my life back, Derrick. I created a good one for myself once before—I will do so again. I long for laughter and the simple pleasure of warm sun on my face.”

      
His heart stopped beating for a moment. He could not lose her this way! He blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “I'll not permit you to sail to Naples. Even if you care nothing for the babe inside you, I do. A sea voyage this late in the year would be dangerous.”

      
“Your heir. Your precious heir for the earldom. I know you don't give a fig for me or this child, so do not use it as an excuse to bend me to your will. It will never work again, Derrick.”

      
He stood by the fireplace, the brandy glass clutched in his whitened fist as she walked past him and went upstairs, leaving him to stare into the flames while he drank deeply. Then he ground the shards of broken crystal beneath his boot and poured another drink.

* * * *

      
Beth not only adamantly refused to be packed off to the country but decided that her vainglorious boast to Derrick the night before would not be an idle one. She would make a life for herself in London...at least until their child was born. After that she would have to reevaluate what would be best to do. Bertie called the following day after Derrick had departed for his round of political and business appointments.

      
She was devoutly grateful when he cheerfully announced that since she was in such bad loaf with the ton, there was nothing for it but to give the old biddies something to thicken their broth. Lady Holland had issued a personal invitation through him to “that fascinating American painter.” He told Beth he had been describing her work to Lady Holland and her friends and they were eager to welcome her into their circle. Beth had little doubt that her time as an Algerine captive added a certain titillation as well.