Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (24 page)

"Why not?"

Beth stared at him. "Surely it is normal—"

"Not particularly. You're intelligent enough to know we have to learn to be comfortable with one another, and yet you're making no effort—"

"I'm sorry it's such an effort," Beth snapped.

He sucked in his breath with irritation but took his hand away. "Is it because of how I touched you that night?" he asked.

Beth swallowed. "Yes." It was a lie. It hadn't helped, for it had given vivid force to the duchess's talk, but it wasn't the main problem.

He actually looked uncomfortable, almost guilty. "I'm sorry for it then. At the time it seemed necessary, but it was not good of me, regardless of your...." He took a careful breath. "I won't do that again, Elizabeth. You have my word."

Beth was aware of a mixture of hope and disappointment. "You won't touch me there again?"

"You know that's not what I mean."

He seemed to be once again implying she had vast knowledge of men. "All I know, my lord," she snapped, "is that you had better keep your hands to yourself until I am legally obliged to endure your loathsome maulings!" With that Beth stalked away, ignoring the muttered curse behind her, nerves twitching for fear of attack.

He let her go, however, and over the next few days Beth was allowed to hide away between events without his interference.

Then one day she found herself carelessly alone in an open carriage with the marquess as they returned from a visit to the village school. They had gone with the duke and duchess, but the marquess' parents had accepted an invitation to take tea with the vicar. It was only as she realized the consequences that Beth thought it might have been a deliberate maneuver.

The marquess lounged back—if he was feeling any irritation of the nerves it wasn't obvious, thought Beth waspishly—and looked at the gift the children had presented to them. It was a carefully polished board with a design made of brass nails. It had the de Vaux coat of arms and the initials E and L. "Do you have any idea what we are supposed to do with that?" he asked lazily.

"Hang it over the door, perhaps?" she suggested, knowing full well the de Vaux arms were carved in granite over the main door of Belcraven.

"Or over our bed?"

Beth couldn't help a start.

"There you go again," he said. "We are going to have to deal with this one of these days, you know."

Beth could feel her color flare. She glanced nervously at the coachman and groom. "I am naturally nervous," she muttered.

"Or worried about what I will discover."

Beth stared at him. Was that what he thought? "You promised never to mention that again."

He met her eyes. "I apologize then. But your reactions argue a very strange state of mind. I am bound to be suspicious."

Beth looked again at the servants. Did he know they couldn't hear such a soft-voiced conversation, or did he just, with de Vaux arrogance, not care? She couldn't let his insinuations go unchallenged. "You might suspect," she hissed, "that I am suffering from normal maidenly modesty."

"I might," he said with dry lack of conviction.

"You are a loathsome man!" she snapped and was sure she saw the groom twitch. Well, she doubted they were fooling the Belcraven servants.

"Along with my loathsome maulings," he drawled, still relaxed. But she could see the anger in him.

The rest of the journey passed in total silence.

When he handed her down from the carriage by the porte cochere, Beth stalked away, eager to escape. He caught up and gripped her arm. "Slowly," he said. "Remember our agreement."

Beth glanced at the coach, just pulling away. "If you think we fool them, you are more stupid than I imagined."

"But you have never imagined me stupid, Elizabeth. The servants observe a great deal, but that is no reason to behave outrageously. You promised to act the part in public."

Beth turned on him. For once, rare blessing there was no servant in sight.
"You
promised to believe me an honest woman."

"Not quite. I promised to act as if you were. And am I supposed to believe you to be a naive little widgeon? A woman who reads the classics."

"There is surely some ground between an empty-headed idiot and a brazen hussy!"

"No man's land," he commented thoughtfully. "Is that what you are claiming still?"

"I am no man's," Beth stated, confused.

"You are mine."

"I am not. I am my own woman and always will be."

A spark lit in his eyes and his hands came around her throat. She froze. "What—"

"I have this urge to throttle you," he said in a strange, contemplative voice. "I wonder if Nicholas is right?"

Beth gaped at him. He'd run mad. When she swallowed nervously she could feel the tightness of his thumbs across the front of her throat. Just a little tighter and she would be in mortal danger. Where, for heaven's sake, were the ubiquitous servants?

Then his thumbs slid up until they rested on the soft underside of her jaw, making small circles against her jawbone, bringing a sweet, melting sensation she couldn't fight, though she tried. He lowered his head.

"Don't," she pleaded, but he ignored her.

His lips were firm and warm and gentle, but Beth was frightened. She tried to twist away, but his hands trapped her. She felt the moistness of his mouth on hers and the invasion of a teasing tongue. She moaned a protest but at the same time she could feel that melting sensation weaving through her, softening her bones.

His lips left hers slowly and she felt their absence. He ran a thumb across her trembling lips. "Perhaps Nicholas is right," he said. "But I apologize again. I have no wish to frighten you and, as you said recently, there's no need for my loathsome maulings yet, is there? Ah, Thomas...."

Beth jerked around to see a footman standing stonily nearby. How long had he been there?

"Perhaps you would escort Miss Armitage to her apartments," the marquess said. He looked down at Beth. "A new compact?" he offered.

Beth swallowed. That kiss had not been loathsome at all. The fact that he remembered her comment, though, told her she might actually have hurt him. The duchess had perhaps been right about the state of his nerves.

"Very well," she said. "A new compact."

She followed the footman but looked back. The marquess was still watching her, frowning. Was he angry? Or was he, in fact, as anxious and unsure as she?

* * *

Lucien saw his betrothed's anxious, puzzled backwards glance. She had reason to be anxious, but she was enough to make a man fit for Bedlam. She defied him and challenged him, and his every instinct clamored to overpower her, to make her call him master.

He could bully her, he could force her, but he was equally sure he could seduce her if he really tried.

The ridiculous thing was that he suspected he could do nothing. The thought of hurting Elizabeth, even in such a minor way as stealing an unwilling kiss, was repugnant.

He
had
wanted to throttle her, but it had been a need to mark her, to make her notice him and not some phantasm she carried in her overeducated head. He'd found in kissing her the same need. He wanted to seduce her, to ravish her, to drive all her clever, caustic thoughts out of her head until she was subject to him, needing him.

He'd never felt this way about a woman before, and he wasn't at all sure it was healthy.

As a result of these thoughts he took a leaf out of his betrothed's book and went to ground, in his case in the billiard room, aimlessly potting balls.

Hal Beaumont found him there. "Blue-devilled?"

Lucien looked up. "Weddings are hell."

Hal laughed. "You should have eloped."

"Elizabeth said that once. Perhaps I should pay more attention to her suggestions."

"Perhaps you should. She seems to be a woman of sense."

Lucien dropped his cue on the baize. "Not at the moment, she doesn't."

"I can't say either of you are showing to advantage. You can tell me to go to the devil, Luce, but I have to ask. What's going on?"

"Go to the devil," said Lucien amiably.

Hal shrugged. "As you will. I've been halfway to hell and back as it is." He must have seen something on the marquess' face, for he grimaced. "I apologize. Nasty kind of emotional pressure to exert." He sighed. "It's just that a brush with death changes things. I hate to see people making stupid mistakes. I wouldn't like to see you in an arid marriage."

"I don't much want to be in one," said Lucien grimly. He looked around. The billiard table had been set up in a wide gallery which still boasted massed ranks of medieval armaments on the walls. "Come on. It must be this room that's depressing us both. If one of those hooks gives way we'll be sliced to ribbons. Let's find more convivial surroundings."

Hal's strong right hand stopped him. "Why, Luce? If it's all been a mistake there must be a way out. I can't believe Miss Armitage is desperate to hold you to this marriage."

It went against all sense of right to lie to Hal. Lucien tried to give him part of the truth. "It's an arranged marriage. Elizabeth is my parent's choice."

Hal seemed to read a great deal from the words. After a moment he released his grip. "Then make a go of it. She's a warm woman of intelligence and humor. I think you suit very well."

"Like a Bedlamite and a straitjacket," snapped Lucien and escaped. Hal, being a man of sense, let him go.

* * *

The next day was the reception for all the local people. The gentry and other local worthies were entertained in the ballroom with wine, fine dishes, and Mozart. The lesser tenants and local residents were in the meadow where various large carcasses were roasting, jugs of ale never seemed to empty, and a band played for dancing.

Beth paraded around both locations on the marquess' arm. She exchanged pleasantries with the doctor, the lawyer, and the prosperous farmers. She made stilted conversation with the wives of small holders and farm laborers. It wasn't that she felt above them but that they were so clearly in awe. Couldn't they see that despite her new finery, she was just like them?

The simple fact was that all these people gained pleasure from a few words from the future duchess when they would have thought nothing of a day spent with Beth Armitage, schoolmistress. It was a preposterous situation and yet Beth couldn't deny them that pleasure when this celebration was clearly a red-letter day in lives of endless, tedious drudgery.

She did enjoy the children, for they were more natural with her. She sat down at one point with a group of little ones to teach them a finger song.

The marquess stood by watching. When she finally escaped he said, "You do that very well."

"It is my profession."

"Not anymore, I'm afraid."

Beth didn't argue. "I'm less at ease with their parents. I feel so awkward, as if I'm acting in a play. 'Enter future duchess, stage right.' I have never been very good at that sort of thing."

"Nonsense. They love you. You don't just speak to them. You listen. You make it seem as if you are, for a moment, one of them."

Beth looked at him. "But I am one of them."

He was arrested. After a pensive moment he shook his head. "Not anymore, I'm afraid." There was a trace of apology in it.

"I know," said Beth with a sigh. "But at least I can remember." She looked around the meadow full of people—chattering, dancing, eating, drinking. "Can you imagine," she demanded, "what it feels like to be one of these people? To worry about food for the table, a roof over your head, medicine for a sick child?"

"No," he retorted. "But if necessary I will put food on their table and a roof over their head, and send a doctor for their child. Who has the greater worry in the end?"

Before Beth could make a response he looked behind her. "Here's someone of the same lowly order as yourself. I'll leave you to wallow in your righteousness."

Beth abruptly found herself abandoned to the company of Major Beaumont, feeling very much as if she had been scolded, and possibly with justice. More than that she felt she might have hurt him again. It was time she started thinking of sensibilities other than her own. The marquess was arrogantly sure of his high place in the order of things, but he also took his responsibilities very seriously.

She wished he hadn't gone, so she could try to make amends, but for now all she could do was to continue to act her part. She chattered to Beaumont, trying to look like an ecstatic bride to be.

"Do you know, Miss Armitage," he said as they strolled back toward the house, "I wish you would not feel such a need to perform."

"What?"

"There's no need," he said gently. "Lucien has told me all about it."

Beth's eyes opened wide.
"All
about it?"

Mr. Beaumont studied her shrewdly. "Well no. He did not say quite why you had been chosen to be his bride, merely that it was his parents' wish."

"And it surprises you to find the chosen one so plain and ordinary?" Beth asked waspishly.