Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (26 page)

If they saw anything, they saw the marquess throw Beth a look of mock despair which made her want to laugh. Their situation was not comfortable, but Beth was relieved to see that he was not enamored of another. She remembered he had expressed horror at the thought of marrying such a vain widgeon. Poor Phoebe.

It was not so amusing however when she found herself in conversation with the girl, aware of nearby ears stretched to catch every word.

"How tiresome for you, Miss Armitage, to have your wedding rushed so," the girl drawled. "I would have—" Phoebe broke off and lowered her lashes. She would doubtless have blushed had it been within her control. "I
will,"
she corrected sweetly, "insist on plenty of time to make all proper arrangements."

This was clearly a rehearsed speech. Beth lost all sympathy for the little cat "Will you?" she said. "I am sure your husband will be pleased to know that your desire for show and ceremony outweighs your desire to be his wife."

The beauty stared glassily but rallied. "I merely meant, Miss Armitage, that I would wish the wedding to be done properly."

"How kind," countered Beth with a smile. "I'm sure the duchess would appreciate your advice. Pray go and tell her in what ways you think the wedding will fall short."

Phoebe had lost her script and was close to losing her composure, which in her case meant that the flawless perfection of her features was slightly troubled by emotion. "La!" she said with a little laugh. "How you do take me up. I declare it must be exhausting to converse with one so clever as you. You cannot help but be aware, Miss Armitage, that it is usual in our circles for there to be a longer period between the betrothal and the wedding."

The "our" clearly did not encompass Beth. Beth was framing an annihilating and yet permissible reply when she became aware of the marquess beside her. "Alas Miss Swinnamer,
you
must surely know," he said with razor-edged meaning, "that I disdain to do the usual. I'm sure one day, when some man falls into the snare of your beauty, he will rush you to the altar just as I am rushing Elizabeth."

This masterly speech scored so many points that some titters were heard. Mrs. Swinnamer, who had been hovering nearby, swept down to shepherd her daughter away. The mother looked flustered and angry, but Phoebe wore only the slightest frown. She glanced back once, exquisitely puzzled, and it occurred to Beth that the girl had never considered until that moment that the marquess was not truly smitten by her beauty.

"I confess, I feel sorry for the poor fool," she said to him as they moved away from their audience toward a refreshment room.

"Don't," he said firmly. "She's like a honey trap—to be avoided at all times."

"If you had avoided her," Beth pointed out, "we would not be subjected to such sugared ambushes."

He steered her to a seat in a relatively quiet corner. "Would you like wine? Or they have negus and orgeat."

"Negus, please."

He signed to a hovering footman and commanded it. "If you have any complaint," he said, "you must make it to my mother. She was the one throwing the beautiful Phoebe at my head."

"She believed her a suitable wife for you?" asked Beth, puzzled. She'd thought the duchess more astute.

"She thought her a
possible
wife," he corrected, "and was nobly willing to do her best." The footman arrived, and the marquess passed Beth her chilled drink. "It was all my fault, I confess. Phoebe was making a dead set at me and I was falling into the trap. Not of her beauty," he said, "but of her lacquered gloss. I developed an obsessive desire to disturb it. It could have proved fatal if I hadn't come to my senses enough to flee her orbit entirely."

It was one of the relaxed times when he talked to her as if she were just another human being, and perhaps one he liked.

She sipped her drink and said, "I'm sure even Phoebe must wake up with her hair disordered and sheet marks on her cheek."

"Do you think so?" he queried lazily. "That was one of my almost fatal questions. Whether she could preserve the perfect finish throughout a wedding night."

Beth froze. The negus went the wrong way, and she spluttered and choked. He rescued her glass before the contents spilled over her green silk gown. Beth finally gasped a breath.

"Are you all right?" he asked. "I didn't think it was quite that funny."

Beth rose to her feet. "I'm perfectly recovered," she said, with another little cough which gave her the lie. "I think I have a partner waiting."

He placed her glass on a table and caught her up, staying her with a hand on her arm. "I claim precedence," he said. "What's the matter?" He studied her features for a moment then said, "Ah, the dreadful prospect of the marriage bed. More maidenly modesty?" The familiar bitter edge was back in his voice.

"That is surely not unreasonable?"

"It's damned inconvenient," he said, and she could tell the use of the word
damned
was deliberate. "You will have to make up your mind, sweeting, whether you wish to be treated as a delicate bloom, to be protected from all crudity, even the need—especially the need—to think. Or whether you wish to be treated as an equal."

"As an equal," said Beth instantly. "But that surely does not disallow a little maidenly modesty, my lord. Does a man not suffer some qualms before a new event? A duel, for example?"

He took her at her word. "I'm a virgin," he said. "In the matter of duels, that is. Is that how you regard our wedding night? Pistols at twenty paces?" The mischievous twinkle she was coming to know too well entered his eyes. "Wrestling would be nearer the mark," he murmured. "Or a sword fight."

Beth could feel herself color but knew she had no right to complain. She'd asked for this. "I hope that peace, not combat, will mark our marriage bed."

He was serious again. "If you are as honest as you claim to be, Elizabeth, blood will mark our marriage bed. Blood is not usually a product of peace."

If she had been pink before, Beth knew now she must be pale. His words were perfectly true and yet there was a hint of violence, and a reminder of his lingering doubts.

He sighed and took her hand. "I'm sorry. I'm not very good at this. I've been trained to treat women one way, and you are asking for something different. No matter how much of a sturdy plant you wish to be, I think it would be wiser for me to treat you as a delicate bloom for a little while yet. You may be made of steel, but my nerves aren't up to the strain."

He led her into the ballroom where a county dance was in progress which could easily be joined. He wove them adroitly into the pattern.

"For a little while yet...." Until their wedding night was over, her composure ruthlessly reduced to wild lust, her blood spilt, his doubts finally satisfied.

Beth fixed a bright smile and surrendered to the mindlessness of the dance.

* * *

From then on he treated her with a warm courtesy which at the same time was chillingly impersonal. Beth missed the brief moments of relaxed conversation but was willing enough to sacrifice them to avoid the quicksands.

Phoebe Swinnamer, too, seemed to have been routed and had all her attention fixed on the young Earl of Bolton who appeared to be as much of a cold stick as herself.

This was some relief, but Beth still had the endless daily round of entertainments at which she was always under curious scrutiny and must always appear to be a lover on the verge of marriage—in the most polite and decorous way, of course.

The marquess occasionally escaped to a club or time with his friends, but Beth had no such relief. One night, to everyone's amazement, she burst into tears as they were about to leave for the theater. Simply because he was closest, she found herself in the marquess' arms.

He settled her on a sofa and kept an arm about her.
"Maman,
this has to stop," he said.

The duke and duchess shared a glance.

"Miss Armitage isn't used to this way of life," said the marquess. "It's a strain on me, but it must be far worse for her, surrounded always by strangers. It's less than a week to the wedding. Let her rest. Everyone will understand."

"If she appears to be sickly...." said the duchess doubtfully.

"Is it any better for her to collapse in public than for her to miss a few events?"

By this time Beth had pulled herself together. "Please," she said, quite touched by the marquess' concern. "I am recovered now."

"No, you're not," he said roughly. "You're as white as a sheet and have black shadows under your eyes." With a touch of humor he added, "You're doing nothing for my reputation as a lover, you know. Go to bed and we'll tell the world you have a cold. Anyone can catch a cold."

Beth took out her tiny lacy handkerchief and blew her nose. "I sound as if I have one," she sniffed.

"Exactly," he said, providing a much larger and more practical one. "Tomorrow you can receive some callers, sniff a lot, and retreat again. If you rouge your nose a little to give it verisimilitude, it should gain you at least two days of peace and quiet."

Beth couldn't help it; she chuckled. "What a master of deceit you are, my lord," she said. She felt the temperature immediately drop.

"Aren't we all?" he replied coolly and rang the bell. Once she was safely in the custody of her maid, the marquess, the duke, and the duchess took their leave.

Beth was left lying miserably on her bed wondering how every moment of harmony and kindness was soured. Was there any hope for them at all?

His plan did gain her the respite she needed, however. Beth spent two peaceful days in her room, reading and resting. By the time she was "recovered" there were only two more days before the wedding and the duchess used that fact as a reason to curtail their social activities.

This did not leave Beth with time on her hands, for she was expected to assist the duchess in supervising arrangements and had final fittings for her wedding gown. Also, a bewildering number of relatives began to arrive in Town and all paid calls. The only good point was that the marquess exempted himself from these occasions, saying blithely that he'd known all the old frumps from the cradle and had no need to be introduced. Beth was convinced that even if absence did not make her heart grow fonder, it provided fewer occasions for discord.

What that had to offer for the rest of their lives, she didn't like to think at all.

Beth's resting period also liberated Lucien. Once his bride-to-be was excused from the endless round of socialization there was not much point in his attending. He was not short of entertainment, for the Company of Rogues had assembled to bid farewell to Con and Dare, who were off to join Wellington's army on the very day of the wedding. The focus of the Company, as always, was the Delaney house in Lauriston Street. Nicholas and Eleanor had returned there after their family visit to Grattingley, and it was always open house for their friends.

Lucien spent most of his evenings there.

Three days before the wedding, Eleanor was bold enough to venture a saucy query. "Shouldn't you perhaps stay home with Elizabeth, My Lord Marquess?"

"Like Godric and Godgifu, sitting by the hearth?" he replied. "She's resting, and anyway, it would be no fit pattern for our elevated future."

Eleanor frowned slightly at his tone and he repented of the bitterness. But before he could say anything she summoned Nicholas. "Who were Godric and Godgifu?" she demanded.

He looked intrigued but said, "King Henry I and his wife Matilda. A somewhat sneering reference by the Normans to their domestic happiness and their attempts to Anglicize their court." He looked over at Lucien and added, "She refuses to buy an encyclopedia and just drags me around everywhere."

"I suppose a husband should be of some use," Lucien said and grimaced as he again heard bitterness ring through.

"Just consider," said Eleanor to Nicholas, smoothing over the moment, "if Miss Fitcham had been the kind of schoolmistress to actually teach her pupils something, I doubtless would have no use for you at all."

"Do you think not?" he said lazily.

Eleanor colored and rose to her feet. "If you are going to be bold, I'm escaping while I can." She turned and fired a parting shot at Lucien. "If it was good enough for the king of England, My Lord Marquess, I cannot see how it is beneath you."

"Broadsided, by God," said Lucien with a laugh and gave her the victory. He turned to Nicholas. "How do you live with a sharp-witted woman?"

"In constant delight. She is also warm-hearted. Is Elizabeth cold?"

This was the attack direct. "I don't know," Lucien said at last.

"Luce," said Nicholas, "you are rich, handsome, and the most skillful, the most outrageous, flirt in England. You even had Eleanor bedazzled in front of my very nose. How can you not know if your bride is warm or cold?"

Lucien realized he'd never flirted with Elizabeth Armitage. Assaulted her, yes, threatened and berated her. But flirted with her? No. It was not a matter he could discuss, even with Nicholas.

"How can I not know?" he repeated lightly. "Because she's a cactus and I'm an inflated bag of pride and consequence, and I'm afraid to get close enough to find out."

Nicholas's lips twitched. "There goes the de Vaux succession, I gather."