Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (28 page)

"No," said Beth hastily, for the duchess was truly enraged. She swallowed the response that he'd twice threatened to.

"Thank God," said the duchess and calmed. "There is something of violence in Lucien, I will admit, but there is in most men. Let us be honest, Elizabeth, we are glad of it when we want them to defend us or fight for our country as so many of them will have to do very soon. Lucien is a gentleman, however, and can control himself. You must not fear him. If he ever hurts you, you must tell me, and I promise he will regret it bitterly."

There was some reassurance to be found in this, but Beth was surprised to find she was ambivalent. She pinned down her reluctance to accept help and realized she preferred the battle between the marquess and herself to be an honest fight, just the two of them. How strange.

"Now tell me," asked the duchess. "Why are you smiling like that?"

"I really don't know, Your Grace," said Beth. "It is all so ridiculous, though. I never wanted any of this." She shook her head. "I think I had best go to bed and rest."

The duchess watched Elizabeth walk away and sighed. She had observed her son and his bride-to-be and was perplexed. At times they acted well and at others they ignored one another. Sometimes, if they had the opportunity to talk, they appeared to rub along together marvelously; she had been pleased to see her intelligent son using his brains instead of sinking to the inanities of most of his fashionable friends. At other times, however, they almost seemed to hate each other and now, it would appear, Elizabeth was afraid of him.

She thought of speaking to Lucien, but Marleigh informed her he was out with his friends. As usual. She went instead in search of the duke and found him in the library.

He stood courteously until she had taken a seat opposite him, but he watched her warily. The duchess realized she had never sought him out like this before, and following the thought, she had a revelation. Their whole life since Lucien's birth seemed now to have been distorted beyond reason. She forgot that she had come to talk of the marriage.

"Why?" she asked softly. "Why have we done this to ourselves?" She saw him almost flinch under the question. "William, why have we let such small mistakes ruin our lives?"

"Small?" he asked sharply. "Having an heir who is not my son is not a small matter to me."

She almost fled back behind the barriers of formality but steeled herself. "It happens, though. The whole world knows Melbourne's heir is Lord Egremont's, and there are other families in the same predicament. Do they all fall apart as we have done?"

He stood sharply. "We have not fallen apart. I have treated you with respect. I have treated Arden as my own son in every way."

"In every way?" she queried.

He turned back, and her heart caught at the feeling in his eyes. "I love him, Yolande. How many times have I longed for ignorance? He can infuriate me," he said with a slight smile, "but all offspring do that at times. At his best I could never wish for a finer son."

"Why then can you not forgive me?" she cried.

He came quickly over and fell to one knee by her chair. "Forgive you? I forgave you the moment you told me, Yolande. Have I reproached you?"

She felt quite strange. Was she really over fifty years old? She was flustered like a girl again. She reached out to touch his hair, first with her fingers, then with the whole of her hand as she caressed him. "No, my dear," she said softly, "you never reproached me. But you could not bear to touch me."

He captured her hand and pressed a burning kiss into her palm. "I have ached for you, Yolande, with a greater pain than I could ever have imagined. Sleepless nights. Dreams of you so real I would wake in horror, thinking I had been with you...."

"Horror?" she asked, clenching her hands on his.
"Horror?"

"You will hate me for this," he said softly, but he raised his head to meet her eyes. "If I had given you another son, Yolande, I believe I would have killed Arden."

Her grip relaxed, but she did not loose his hand. "William, you could never have done that."

He pulled away from her, rose, and went to stand across the room. "Perhaps not," he said in a hard voice, "but I would certainly have arranged his disappearance. The dukedom belongs to a de Vaux. Ironically, I think Lucien could understand that, even if you cannot."

The duchess could feel the smile on her face and the tears in her eyes. She rose lightly and went to him. She wrapped her arms around him. "Well, it is certainly not a matter which need bother us anymore, my love."

His arms had come around her with a life of their own, and he looked dazed. "Yolande? After what I said?"

"Perhaps you would have done as you say. We will never know now." She reached up gently to touch his cheek. "I, too, have ached," she said unsteadily. Her fingers traced softly over his lips. "You called him Lucien."

The duke captured her wandering fingers and imprisoned them in his own. "I what?"

"You have never ever called him Lucien. It has always been Arden, even when he was a baby. Thank God for Elizabeth." She was beyond subterfuge and the simplest of words escaped her. "Love me, William."

His eyes darkened. "Yolande. It's been so long."

Fires kept banked for over twenty years were burning in her. "Have you forgotten how?" she teased. "Don't worry. I remember."

"Oh God," he groaned. "So do I." With that his lips came down on hers, and it was as if the years between evaporated and they were still young. Her hands slipped under his jacket and felt the same fine lines of his back. Her tongue tasted the special, wonderful taste of him. Her body easily found the well-remembered contours and fitted itself to them.

His lips left hers and traced down her neck. To come against the ruffled collar of her gown. "Since when," he growled, "did you take to wearing high-necked gowns?"

"Since I was forty," she laughed, giddy with delight. "Allow me a moment with my maid and I can correct it."

His hand slid down over the front of her sensible dimity gown and took possession of her breast. "I can play maid," he said huskily. "My memory is recovering remarkably quickly. I remember undressing you many a time, my golden treasure."

He turned her quickly and began to unfasten all the little buttons down her back, tracing kisses after his fingers.

The duchess came to her senses.
"Here,
William? We cannot."

"Here. Now," he said roughly. His fingers stopped their work and he gripped her, pulling her against his body. "Am I dreaming, Yolande? I can't bear it if I'm dreaming."

She tilted her head back. "No, my love. You aren't dreaming unless I'm dreaming, too. And I make you a promise, if this is a dream, I'm coming to your bed as soon as I awake."

He buried his head in her curls and laughed. "No man deserves to be this happy." His hands traveled up and his fingers brushed softly over her breasts. She trembled at the power of a wave of giddy lust.

"William!" she gasped.

"Yes. But I must be growing old," he said as he continued the delicate torment. "Bed does sound like an attractive notion. As I remember, making love on the floor can be deuced uncomfortable."

Reluctantly, the duchess agreed though she didn't know if her legs could support her to the upper floor, and she did not want to part from him. She was terrified this moment would evaporate. But she pulled free of his hands and said, "It will take me only a few moments to be ready."

He pulled her back into his arms. "I go with you," he said. He traced her face with unsteady fingers then kissed her hungrily. Then pulled back.

"Thomas!" he shouted and a footman popped into the room. "Go tell my valet and the duchess's maid they will not be required."

"Yes, Your Grace," said the footman, but his eyes bulged at the sight of his disheveled master and mistress entwined together.

As the footman left on his errand, the duchess chuckled and hid her face in the duke's shoulder. "What will they think?"

"Who cares?" He placed his hands beneath her breasts and pushed their fullness up, then slowly and deliberately he lowered his lips first to one nipple then the other. As they swelled beneath the cloth he brought his teeth to bear gently so that the duchess moaned and clutched at him.

"I told you my memory was returning," he said with a grin "Let's to bed,
reine de mon coeur."

* * *

The marquess returned to Marlborough Square rather early. Tonight had been the farewell party for Con and Dare, but it had also turned into a farewell to his days of bachelor freedom.

It had been pleasant enough, but he'd begun to find the bawdy jokes of his friends tiresome and their advice inappropriate to his bedding of Elizabeth Armitage. He'd noticed Nicholas twice turn the conversation when it became too crude, which he wouldn't have bothered to do in other circumstances.

In the end, though, Lucien had slipped away and walked home to clear his head. It would not be a bad idea anyway to have all his wits about him tomorrow.

It had only occurred to him this evening that he'd never tried to bed a woman without the positive desire to do so. Sometimes it had been only a momentary lust; at other times, as with Blanche, it had been something much deeper, but the desire had always been strong.

Did he desire Elizabeth Armitage? Not particularly. He admired her spirit and her wit; when animated she became quite pretty, but she stirred no ardent feelings in him, apart from the times she'd roused his temper.

The one time he'd kissed her there'd been something, but he had ended it without regret, except the regret that he had forced on her a kiss she did not want. What if she resisted consummation? He doubted he could bring himself to force her.

Even if she was acquiescent there was no guarantee that he would feel desire. It was going to be damned embarrassing if he couldn't perform.

He entered the house. "Everyone abed, Thomas?" he inquired of the night footman.

"Yes, m'lord. The duke and duchess retired not long ago, m'lord."

The marquess went up the stairs feeling mildly surprised that the footman had volunteered that extra sentence. He then became aware it had been said in a strange voice. He looked back at the young man in his livery and powdered hair. The footman was sitting in the chair provided at night, upright and alert. Impersonal, as a good servant should be.

He was not to know that the young man was still stunned by the sight of those rarefied beings, the Duke and Duchess of Belcraven, making their way, disheveled and laughing, up the stairs, arms wrapped around each other. At their age, too.

The marquess thought of going to speak to his mother as she was presumably still awake. He felt strangely restless and in need of something. At the duchess's door, however, he heard faint voices and didn't knock.

The maid? No, a man's voice. The marquess did not particularly want to see the duke. As he turned away, however, he thought he heard a faint shriek. He turned quickly back, but the sound was followed by laughter.

He stood looking at the mahogany panels with perplexity. If he didn't know better, he'd think there was a private orgy going on in there.

His mother and whom, was the disturbing question. A strange thought that was all the fault of Elizabeth Armitage and her dubious, radical morals.

He went quickly to the duke's suite which was around the corner. A knock on the door brought no one, so he opened it. In the three rooms there was no sign of the duke. His bed was turned down, his nightshirt laid out, his washing water cooling and unused.

The marquess walked slowly back past his mother's rooms and unashamedly listened again. The sounds were faint but quite unmistakable. A smile broadened to a grin. Thank God he'd been wrong all these years. In some quite illogical way, he felt the evidence of his parents'—he hesitated a moment over the word in his mind and then let it lie—his parents' intimacy gave hope for his own marriage.

He was soon deep and dreamlessly asleep while elsewhere in the big house the duke and duchess scarcely slept the whole night long.

Beth felt like a doll the next day, her wedding day. She was moved and placed by others. As she was supposed not to see her bridegroom before the evening wedding, she was confined to her rooms. She felt some slight disgruntlement that he doubtless was free to go where he wished, but in fact the arrangement suited her well enough. She was in a fine state of nerves and was sure she would disgrace herself in public.

The duchess spent some time with her in the morning and seemed to be in quite extraordinary spirits, despite looking tired and even yawning once. Beth also received a flying visit from one of the marquess's sisters, Lady Graviston. The former Lady Maria was petite and very smart but not of an analytical nature. She appeared to accept her brother's choice of bride without question, said all the right things, then talked for twenty minutes about her three lively children. She then kissed Beth's cheek and announced she must be off if she were to look her best for the wedding.

The marquess' other sister, Lady Joanne Cuthbert-Harby had previously sent a polite note of regret as she was "expecting an interesting event" at any moment. It would be her fifth child. All this evidence of fecundity did little to soothe Beth's nerves.