Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (34 page)

The duke and duchess welcomed them back to Belcraven House. Beth thought she detected concerned scrutiny, particularly from the duchess, but Lucien's parents were both too courteous to be blatant about it, and there was enough natural ease between herself and Lucien to reassure.

Once in her bedchamber, Beth considered the unlocked doors between her and her husband. Only her dressing room lay between their bedchambers. Not a great distance and yet seeming very far. It should not be so terribly hard to just walk through those doors tonight and say, "Make love to me, Lucien."

It was quite beyond her. She must look for a more subtle approach than that. What a shame there weren't books of instruction on seduction.

A knock on her dressing room door made her start. At her nod Redcliff went to open it. Beth's heart was pounding even as she acknowledged that it was highly unlikely that he be coming to seduce her in the middle of the afternoon.

He had changed from his dusty riding clothes into formal Town wear—pantaloons, Hessians, dark jacket, and, for the first time in ten days, a high cravat. "Imprisoned again," he remarked when her eyes noted it. "I don't know why women complain about the dictates of fashion. At least no one expects you to strangle yourself and wear all this lot on a hot day."

"How true. But no one expects you to go around in a thin layer of silk in the middle of January."

"We should turn eccentric and develop a new style of rational dress. I wonder what it should be."

Beth considered this. "I see no reason why men should not have summer-wear made out of fine cotton with a low, open neck as ladies have. Already the loose Cossack trousers are becoming fashionable, and they look very comfortable."

"Look dashed silly if you ask me. But the ladies could have their winter ball gowns made of wool and velvet and incorporating a cape and hood, ready for the draughtiest situation."

"I shall design one today. But perhaps," she suggested naughtily, "it would be simpler if women took to trousers for the winter and men to skirts for the summer."

He burst out laughing. "It would look extremely odd at Almack's."

Beth raised her brows. "I can't interest you, milord, in a charming toga-like garment in figured muslin, perhaps with your armorial bearings embroidered around the hem?"

"In the hottest days of summer you could probably interest me in it very much, but it would never wash. How would we ride?"

"The Romans managed, as did the men of the early Middle Ages. Your noble de Vaux forbearers who came over at the conquest were undoubtedly wearing skirts. And look at the Scots who have retained the tradition."

He threw up one hand. "Enough. I surrender. In fact, I'm going to retreat while I'm still able. Do you have everything here to your satisfaction?"

"Yes, of course. You're going out?"

"Just for a little while." He sobered. "According to the duke a meeting between Napoleon and the allies is expected any day. May even be going on now, though we have no news. I want to see what's being said."

Beth felt a chill at the thought that even now, at this apparently peaceful moment, the fate of Europe might be in the balance. Somewhere in Belgium cannons could be roaring and men falling dead. Perhaps men they knew.

"Yes, please go and see what you can discover."

He dropped a kiss on her cheek then was gone.

Beth thought of vibrant Viscount Amleigh and lighthearted Darius Debenham and said a prayer for their safety, for the safety of all. What nonsense that was. How could there be safety in war? Despite the prayers said in the churches every Sunday, she didn't see how God could have any part to play in war.

How strange that even if the battle raged now they would not hear word of it for days, and it would be even longer before there was definite information about casualties.

There was nothing to do but address herself to her own life.

She supposed wistfully that Lucien would soon meet up with friends and acquaintances. She had none of the former and very few of the latter. As soon as the notice of their return to Town appeared she would have callers, but they would only be curious strangers, and she was tired of that artificial way of life.

She remembered Eleanor Delaney. She had liked the look of the woman and been drawn, in the most respectable way, to her husband. She wondered if they were still in Town, for she had been invited to visit them. As they were his friends, perhaps Lucien would take her there.

Beth found, however, that she would be hard pressed to find the time for informal visits. The duchess invited herself to take tea in Beth's boudoir and soon asked whether Beth felt able to undertake a full social life again. When Beth reluctantly said she was, the duchess outlined an overwhelming schedule.

"There is so little time left," she explained with an apologetic smile, "and we must establish you. After all, if you are enceinte you will be out of circulation for quite some time."

Beth felt her color flare at the impossibility of this, but the duchess interpreted it as becoming modesty. "It is not impossible," said cheerfully, "and you must be presented while you still have a trim waist. Have you seen the gown?"

"No, ma'am," Beth said numbly.

"We did speak of it," the duchess said, "but trying to talk to a bride just before her wedding." She threw up her hands in a typically Gallic gesture. "We agreed to have Joanna's court dress remodeled for you, remember? It is all ridiculous anyway, for one never has any occasion to wear the things again. Come, we have put it in the next room out of the way."

Redcliff opened the doors as they passed through Beth's boudoir and into an adjoining unused bedroom. A small mountain stood there swathed in mull muslin. Redcliff whipped off the covering to reveal the most fanciful, beautiful, ridiculous gown Beth had ever seen.

The bodice was fitted to a high waist, but the skirt spread over hoops in the old style for feet all around. The fabric was a delicate figured blue silk overlayed with festooned blond and embroidered with sprays of seed pearls.

"And Lucien and I were taking about rational dress," Beth said faintly.

"Were you?" the duchess asked in surprise. "There is nothing rational in the business of court, my dear. Lucien hates going there."

"Why?" Beth asked.

"Wigs."

"Wigs?"

"Everything is in the old style. The gentlemen have to wear powder, and as few of them have the hair for a queue anymore, that means wigs." The duchess gestured for Redcliff to cover the gown. "You will have to rehearse with it on."

"But why must I be presented?" Beth asked. "I am hardly a young girl making her curtsy and I have no interest in such matters."

"That has nothing to do with it, Elizabeth," said the duchess sternly. "At any major change in our lives the sovereign must be informed. It is not for nothing that Lucien and Belcraven are formally addressed by the sovereign as 'Our right trusty and entirely beloved cousin.'"

Despite her egalitarian principles, Beth was overwhelmed by the notion that the monarch was assumed to be interested in her affairs. She was also honest enough to admit that being presented at the Queen's drawing room would be exciting, but it would also be terrifying. "I haven't the slightest idea of what to do," she said.

"Oh it is simple enough," said the duchess casually as they returned to Beth's boudoir. "A formal curtsy—and you are very adept at the court curtsy—a few words if you are favored.. She was already considering other matters and looking at the pile of invitations she had brought with her. "We will go to Almack's and Lady Bessington's ball," she said as she sifted through the stack. "Some of these are for you in the expectation of your return." She passed them over. "You may recognize some acquaintances I do not."

"I doubt it," said Beth, but she looked. "No, there is no one who is of significance. I did hope to meet a friend or two from Miss Mallory's, but that has not been the case. I will go to the events you select."

"If you could give me the names of any friends, Elizabeth, I could have enquiries made. They may not be moving in our circle and yet be quite acceptable."

Beth gave the duchess the names of five girls, women now, but without much hope. Two she knew to have married military men and were unlikely to be in London. Of the other three, only one, Isabel Creighton, had married a title and Beth had not heard from her in years.

The duchess then decreed that Beth should have some time to herself before dinner. For the evening, a visit was planned to the Drury Lane Theater.

The duchess wanted Beth to lie down and rest, but she chose instead to sit in her private boudoir and continue her reading of
Self-Control.
She had, after all, promised Aunt Emma a critical evaluation, and she was so out of patience with the book she wanted to be rid of it.

The sentiments expressed there were impossible to reconcile with the reality of her situation. Once, from a state of ignorance, she would have found Laura's search for a man of unblemished perfection quite understandable. Now she doubted such a paragon could exist, and if he did she suspected he would turn out to be hard to live with. It would be such an effort to live up to his standards. Moreover, having taken the first tentative steps into the world of passion, Beth distrusted this "controlled" assessment of candidates for matrimony.

Beth was guiltily aware that Mary Wollstonecraft had thought passion a poor basis for marriage, but surely there had to be something in it of the heart as well as the head.

Beth considered the intimate details of Mary Wollstonecraft's life, which had always been tactfully glossed over by Aunt Emma. Mary Wollstonecraft had, after all, lived for many years with her lover, Gilbert Imlay, and borne him a child. She had tried to commit suicide when the relationship began to fail. Not much of self-control there.

Laura, Beth thought sourly, would doubtless have been delighted to be described as, "A perfect woman, nobly plann'd / To warn, to comfort, and command." Beth had considered that quotation again and again and was beginning to wonder if it hadn't been a subtle insult, or at least a complaint. Lucien doubtless wanted a paragon for wife as little as she wanted one for husband.

She was doggedly reading, disliking Laura more and more with every page, when Marleigh announced a visitor. "A young lady, your ladyship, unaccompanied but respectable. Miss Clarissa Greystone."

"Clarissa!" said Beth, delighted. "How wonderful. Please bring her up." Clarissa could not really be said to be a friend, having been a pupil and six years Beth's junior, but she was a serious-minded young woman and pleasant company, better than Laura Montreville.

When she came in, however, there was something brittle and forced in the girl's manner. She was dressed in an expensive cambric gown with a fashionable bonnet on her head, all evidence that the family finances must have improved, but she did not look happy.

"Clarissa," said Beth. "How nice to see you. So you have your Season after all."

"Yes," said Clarissa in a quiet voice.

Beth ordered a tea tray and seated her guest.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" she asked.

Clarissa waited until the door closed behind Marleigh and then fell to her knees by Beth's chair. "No! Oh dear Miss Armitage—I mean, your ladyship. Oh please help me!"

Beth pulled the girl to her feet. "Whatever is the matter Clarissa?"

"I... I am being forced to marry."

Beth pushed the girl onto a lounge and sat beside her. "Marriage is the lot of most women, my dear," she said reasonably. "You see that even I have come to it."

"But you have married the Marquess of Arden," wailed Clarissa, "and I am to marry Lord Deveril!"

"Deveril!" exclaimed Beth in horror.

Clarissa sunk her head in her hands. "I see you know him. Miss—Your ladyship, I cannot! Not to save us all from the Fleet I cannot!" She suddenly fumbled in her reticule and pulled out a sheet of paper. "He gave me this."

Beth unfolded it to read the heavy black script. It was a list of rules for Deveril's wife, stressing total compliance and spelling out the punishments for transgression, mostly physical. It sounded like the rules for the sternest house of correction.

Beth was stunned. "I quite see how you feel... I hear Marleigh. Try to compose yourself, my dear."

The entrance of the butler, followed by a maid with a cake stand, gave Beth time to collect her wits. What a pickle. But she would never abandon this child. She had suffered the distress of a forced marriage but, she admitted, to a man who had much to recommend him. To be forced to wed such as Lord Deveril!

It roused personal feelings. On the one hand, she was grateful that her fate had been kinder. On the other she recognized that the duke would still have forced the match if his son had been an imbecile or another Deveril.

She poured some tea and sweetened it heavily. "Come, Clarissa, drink this and we will talk."

The girl sipped the drink and then put it down, choosing instead to wring her hands. "My parents have no trace of mercy. I have begged them! But my father.... He gambles. We have nothing left and there are my two brothers.... My mother says it is a daughter's duty."

"It is no daughter's duty to marry Lord Deveril," said Beth firmly. "If you must marry, surely a better match can be found."