The Stolen Bride (5 page)

“The rigors of the journey?” queried Beth drily.

Jane was immediately contrite. “How thoughtless of me. Of course you will have a tray here.”

“Oh no,” said Beth with a laugh. “If I’m to ape the aristocracy I may as well start now. You know I am not easily tired, Jane, and yes, I did bring not one but two presentable gowns.”

Jane kissed her friend. “Wonderful. Now all I have to do is make a match for you. Randal’s father is a duke, though elderly and rather frail....”

“Jane,” warned Beth in her best schoolroom tone.

“Or Mortimer, perhaps,” mused Jane mischievously. “Oh no, I forgot. He doesn’t believe in marriage.”

“A parson who doesn’t believe in marriage?”

“For himself. He believes in a celibate priesthood.”

“Goodness!”

“I have it,” said Jane as she opened the door. She smiled naughtily as she looked back. “Sir Marius is just the man for you.”

Before Beth could voice the objection on her lips, Jane was gone. Beth knew she had turned pink. What was it about the dratted man? The notion was ridiculous on every count. Apart from inequality of rank and fortune, they would be a laughingstock when her head hardly reached the middle of his chest.

Still, for some quite ridiculous reason, the memory of being swung to the ground as if she were a tiny child returned and brought a disturbing sensation. Sternly, Beth disciplined herself. Jane had been teasing and Beth wasn’t at Stenby in search of a husband. She would enjoy a little interlude among High Society and then return contentedly to her brother’s home and her role of favorite aunt.

T
HE PARTY which met in the drawing room before dinner that night consisted of all who had been at the cricket match as well as Sir Marius, Beth, and the Marquess of Chelmly. The marquess bore a distinct familial resemblance to Lord Randal, Beth noted, but lacked his beauty. He was both more solid and softer and his coloring was muted as if a layer of dust covered his brother’s brilliance, turning golden curls to ashen and bright blue eyes to gray.

The drawing room was paneled in richly carved birch and contained a magnificent modern marble fireplace. It could have been a room in any grand house. The dining room, however, was another matter. Beth was fascinated to see that the walls were still unadorned stone, many feet thick. The stone fireplace looked large enough to roast an ox in and the two doors were solid oak hinged with heavy black metal. Beth looked forward to exploring more of this wonderful old building.

First, however, she had to survive eating amongst the high and mighty. She was pleased to note that her gown was adequate for the occasion. In the county dress was moderate. The pale green silk Beth had made up with the help of her sister-in-law held its own, especially as they had employed an embroideress to decorate the neckline and hem. She had even been given a maid who had managed a charming arrangement of her ginger curls. Beth was feeling very grand.

And, despite the presence of a duke and duchess, the gathering was not formal. The fourteen people who sat down at the long table were all friends or relatives and the talk was general.

Beth’s self-assurance took a knock, however, when she found herself seated between Sir Marius and the devilishly handsome Mr. Verderan. With his lean tanned face and short, crisp, dark curls the latter needed only the horns, thought Beth, to make devilish exactly the right word. Even she had heard of Verderan’s wicked ways and she had no desire to become acquainted. As for Sir Marius, who knows what the man would take it into his mind to say next?

She would have to have words with Jane about this sort of thing and demand more suitable companions. The Reverend Mortimer Kyle would have been an unalarming partner, for example, for he was a quiet, studious gentleman. Or even his brother, Captain Frederick Kyle. He was a high-spirited young man making the most of a brief furlough from the Peninsula but Beth felt able to handle that type.

She wouldn’t have minded, even, being set between the Duke of Tyne and his heir, the Marquess of Chelmly. Despite their high rank the former was obviously just a man in poor health, and the latter was a quiet, sober gentleman. When introduced before dinner Beth had received the impression that he was in some ways a limited man lacking a quick intellect and a sense of humor, but both kind and conscientious.

For this meal, at least, she was fixed between a rake and a teasing colossus and she had to talk to one of them. To her surprise she found she would rather address the rake. What to say, though? An infallible way to open a conversation was to ask the gentleman about himself, but she doubted there was much about Mr. Verderan she cared to know. She took a long drink from the claret in her glass and turned to him.

“You are an old friend of Lord Randal’s, I believe, Mr. Verderan.”

She didn’t know what she had been expecting but the rake turned to her with a polite smile. “Yes, Mrs. Hawley. We were at Eton together. And Christ Church.”

She was struck by the fact that though the two men were presumably the same age, Lord Randal’s looks still had something of boyish smoothness about them while Mr. Verderan’s were thoroughly matured. The price of dissipation? She forced herself to stop thinking in such an intimate way. His features were no business of hers. “School friendships are often the longest lasting,” she commented.

“Please, Mrs. Hawley,” he drawled with a quite charming smile. “Spare me a dissertation on the innocence of youth.”

Beth felt a little flutter inside and reminded herself that a gazetted rake must have some attractive features. She commanded herself to be wary but her nerves made her retort tartly, “I can’t say
innocence
was the word which sprang to mind.”

As soon as the words were out she looked at him in alarm, wondering if she would get a set-down but he was laughing. “Don’t worry, dear lady. I am delightfully happy being wicked, you see, so I’m not likely to bite when it’s spoken of.”

Sophie addressed them across the table. “I don’t think you truly can be wicked then, Verderan. Mortimer is always preaching that wickedness is certain to lead to misery. What is it, Mortimer? ‘There’s no peace for the wicked’?”

Her brother, seated on the far side of Verderan, was obviously uncomfortable with calling across the table but replied, “‘There is no peace, saith the Lord, unto the wicked,’ Isaiah 48:22. Mind your manners, Sophie.”

“Who on earth would want peace?” asked Verderan of no one in particular.

Sophie wrinkled her nose at her brother. “At least I attend to your sermons now and then, Tim.”

“If you took them to heart, I’d be more gratified,” he retorted.

Sophie was about to respond to this sibling taunt, but Randal turned her head and laid a finger on her lips to hush her. “Behave yourself,” he said with a smile.

“Behave yourself, behave yourself!” Sophie hissed. “That’s all you ever say to me these days.”

Silence fell and the whole table turned to listen.

Randal looked at his betrothed, unperturbed. “Do you know that the hippopotamus bleeds itself?” he said.

“What?” Sophie gaped.

“If it has overindulged on grass,” said Randal, lounging back in his chair, “or fish, or whatever a hippopotamus eats, it pierces itself with a sharp reed. When it has bled enough, it patches itself with mud. Read it somewhere. May I help you to more carrots, Sophie?”

“You’re mad,” said Sophie, rather flushed. “What has all that to do with anything?”

“I said something to you other than ‘behave yourself,’” he pointed out with a teasing smile. He kissed a finger and brushed it lightly over her lips.

“Randal, behave yourself,” said the duchess firmly, causing a general laugh as everyone picked up their conversations.

Beth however viewed the lovers with concern. She understood Jane’s uneasiness. Something was certainly not right in that quarter and though it was easy enough to put it down to prenuptial nerves, she felt uneasy. She took another long drink from her wineglass.

Sir Marius spoke softly to her. “Now, Mrs. Hawley, if you trace that conversation back, I think you will find it was all your fault.”

She turned to glare at him. “No such thing, Sir Marius, and I do not see why you cannot attempt to be polite to me.”

“But I can’t be bothered to be polite any more than Verderan can be bothered to be virtuous.”

Mr. Verderan emitted an audible sigh. “It is clear you haven’t been here for the past fortnight, Fletcher. I have been applying myself to virtue most assiduously. I swear the last really wicked thing I did was before I came north.”

To her horror, Beth only just stopped herself asking what that had been. She began to think she was unsuited to this kind of company. She took another fortifying drink of claret then, as a slight dizziness washed over her, began to wonder if that was a wise thing to do.

“Don’t pay attention to Ver, Mrs. Hawley,” called Lord Randal. “He’s no more wicked than Marius is rude.”

Beth was skeptical. She was willing to admit that Sir Marius’s manners were within the range of tolerable. That was not the impression she had of Verderan’s morals.

When she glanced at the rake his deep blue eyes flashed with humor. “You are quite correct, Mrs. Hawley. Randal is trying to whitewash me. Since he has taken to the paths of sanctity, he don’t much care to be acquainted with anyone as wicked as I. I, however, am moved as the prayer book bids us, to acknowledge and confess my manifold sins and wickedness.”

“Please don’t,” said Beth firmly and he laughed.

Those blue eyes were fringed with outrageous lashes, and warm with endearing humor ... Good heavens, thought Beth with alarm, this was surely exactly the sort of man she had been taught all her life to flee from and yet she was fascinated.

She found herself consumed with curiosity to know precisely what he did that was so wicked. He didn’t look like a bully, and he appeared too healthy to be totally given over to debauchery. She had once met an opium eater and the poor man appeared merely pathetic. Was it just women? But many men had mistresses and were not shunned....

She was not aware she had been staring until he said, a little sharply, humor gone, “Do I perhaps have a smut on the end of my nose, Mrs. Hawley?”

Beth knew she had turned fiery red. It dawned on her that she was a little inebriated. It was the only way to account for her behavior. She just hoped she could survive the meal without everyone becoming aware of her disgrace. “I do beg your pardon, Mr. Verderan. My mind was wandering.”

“I generally find that when a person is looking at something or someone, the individual’s wandering mind is traveling that road, Mrs. Hawley.”

She really couldn’t tell if he was seriously annoyed or not, but now he truly made her nervous. There was something about him, beneath the superficially correct manners ... Then she recognized it. This man was dangerous. She didn’t think she had ever met a dangerous man before. He acknowledged no rules. If it suited him he was capable of anything. Regardless of what he did, it was that unpredictability and people’s knowledge of it, which gave him his reputation.

He immediately illustrated her revelation. She had been staring again and he took her chin and turned her head sharply away, not particularly gently. Silence spread around the table and Beth wanted to crawl under the tablecloth. His action had been intolerably rude but so had hers. And all because of
drink
.

“I do beg your pardon, Mr. Verderan,” she said quickly. “I know how distressing it is to be stared at.”

People looked away and conversation resumed.

“Behave yourself, Verderan,” said Sir Marius quietly and it wasn’t a joke.

“I always do what I damned well please, Fletcher,” said Verderan without heat. “Short of shooting me, there’s no way to stop me.”

“That can be arranged,” said the baronet laconically.

Beth dared to raise her eyes from her plate and saw a light flicker in the younger man’s eyes like a flame. “That couldn’t possibly be a challenge, could it, my dear man? I’ve been suffering from the most terrible ennui.”

Beth’s rare temper flared and burned free in alcoholic liberation. “No, it could not!” she said fierce and low before Sir Marius could respond. “I don’t care how wicked you are, you stupid boy. If you ever dare to embroil me in any kind of imbroglio, I will shoot you myself!”

She had spoken louder than she intended. Silence fell again but Beth didn’t care. She meant it.

Verderan’s lips twitched, then he laughed out loud. He picked up his glass and turned to the end of the table where Jane sat watching in horror. “My dear Lady Wraybourne, my congratulations. I thought you’d brought the lady here to act as Sophie’s chaperone, but I see now she’s supposed to keep me in order. I concede. My behavior will be pattern-card perfect from now on.”

When the ladies finally retired to the Crimson Chamber, Sophie came straight over to Beth. “Well, Mrs. Hawley, aren’t you the dark horse! Fancy bearding Verderan.”