Company Of Rogues: An Unwilling Bride Part 9

Beth gasped. "No men have handled me!"

He raised his brows. "And yet you stood so coolly as I did? Come now, Elizabeth, let's not stretch credulity too far. I'm willing to believe, with admiration, that you have controlled your swains so as to retain your maidenhead, but that you have never been handled in that manner before? No."

Tears were streaming out of her, and Beth could hardly see. She pressed a hand over her eyes as if to push the weak tears back. "Oh, let me be, my lord. I am sorry, truly sorry, to have said what I did..." She shook her head and swallowed. "And now I am punished."

She tried to push past him, but he grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. "You consider this punishment? You deserve a whipping!"

Beth pulled against his tight hands. "Let me go!"

Someone nearby cleared his throat.

Shocked, Beth and the marquess turned to see Jarvis, the head groom. He looked white and scared to death but he said, "Perhaps I could escort Miss Armitage back to the house, my lord."

The marquess sucked in a sharp breath and his hands tightened on Beth's shoulders so that she gave a choked cry.

"If you want your post, Jarvis, leave now," said the marquess in a voice of ice.

The man said nothing, but stood there.

Beth knew that in a moment the marquess would vent all his frustrated fury on the gallant man. He'd probably kill him. He was also well on the way to destroying the credibility of their betrothal. As it seemed they must go through with it, Beth wanted as little talk as possible. She just hoped she was as good an actress as he thought.

"My lord," she said softly. "Jarvis thinks you mean to hurt me. He doesn't know you would never do such a thing."

She dragged out a smile and raised a shaking hand to touch the marquess's cheek, hoping he would stop looking death at the servant. He turned to her, and she flinched at the flame of fury still burning in his eyes.

"Our lovers' quarrels," she said in a whisper, for it was all she seemed to be able to produce, "must seem real to him. Surely you do not blame him for wanting to protect me?"

Control smoothed the frown from his face and he too smiled, though his eyes still betrayed his feelings. "Of course not, my darling. I can only be pleased you have such champions."

He moved his hands to lay an arm at her waist and hold her close. Very close. Beth had to fight not to pull away from his body. "Don't be concerned, Jarvis," he said calmly. "Both Miss Armitage and I are merely suffering from prenuptial nerves."

The man, visibly relieved, touched his forelock and moved off. Beth let out a long shuddering breath.

"You keep your wits remarkably," said the marquess softly.

"Please let me go," said Beth, pulling away. But his arm was like iron. If anything, he pressed her closer, so that she could feel the hard shape of his chest, his hip, his thigh....

"Why?" he asked, grasping her chin and turning her face up toward him. "Don't you think an open demonstration of our fondness would be in order?"

"No!" Beth could imagine nothing worse than to be kissed with hate. She pulled harder. "Let me go!" It was hopeless.

"I have a bargain for you," he said with a smile she distrusted.

Beth stilled. "What is it?"

He ran a finger down her cheek. Beth flinched. His smile became even wider and colder. "I will refrain from forcing my unwelcome attentions on you, sweeting, and from throwing your disgusting exploits in your face, if you will act your part to the full."

"I am," Beth protested.

"I want you to dress properly, a.s.sume the appropriate manner for a future marchioness, and give all the appearance of being in love."

Beth shuddered. "You are asking for total submission."

He drew her even closer, turning slightly so that he pressed against her sensitive b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and smiled a conqueror's smile. "In return, you are free of my attentions except for polite public performances. That is what you want, isn't it, Elizabeth?"

Beth had absolutely no choice. She needed to escape from this situation before it once more ripped out of control. "I agree. Let go of me."

He released her at last. "So be it."

Beth moved quickly to leave the stables, to leave him. His hand fastened around her arm. Beth jerked around like a scalded cat. "Gently, my dear. Our pact begins here. Dry your eyes." He offered a handkerchief and Beth used it to wipe the tears. Dear Lord, what now?

Then he extended his arm and she laid her hand upon it. Sedately, a proper lord and his lady, they walked back to the house.

Jarvis watched them go. He'd thought he'd lost his place, perhaps his life, for a moment there, but he couldn't stand by and do nothing. He'd perched the marquess on his first pony and taught him nearly all he knew about horses. Arden was a good lad, but he'd always had the devil's own temper when crossed. Back in those days, Jarvis had held the duke's permission to cuff him if he were stupid. He remembered taking his riding crop to the marquess one day when the boy had worked out one of his rages on a horse.

The lad had then run to his father, and the duke had come out to inspect the poor mare. Then he'd ordered Jarvis to give the lad six more strokes there in the stable yard. There'd been no more trouble after that, and the marquess had not held a grudge. Pity there was no one to take a whip to him now, treating a pleasant lady like Miss Armitage so. Lovers' quarrel indeed. Funny kind of love.

There was talk in the servants' hall about those two, though no one could figure out what was going on. Some thought the marquess had given her one in the basket, so to speak, but there wasn't that much hurry about getting them wed. They certainly didn't act like lovebirds, though.

Miss Armitage was a very well-liked lady as far as the staff went-pleasant, ladylike, but with no airs and graces. But hardly the marquess's type. Hardly his type at all.

Jarvis shook his head as he went back to care for his horses. Nags had more sense than people any day.

Chapter 7.

When she separated from the taciturn marquess, Beth took refuge in the library.

He seemed to believe she was a virgin and yet it had not greatly helped matters. She had no idea what he thought she had done. A solid education including the unexpurgated cla.s.sics had left her, she thought, well informed about men and women and what they did together. The reality, however, was like thinking knowledge of a bathtub adequate preparation for a life at sea.

She had not wished to be kissed in hate. What would it be like if she had to share a marriage bed in that spirit?

Tears threatened again, and again she pressed them back ruthlessly. She would not degenerate into a watering pot. She wished desperately that she had someone in whom to confide, someone to turn to for advice. It could not be Miss Mallory, for she would simply tell her to return home and give up all notion of the marriage. And besides, Beth had to suppose that lady's worldly wisdom to be as flawed as her own.

The d.u.c.h.ess was the only married woman available to her, and she could not bring herself to lay the whole sordid mess before the marquess's mother.

Her only choice seemed to be to behave with such impeccable good breeding that the marquess would realize she could not be the kind of monster he imagined.

Who on earth were these men who were supposed to have handled her? With a choke of laughter Beth thought of her beaux, such as they had been.

Mr. Rutherford, the curate, who had blushed fiercely when forced one day to untangle her skirt from a rose bush; Mr. Grainger, the philosopher, who had once kissed her on the lips then apologized profusely for the presumption and fled; Dr. Carnarvon, who cared for the pupils at Miss Mallory's. The good doctor had hovered about her for a year before saying that he was quite unworthy of her because of his earthy desires. He had then married a sensible widow.

She tried to imagine any of those men treating her as the marquess had done-kissing her with an open mouth, touching her breast. That was not how a man touched a respectable woman. Perhaps she should write to the "men in her life" and ask for character references.

Then an ill.u.s.tration popped into her mind-a picture from one of Miss Mallory's more outre books, one of the ones kept locked from the pupils. It was of Venus and Mars. Venus was lying half-naked in the lap of Mars who had one of his hands on her naked breast.

Good G.o.d! Did the marquess think she had done that? With Mr. Rutherford? Beth leapt to her feet, her hands pressed to flaming cheeks. How could she ever face him again? Surely such things only occurred in pagan times!

It was at that moment that the d.u.c.h.ess walked in. "I knew I would find you here, my dear-" She halted, puzzled to see Beth standing in the middle of the room. "Is anything the matter, Elizabeth?"

Beth knew an outright denial would not be believed and so she said, "Just a little crise de nerfs, that's all, Your Grace."

"I hope it was nothing Lucien did," said the d.u.c.h.ess, coming closer. Beth knew she had just turned even redder. "He is fundamentally a good man, but he has enough of his father in him to be difficult at times."

Startled at this casual reference to the marquess's parentage, Beth could only say, "Oh."

The d.u.c.h.ess smiled her sweet smile which always had a dimming overlay of sadness. "It needn't be a forbidden subject between us. St. Briac was dashing but totally unreliable. He was a mess of fiery emotions, a constant explosion of impulses. I could have married him, you know. He had property, and though a poor prospect for one such as I, was not totally ineligible. He asked for my hand, but I would not marry him. He was too... explosive."

So that was where the marquess got his temper. "And yet I am to marry his son," said Beth.

"Lucien is not very like him, I a.s.sure you, Elizabeth. He is a lot like me and I, as you can see, am a very practical woman. He also has modeled himself a great deal on the duke, who is everything that St. Briac was not."

Beth had suspected there was a deep love between the duke and d.u.c.h.ess, hidden somehow by the formality of their lives. She saw it clearly now as the d.u.c.h.ess spoke admiringly of her husband. But why then did they live as they did? She tried to imagine the duke and d.u.c.h.ess.... Hastily she controlled her mind.

The d.u.c.h.ess said again, "But as Lucien has that touch of wildness and a temper, I wondered if he had upset you."

"It is only my situation, Your Grace, which disturbs me. It would be the same with any man." Even as she said it, Beth knew that was not true. The marquess had a particular genius for setting her on edge.

The d.u.c.h.ess, the practical woman, shrugged. "C'est la vie. And I am afraid I must disturb you more. There will be callers and there is the ball to consider. I am afraid, my dear, if you do not wish to be a quiz, you are going to have to allow us to procure you new clothes. Lucien said you would agree to this."

Beth looked down at her simple yellow round gown. She had thought such gowns ubiquitous and unremarkable.

"Yes, I know," said the d.u.c.h.ess with a deprecating smile, "But it looks homemade, my dear. We are not going to try to pretend to anyone that you bring a fortune, but they are bound to wonder why we don't dress you."

"Very well," sighed Beth. She had, after all, given her word to the marquess. "But I must have some say in my clothes."

"But of course," said the d.u.c.h.ess happily. "Now come along."

Beth had already discovered that the d.u.c.h.ess could move with great speed, and she was almost running as she kept up with the older woman on the way to her rooms. A footman was sent to find the head seamstress.

"Mrs. Butler is well able to make a stylish plain gown and will take your measurements. We will send a muslin toile to London and have a ball gown made for you. In fact," she said with a shrewd glance at Beth, "I think I will send Lucien. It will get him out of the way and give him some light relief. He can execute a number of necessary commissions far better than a servant. We must look at the periodicals."

Another footman was sent off to bring these from the d.u.c.h.ess's suite.

"We must do something about jewels, too," said the d.u.c.h.ess. "Lucien will buy you some, but there are pieces among the family jewels which you should have." Another footman went hurrying on his way.

In Beth's room they went straight into the dressing room.

"You had best slip out of your gown, my dear," the d.u.c.h.ess said briskly. Beth did as she was told and put on her wrap.

"Underclothes," said the d.u.c.h.ess, as if making a mental list. "Silk nightdresses." Beth felt her cheeks heat up again. "Do you wish us to buy you a full wardrobe now or would you rather purchase it for yourself when you are married?"

"Does it make any difference?" asked Beth, feeling like someone who has moved one small stone and caused a landslide.

"It depends on where you are to honeymoon and how soon you intend to take up fashionable life."

"I don't know."

"Ask Lucien," said the d.u.c.h.ess. Beth was not sure if it was an instruction or another mental note.

By then the summonses were having effect. A tall gaunt woman, followed by a little maid carrying a basket and a selection of swatches, proved to be the seamstress. She swiftly took measurements of all parts of Beth's body as the d.u.c.h.ess chattered on about types of gowns.

"Round gowns," she said. "Of the simplest lines, I think. You agree, Elizabeth?" Before Beth had time to respond, she went on. "Muslin. Let me see. This cream jaconet is lovely, isn't it? Or this figured lawn...."

Beth gave up and allowed the d.u.c.h.ess to choose three gowns to be made quickly-one of figured lawn, one of jaconet muslin sprigged with green, and one of plain cambric. She also gave orders for the beginning of a trousseau of personal garments, all to be monogrammed.

The dressmaker left, and Beth resumed her maligned homemade gown. She was immediately drawn over to look through the fashion magazines with the d.u.c.h.ess. She was prepared to protest if she thought the choices unsuitable, but otherwise she was resigned to letting the d.u.c.h.ess make them. What did she know of such silly matters?

In a moment, it seemed, six grand, and surely expensive, outfits had been selected to be ordered from London. "And a habit," said the d.u.c.h.ess firmly. "And boots."

Next, the beleaguered Beth had a small fortune of jewelry spread casually on the table before her-silver, gold, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, pearls. She could not help her fingers going out to touch a beautiful diamond bracelet that shot fire in the light of the sun, and a string of softly glowing pearls. She pulled her hand back. Truly she was being seduced, and not with kisses. She resolutely refused to accept anything except the string of pearls, traditional ornament of a gently bred young woman, a set of amber baubles which did not look expensive, and, under pressure, some diamonds. She chose a delicate parure as being the least overwhelming.

"It is very pretty," said the d.u.c.h.ess doubtfully, fingering the diamonds, "but the stones are small. Will you not take this one?" she asked, opening a case to show a magnificent set in which huge diamonds flashed blades of rainbow colors.

Beth shrank away. What had Beth Armitage to do with a thing like that? "No, Your Grace. Truly. I much prefer the other."

"As you wish, my dear," the d.u.c.h.ess said with her typical Gallic shrug.

Beth could not imagine the hours which must have been worked in the Belcraven sewing rooms, but one of her new gowns, the green sprig, was ready the next day when the first callers came. It was a very simple gown, gathered with drawstrings at the waist and only ornamented by a green silk sash, and yet it was much superior to her own creations. The d.u.c.h.ess inspected her and was pleased. She tried to prevent Beth from wearing one of her caps but failed. In some way the caps had become a symbol for Beth and she would not give them up.

The guests proved to be close neighbors, a Lady Frogmorton and her daughters, Lucy and Diane. They were accompanied by a friend, Miss Phoebe Swinnamer, a young lady of quite remarkable beauty. Of which, thought Beth, she was far too aware. Still, she had to admit that it would be hard for the possessor to ignore a perfect oval face, translucent skin, big blue eyes, and thick, glossy, mahogany, waving hair.

There was something disturbing about the young lady, however-about the way she looked at Beth and the marquess, and the way her friends looked at her. It didn't take genius to see that Miss Swinnamer wished to be in Beth's position. It was clear that Lucy Frogmorton also was envious. Beth then supposed that most of the young ladies in England shared that feeling.

For the first time she thought how ludicrous it was that fate had delivered this supposed honor to one of the few sane women who did not want it.

Beth was still puzzling over Phoebe Swinnamer when the young lady managed to s.n.a.t.c.h a seat beside her. Beth realized that the d.u.c.h.ess had been delicately attempting to prevent just such an occurrence.

"Do you live in Berkshire, Miss Swinnamer?" Beth asked politely. After years of teaching, jealous young minxes did not frighten her.

"Oh no," said Phoebe with a slight smile which did not reach her eyes. "My home is in Suss.e.x, but we spend a great deal of time in London."

"Then you must enjoy it. I have rarely visited the capital."

"It is my duty," said Phoebe. "I am my parents' heiress. I must make a good match."

Beth smiled. "I am sure with your beauty and fortune, the choice must be entirely yours, Miss Swinnamer."

There was the slightest stiffening of Phoebe's beautiful features, though it was clear she never let the stronger emotions disturb them. "It is kind of you to say so, Miss Armitage." She looked around. "Belcraven is very beautiful, is it not? I spent the Christmas here."