Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (29 page)

The duke visited her. He, too, seemed to be in marvelous spirits but then he was seeing the fruition of his plans. He brought with him the marquess' bride gift, a splendid diamond parure, far grander than the one she had rejected. It included a tiara with diamond drops which swayed and twinkled in the light. Beth tried to balk at the tiara but was soon persuaded it was appropriate to her position. She found, faced with the awareness of the night to come, she had no heart for minor battles.

Even Miss Mallory, when she arrived, was little comfort. There was such a vast gulf between them now, made greater by deception, that Beth found her time with the lady more trial than support.

"I have to confess," said Miss Mallory, as she sipped her tea, "that it is delightful to travel in such comfort. So kind of the duke to send a carriage just for me. And this house is very beautiful."

"You must come to visit Belcraven Park sometime, Aunt Emma," said Beth, not without a touch of dryness.

Miss Mallory did not seem to notice. "I have heard it is famous. You look very fine, Beth." She showed her principles had not been totally undermined by wealth, however. "Are you happy, Beth? There is still time to change your mind if you have doubts."

Doubts, thought Beth. Doubts was a mild word for it. For her aunt's sake, however, she smiled and lied. "Very happy. The marquess and I get along remarkably."

"Well, I am relieved. Though I could understand the duke's predicament, I did not like his solution, and I was very surprised you so quickly agreed. I was afraid you had been swayed by worldly considerations, and perhaps," she added in a whisper, though they were quite alone,
"lust."

Beth could feel herself go red. "Certainly not!"

"Of course, of course," said Miss Mallory, quite pink herself. "You saw in the marquess the finer feelings. You are wiser than I. How unfair it is that when we see a handsome man or a beautiful woman, we are inclined to think them shallow or thoughtless."

Beth could not face more discussion of her marriage. "How is the school? I do miss it," she said, then added quickly, "even though I am so happy here."

"And everyone misses you, my dear. I have had such a time finding a replacement. The applicants are either quite silly or too harsh. I believe I have one now who will do, however. Little else has changed, except that Clarissa Greystone has left at last."

"Really? How came that about?"

"Her family's fortunes took a turn for the better. She should be here in London now, making her curtsy. After all the fuss she made, the silly girl seemed quite tearful to be leaving us." The lady rose to her feet. "Well, I suppose I must find the way to my room and prepare for all this grandeur. I could hardly believe it when the duchess said the Regent is to give you away!"

"Is it not incredible?" agreed Beth, though in truth, she had long since grown numb to surprises, and would probably not even blink if a dragon were to invade the room and gobble up Miss Mallory whole.

The older lady's eyes twinkled. "I tell myself it gives me a family connection to royalty. I hope to heavens the duke's arrangements for your fictitious background hold up though, Beth, or there will be a dreadful scandal now royalty is involved."

"Arrangements?" queried Beth.

"Did you not know?" said the woman. "I suppose they thought you had enough on your plate."

She sat down again and leaned close. "You could not be admitted to be Mary Armitage's daughter, Beth, because she had five other children and a wide family, none of whom has ever heard of you. A check of your birth date would show you to be illegitimate. Fortunately, Denis Armitage—Mary's husband—had a scapegrace brother who wandered all over the place, living on his wits. An utterly hopeless case. This Arthur Armitage married a curate's daughter in Lincolnshire and then deserted her. The duke has apparently had all the records fixed so that the wife—what was her name? Marianna—gave birth to a baby. Mary, so the story goes, placed her niece in my care and paid for your raising."

"And what happened to my 'parents'?" queried Beth, not altogether pleased at this new genesis.

"Marianna Armitage died of fever when you were less than two. Arthur fell into the Wash when drunk and drowned. About ten years ago, I believe. It should all hold up."

"Do you know, Aunt Emma," said Beth quietly, "I wonder if I will ever become accustomed to making life fit my wishes, as they do."

"They?"

"We," Beth corrected, forcing a smile. "The rich. The highest levels of Society. Go and pretty yourself up, Aunt Emma. The Prince will doubtless want to shake your hand."

Miss Mallory took alarm at this and hurried away.

Beth sat quietly contemplating a tasteful arrangement of delphiniums. What she had long suspected was true. There was only one person in the world she could meet with on terms of equality and honesty these days. The marquess.

It should be an excellent basis for marriage, but in fact she felt dreadfully alone.

In time, like a child, Beth was bathed, dried, and perfumed. Her hair was trimmed and arranged so as to display the tiara to the greatest advantage. She was then dressed in white satin, with an overdress of Valenciennes gathered into scallops all around the hem and flowing into a train at the back. She was festooned with the diamonds around her neck and her wrists, a brooch between her breasts, and drops trembling like tears from her earlobes. The beautiful tiara held a filmy veil on her curls.

When she looked at herself she found the usual magic had worked. Like all brides, she was beautiful. She even looked worthy of the heir to a dukedom. She wished she felt anything like she looked.

She was escorted downstairs by the duchess and a cluster of bridesmaids of good family—young women she scarcely knew at all. She made her curtsy to the Regent and received his fulsome compliments with admirable calm.

To orchestral music she walked into the crowded ballroom beside the gargantuan figure. She felt scarcely a twinge of nerves. Dread of the coming night numbed her to all other problems.

Because of the Regent all the guests paid homage as they passed, a dizzying, jewel-encrusted wave rippling the length of the room toward the marquess. And he looked far too magnificent for Beth Armitage to handle.

His wedding attire was almost as fine as hers. His knee breeches were of white satin and his jacket of cream-gold brocade. His buttons were diamonds set in gold, and a magnificent blue diamond shot fire from among the folds of his cravat. But he was perhaps more brilliant than his adornment. His hair was spun gold in the thousand candles, and his eyes were sapphires. He took her hand from the Prince and kissed it. The warmth lingered there throughout the ceremony.

Beth said her vows firmly, as did the marquess. She wondered if at times the beautiful words threatened to choke him as they did her. It seemed almost sacrilegious what they were doing, and yet she knew marriages based on practicality rather than love were not uncommon.

"With my body I thee worship...." That wasn't what he intended to do with his body and everyone here knew it. She hoped the horrible Lord Deveril was not here to point out again the reality behind the glitter.

Another reception line, and now—extraordinarily—she was "my lady." The Marchioness of Arden. It all seemed laughably unlikely. When she had touched hands, it seemed, with the whole world, there was a moment's respite before the toasts and the dancing. The marquess summoned two glasses of champagne and drank his as if he needed it. Beth did the same. She was wise enough by now not to gulp it, but she was surprised by how soon the glass was empty.

When another waiter stopped nearby, she replaced her empty glass and took a full one. The marquess looked at her in surprise, then took another glass himself and raised it. "To marriage," he said.

Beth raised her glass and threw a challenge. "To equality."

He sighed. As she drank down that glass, too, he said, "I hope you ate."

"I had a tray in my room," said Beth with perfect honesty. She neglected to tell him she'd hardly been able to force down a scrap. She took the indirect warning, however, and resisted the temptation to take another glass. She could already feel some effect from the wine, and though it was pleasant, she didn't want to overdo things. She imagined the new marchioness falling flat on her face and giggled.

She heard the marquess give a faint groan. He took her hand. "Come along. We're supposed to be at the head of the room for the toasts."

He led her there in the old style, hand in hand, and the crowd parted before them like the Red Sea. There were further murmured congratulations and the usual wedding asides—"...lovely bride,"

"...so handsome,"

"...so fortunate,"

"...must have cost a fortune."

"What do you think must have cost a fortune?" she asked him quietly. "My dress or your jacket?"

"Your diamonds," he said.

"Did they?" she queried, glancing at her glittering bracelet "Perhaps I should give them to the poor."

"I'd only have to buy you another set and another and another until we were in the back slums ourselves."

She glanced at him and saw he was, in a sense, serious. The pride of the de Vaux demanded that the ladies be festooned with a fortune in gems. "I wonder," she mused, "how many diamond parures stand between us and poverty?"

"If you put it to the test we will find out. And I'm glad," he said with a smile, "that you finally feel one of the family."

Beth felt a chill at how easily that "us" had slipped out. And yet it was ridiculous to keep fighting against reality.

They had arrived at the dais which had seats for the Regent, the duke and duchess, and themselves. They took their places as the loyal toasts were made, which meant Beth consumed yet more champagne. When the toasts were to herself she did not drink but found herself increasingly lighthearted.

By the time the music started for their minuet
a deux
she was not at all nervous.

As the first bars played she and the marquess executed full court obeisance to the Regent. Then they turned to face each other. As she curtsied to her new husband Beth remembered his warning about this dance and thought it strange. It was certainly interesting to be performing before hundreds of people but it was, after all, just a dance.

It was not, after all, just a dance.

Beth had forgotten the intensity of focus of the minuet a
deux.
Monsieur de Lo had been able to stare into her eyes throughout a performance without disturbing her in the least; now she found the need to maintain eye contact with the marquess made her heart race.

The stately movements had them circling one another, shifting and changing, eddying like leaves on restless water, touching only to spin away again. And always, his blue eyes speaking secrets into hers. Her breathing became shallow, her nerves were sensitized so that even the swirl of her silk skirts against her skin sent shivers through her. When they came together, when his fingers took warm grasp of hers, it was as if they bonded; when they parted it was as if something whole had been torn apart.

Beth didn't know this world. It frightened her.

At last it was over. She could curtsy then look away. But he held her hand after she rose and placed a warm, even heated, kiss on her skin. Beth felt almost as if he would ravish her then and there. Her face burned; thoughts of the wedding night surged back to obsess her.

Her next partner was the duke which gave her an opportunity to regain her external composure. A further glass of champagne seemed to help drive back her inner demons. She danced with the Duke of Devonshire and the Duke of York. In fact, she thought, it was quite beneath her dignity now to dance with anyone lower than a duke, except a marquess, she supposed. This made her giggle, and the Duke of York pinched her cheek approvingly. She drank more champagne and found she could partner her husband again without a care in the world.

Next she came down in the world with a bump. The marquess presented her to her next partner, a mere commoner.

"Mr. Nicholas Delaney," the marquess said, "and his wife, Eleanor. Two of my closest friends."

Two? thought Beth suspiciously, viewing the handsome woman. But something magical between Nicholas and Eleanor Delaney defused suspicion. Even when the marquess led Mrs. Delaney away to join a set, laughing at something she had said, Beth could not feel jealous.

Though Nicholas Delaney was not as handsome as the marquess, she could see how a woman could love him. His rather unruly dusky gold hair and his lean, tanned cheeks might be unfashionable, but they were remarkably attractive. There was also a disarming warmth in his sherry brown eyes.

As he led her onto the floor, he said, "I consider this quite barbarous, you know."

Beth looked at him in alarm. Had the marquess told him the basis for this marriage?

His brow quirked at her alarm. "Such a performance over a marriage," he explained. "Eleanor and I were married very quietly. I'm afraid after all this you'll need your honeymoon more as a repairing lease than a holiday."

A holiday? Beth had never thought of that impending nightmare, the honeymoon—when the marquess would finally have her in his solitary power—as any kind of pleasure. She realized she had no idea whether they were to stay here or go back to Belcraven. Surely the latter. "It will be pleasant to be in the country," she said.