Company Of Rogues: An Unwilling Bride Part 19

Lucien was guiltily aware that he'd never considered his betrothed's lack of friends. "I could bring her over one day."

"If you wish, of course. But it's only three days to the Wedding of the Season, and she'll doubtless appreciate peace and quiet rather than more strangers. Bring her around after your honeymoon. I think, in view of this Deveril business, we will stay here for a few more weeks."

They walked towards the drawing-room door, but there Nicholas stopped with his hand on the k.n.o.b. "Giving advice is rarely a good idea, Luce, but I can't resist. No matter what problems there are between you and Elizabeth, the marriage bed is no place for them." He looked up. "Fight if you have to, but in bed just love her. And if you can't do that yet, wait until you can."

Chapter 13.

The wedding was to be held in the ballroom of Belcraven House and on her wedding eve Beth found herself drawn there. The large room with its gilded pillars and arched ceiling was illuminated by only a cold touch of moonlight which reduced its magnificence to shades of silver and gray. The flowers were already in place-in huge urns, on trellises, and hanging on the walls. The moist perfume weighted the air and made it hard to breathe.

She was for once quite alone. The servants had finished their work here and were in their beds, resting before the long hard day they would have tomorrow.

In the pale light, the room looked rather like a chapel, but Beth was glad she was not to be married in a church. There was nothing spiritual about this enforced joining. Though it was sugared by civilized behavior, it was as brutal as the calculated abductions of ages past, where the affections of the woman mattered not a whit, only her fortune.

"And my fortune is just my misbegotten blood," she murmured. "Wealth beyond measure to the de Vaux."

She had to admit that the marquess had mostly been kind and considerate in recent weeks, particularly so during the past few days. She could even confess that she was not immune to his charms. He was a beautiful man and viewed only as an objet d'art there was pleasure to be found. He was intelligent and, after his own fas.h.i.+on, sensitive. She could have enjoyed his company if they weren't in this terrible situation.

After all, she would never have known his company if it weren't for this terrible situation. With a caught breath Beth realized that even if she were given the chance she might not be able to find satisfaction any more in her old life. Without him.

He had the power to move her. The formal touch of his hand was often more than a touch; the sense of his body nearby could catch her breath; a look in his eyes could set her skin to tingling.

Perhaps this more than anything caused her to face her marriage with dread. By this time tomorrow she would be totally in his power, in the grip of these wanton sensations. And yet he felt nothing.

She wrapped her arms around herself as she s.h.i.+vered. She desperately wished the d.u.c.h.ess had left her in misty ignorance of where the marquess's power over her might lead. She remembered that horrible encounter on the terrace at Belcraven and the way he had been able to set fire to her body while his expression stayed cold as ice. Now she was constantly a.s.sailed by the vision of him cold-bloodedly manipulating her into some frantic state, a state she knew was just a few touches away....

The d.u.c.h.ess walked into the room carrying a branch of candles. Leaping flames picked out the red walls and the gilding and made them dance. The room became gay instead of mysterious.

"Is something the matter, Elizabeth?"

"No," said Beth, unable to fabricate an explanation for her presence here in the dark.

The d.u.c.h.ess put down the candles and came over to take Beth in her arms. "Oh, my poor child. Please do not be afraid. Truly, there is nothing of which to be afraid in Lucien."

"Nothing?" Beth queried, pulling herself out of the comforting embrace. "Nothing? After tomorrow he could beat me half to death and no one would care!"

"What?" exclaimed the d.u.c.h.ess. "Has he ever struck you Elizabeth? If he has I will flog him myself!"

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

"Thank G.o.d," said the d.u.c.h.ess 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 rea.s.surance 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 d.u.c.h.ess. "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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 fas.h.i.+onable 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 fl.u.s.tered 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d," 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 b.u.t.tons down her back, tracing kisses after his fingers.

The d.u.c.h.ess 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She trembled at the power of a wave of giddy l.u.s.t.

"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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 d.u.c.h.ess'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 d.u.c.h.ess chuckled and hid her face in the duke's shoulder. "What will they think?"

"Who cares?" He placed his hands beneath her b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 circ.u.mstances.

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 l.u.s.t; 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 d.a.m.ned embarra.s.sing if he couldn't perform.

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

"Yes, m'lord. The duke and d.u.c.h.ess 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 d.u.c.h.ess'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 nights.h.i.+rt laid out, his was.h.i.+ng 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 G.o.d 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 pet.i.te and very smart but not of an a.n.a.lytical 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.

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, "l.u.s.t."

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."