Company Of Rogues: An Unwilling Bride Part 4

Beth felt her confidence seep out through the soles of her slippers. He was not a debauched fop. Instead he was everything she feared in men-tall, strong, and arrogant. She saw the flash of disgust at her appearance before it was hidden under ice-cool manners, and even though she had hoped for it, that further depleted her confidence.

He made a slight bow. "Miss Armitage."

She did her best to compete. She made a slight curtsy, "My Lord Marquess."

They stared at one another for a moment then Beth said, "Please be seated, my lord." She chose a chair for herself, one as far away from him as possible.

How ridiculous it was to imagine herself married to such a man. He was a being from another world.

His features reminded her of pictures of the Greek G.o.ds, an impression augmented by the style of his bright curls. His eyes were the clear blue of the summer sky and ridiculously fine for a man. He was head and shoulders taller than she and twice as broad. Growing up tall in a society of women, Beth was always made uneasy by height.

Lucien wondered how anyone would believe he had fallen in love with such a plain Jane. She was not exactly ugly-her features were regular and her figure appeared average under an unbecoming gown and a concealing ap.r.o.n-but there was nothing remarkable about her at all. He sighed. He had no choice.

Beth heard the sigh and tightened her lips. She was not about to attempt polite conversation.

The marquess suddenly stood up again. "Come here."

Beth looked up in surprise. "I beg your pardon?"

"Come here. I want to look at you in the light."

"Go to the devil," said Beth clearly and was pleased to see him blink with surprise. After a moment a smile softened his beautiful mouth.

"We are in a mess, aren't we?"

Beth relaxed a little but hoped it didn't show. "Our predicament is of your family's contrivance, my lord, and the solution is to your family's benefit."

He was studying her cynically. "You see no gain for yourself in this, Miss Armitage?"

"None at all."

He sat again, his mouth retaining a trace of humor. "Is there nothing in life you want which you do not now have?" he asked indulgently in the manner of one used to purchasing anything, including people.

"My freedom," Beth replied. It wiped all humor from his face.

"None of us are ever entirely free," he said quietly. "We must marry, Miss Armitage. There is no avoiding it. But I will be as considerate of you as I can. You have my word on it."

It was, she supposed, an admirable expression of intent, but she saw it as a declaration of dominance. He, the ruler, was promising not to mistreat his va.s.sal.

"I will have more than that," she said, having thought on the subject a great deal since the duke's visit. "I want a handsome settlement of independent income. I will not be dependent on your good will."

He stiffened. "It has already been arranged by my father, Miss Armitage. But, I'm sorry, it only comes into effect after you have borne me two sons."

Beth lowered her head. For all the boldness of her demands she had no leverage, and they both knew it. Moreover, this frank talk of children frightened her. Beth had not been raised in ignorance of the mechanics of procreation. At this moment, she wished she had been.

He stood again and walked over to stare into the fire. "There's no point in this, is there?" he asked bitterly. She hoped for a moment that he was rejecting the whole idea, but he simply turned and said, "Miss Armitage, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

Beth stood, too, and swallowed. She considered a further appeal but knew it would do no good. If the de Vaux family wanted her chopped in pieces and served for dinner there was nothing she could do about it.

"I suppose I must," she said.

He produced a ring from his pocket. He would have put it on her finger, but Beth held out her right hand, palm up and after a moment he dropped the ring into it. It was a large diamond surrounded by emeralds and not new. Probably a family heirloom. She placed it on her ring finger herself. It looked utterly ridiculous there.

"What happens now?" she asked, trying to ignore the shackle. She suddenly realized he might expect a symbolic kiss and looked at him in alarm.

Such a thought had obviously not crossed his mind. "I see no point in delaying matters. Come with me now and I will take you to Belcraven."

"Tomorrow. I must gather my belongings."

"There's no need to bring much," he said with a dismissive glance at her attire. "We will buy you a new wardrobe."

Beth drew herself up. "I prefer my own clothes, thank you, Lord Arden. Your father said I need only marry you, live in your house, and bear your children. He said nothing of allowing you to dress me to suit your fancy."

"As you wish, Miss Armitage," said the marquess through tight lips.

Beth dropped him a straight-backed curtsy.

Insolently, he gave her a full court bow, then walked out of the room.

Chapter 4.

The next day, waiting for the marquess to arrive, Beth was prey to a distressing degree of nervousness, not helped by Miss Mallory's poorly concealed anxiety.

"Are you quite sure, Beth? Do but consider. Once away from here anything could happen to you."

Beth summoned up a cheerful smile for the woman who had been like a mother. "Please don't fret, Aunt Emma. I have the twenty guineas you gave me in my hidden pocket. If anything goes amiss I will fly back to the nest. And when I have my philosophical salon established in London you must come and visit me and meet Hannah More and Mr. Wilberforce."

"Even that is not worth selling yourself for, Beth. The marquess is not a sympathetic man. I can sense such things. How will you endure it?"

"I think you malign him," said Beth, hugging Miss Mallory. It was not a total falsehood. The marquess might be a man of fas.h.i.+on, but he had been sensitive to all the awkwardness of their situation, and he had not forced any physical attentions or false sentiment upon her.

As the coach drew up, she saw he was showing his sensitivity further by riding alongside the luxurious chariot instead of inside with her.

After waving a last farewell to Miss Mallory and a few of the older pupils, Beth collapsed back against thickly padded silk squabs and rested her feet on an embroidered footstool. A soft woolen blanket lay nearby in case she should be cold and velvet curtains could be drawn to ensure her privacy. She admonished herself not to be swayed by such trifling luxuries, but she could not help feeling the contrast between this and her few other journeys, which had been taken on the public stage.

She leaned out for a last acknowledgment of the farewells and only realized as the coach carried her out of sight that one of the waving senior girls had been Clarissa Greystone, and she had been crying. Beth liked the girl and had talked with her from time to time, but she had not thought Clarissa would be so upset at her departure.

Then she remembered how Clarissa had tried to speak to her the day before. It was too late now, but she wished she had found the time. The girl had been unhappy lately. Perhaps she had a brother in the army, though Beth did not think so.

In truth, Beth told herself sternly, there was no justification for her own self-pity when the shadow of war hung over them all. If Napoleon could not be brought to see reason, many fathers, sons, and brothers would be maimed or dead, which made a luxurious, if loveless, marriage seem a petty tragedy indeed.

She occupied herself for a little while in viewing the scenery. Spring had greened the gra.s.s and trees, and they rolled past occasional mats of yellow daffodils and blue harebells. A hare ran twisting and turning crazily across a meadow. In another field lambs frolicked near their mothers.

It was Beth's favorite time of year, but this spring heralded only misery, and though her problem was small in the greater scheme of things, it dominated her thoughts.

It would take most of the day to reach Belcraven Park, so Beth took out Miss Mallory's parting gift to her-Self-Control, a Novel, by Mary Brunton. It was supposedly based on the most upright principles. Though Mary Wollstonecraft had despised works of fiction, Miss Mallory thought it wise to permit the older girls to indulge their taste for novels, but only through directed reading. She had asked Beth to send back a report on the book as soon as possible.

By the time they paused to change horses, Laura Montreville had rejected her das.h.i.+ng suitor for the excellent reason that he had first tried to seduce her before attempting the more subtle lure of marriage.

By the time the next halt was called, the handsome colonel had persuaded Laura to allow him two years in which to prove himself a reformed character, and Beth was becoming a little impatient with the heroine. If she did not love the man she should give him no reason to hope. If, as it appeared, Laura did love him, it was silliness to demand that he give up all outward show of his feelings for her because of some notion that uncontrolled emotions paved the way to h.e.l.l.

Mary Wollstonecraft had urged the honest expression of feelings and beliefs, and that meshed very well with Beth's naturally honest temperament.

Beth found herself wondering what Laura would have done in her own situation. She decided the young lady was so lacking in reality and common sense she would have sunk into a decline and died. Now that would serve the marquess and his father as they deserved, thought Beth with a grim smile, and ruin their plans into the bargain. Unfortunately, she could not see how it would do her any good at all. She just wasn't the stuff of which heroines were made. She lacked the right kind of sensibility.

Beth conceived a better plan than meekly fading away. The marquess was obviously unhappy with the marriage plan. If she was sufficiently abrasive, unattractive, and unpleasant, surely he would think a lifetime tied to her was too high a price to pay for a pure-blooded heir. It would be no effort at all to be abrasive and unpleasant.

The horses were changed frequently and with lightning efficiency, but when the team was unhitched at Chipping Norton the marquess opened the door.

"We will break the journey here," he said. "You will be glad of a meal, I'm sure." The hours of riding had ruffled his curls and brought a s.h.i.+ne to his eyes. His smile was genuinely friendly as he asked, "I hope you are not finding the journey too tiring."

As she descended the steps Beth repressed an urge to respond favorably to this goodwill. She was not normally ungracious, but such good humor would not answer at all. She put an edge on her voice as she said, "How could I, my lord, when everything is of the first stare?"

His smile dimmed. "It is going to be very tiresome, Miss Armitage, if you are to carp at everything that is better than utilitarian." They had reached the door of the inn, and the host was bowing low to usher such exalted guests inside. Beth quailed. She had never been treated so in her life.

Lord Arden, however, appeared oblivious to the man as he added, "And if you will not make any effort to consider my feelings, then I perhaps will see no reason to consider yours."

Shocked back into consideration of her main problem, Beth stared at her husband-to-be.

"Truce?" he asked.

That wasn't what Beth wanted at all. "Am I never to say what I think?"

"It depends, I suppose, if you want me to say what I think."

All too aware of the host, still bobbing and bowing, Beth carried on into the private parlor. When they were alone she challenged him. "Why would I not wish you to speak your mind? I am not afraid of the truth."

He shrugged off his riding cloak and dropped it over a chair. "Very well," he said coldly. "I find you unattractive and this whole situation abominable. Now, how does that help?"

"Since I already knew that," she shot back, "it hardly changes matters at all." But it did. Beth was foolishly hurt by the very disgust she was seeking. And if the situation was abominable, why was he tolerating it?

He was leaning against the mantel, looking at her as if she were an intrusive stranger-an intrusive, ill-bred stranger. "Except now it is spoken," he said, "and before it was decently hidden. Spoken words a.s.sume a life of their own, Miss Armitage, and cannot be unsaid. However, in the cause of sanity I am quite willing to pretend if you will join in the game."

"Pretend what?"

"Contentment."

Beth turned away, her hands pressed together. "I cannot."

There was silence, a c.h.i.n.king, then she heard his boots on the floor as he walked towards her. "Here, Elizabeth." He sounded nothing so much as weary.

She turned and took the wine he offered, sipping cautiously. It was a rare indulgence at Miss Mallory's, and it encouraged her to resist the peace offering it represented. She forced herself to meet his disdainful eyes. "I have not given you permission to use my name, sir. I would ask you to remember, Lord Arden, that this matter-which is a minor disturbance to your life-has destroyed mine. I have been taken from my home, my friends, and my employment, and forced into a way of life in which I can expect no pleasure." She put her gla.s.s down with a snap. "It will take me a few days longer, I am afraid, to be able to pretend contentment."

His eyes sparked dangerously. "I am not generally considered to be repulsive, Miss Armitage."

Beth's response was swift and tart. "Nor is a baboon, I'm sure, in its proper milieu."

Any retaliation from the outraged marquess was forestalled by the arrival of servants with their meal. He turned away sharply and went to stand by the far window until the meal was ready. When the innkeeper obsequiously encouraged them to partake of his best, Beth and the marquess approached the table like wary opponents and took seats at the opposite ends. By silent agreement they ate in unbroken silence.

Beth kept her eyes on her plate. Her heart was pounding, and the delicious food formed lumps in her dry mouth. For one moment she had faced leashed fury such as she had only ever imagined. She had feared him, had feared that he might hit her, throttle her even. But she couldn't be terrified of him. Not if she was to turn him so totally against her.

It was beyond her at the moment, however, to attempt more taunts, and there were no further words before the journey resumed.

Beth opened her book once more but used it as a blind for thought. Her plan was not as easy as she had thought. Could she provoke him sufficiently to give him an overpowering antipathy to her without driving him to the violence she had sensed? She shuddered. She had never encountered such a man before. There was something about him, something coiled tight, able to be unleashed for good or evil.

Hands clenched painfully tight on Self-Control, Beth knew she must not, could not, marry such a man. Despite the duke's a.s.surances, as her husband the marquess would have all right to her body. He would be free to beat her if he wished. If he were to beat her to death he would likely incur only a mild penalty, especially as he would have all the riches and power of his family on his side, and she would have no powerful friends to protest.

But she reminded herself of the maxims of Publius. Fear is to be feared more than death or injury. She could not afford fear.

The duke and the marquess needed her in order to achieve their end, needed her in excellent health for successful child-bearing. That was her protection from extreme violence and, after all, if blows were the price she must pay for making him reject her, she would count it-like the heroes of Athens-a small cost for her freedom.

She smiled wryly. It was perhaps uplifting to think of the brave men of Athens who died for freedom, but she did not fool herself that the next few days were likely to be easy or pleasant.

They changed horses again twice but only in minutes. An hour later, at the next change, the coach halted and the door swung open.

"It is another hour or so to Belcraven, Miss Armitage. Would you like some tea? You could take it in the coach or come into the inn." The marquess was a model of impersonal punctiliousness.

In the same manner, Beth extended a hand to be helped down. "I would like to stretch my legs, I think. Perhaps I could walk a little here."

"Certainly," he said and extended an arm.

Despite her silent debate in the coach, Beth found she did not want his company at all. He was such a big man and so very cold. "There is no need for you to accompany me, my lord."

"Of course there is," he said, staring into the distance. "It would be most odd if I did not."

Helplessly Beth laid her hand lightly on his sleeve, and they strolled along the road of the small town. She tried to force herself to say something offensive, but his silence was like a wall between them, and her tongue stayed frozen.

After about ten minutes, the marquess said, "Perhaps we should turn back now," and they did so.

At the inn he said, "Would you like some tea?" Beth agreed that she would. He arranged it and left her alone.

When she had finished and made a brief toilette, he escorted her to the coach, mounted his horse, and they were off.

Beth contemplated a lifetime of such arid courtesy and shuddered. A marriage like that would be death in life to her, but it doubtless would only be an inconvenience to him. What was needed, after all, to produce a clutch of children? A few brief, soulless encounters. For the rest of the time he would be able to continue with his present life undisturbed.

Her determination to pursue her plan was reborn and strengthened. To escape this kind of life she would do anything, face any threat.

Not during this journey, however. All too soon the groom on the box made a long blast on his horn and they swept through magnificent, gilded, wrought-iron gates. They were in Belcraven Park. The gatekeeper and his family doffed their caps or dipped a curtsy as appropriate. Beth turned her face away. It was not right that these people pay her homage.

The carriage rolled along the smooth drive between ranks of perfect lime trees. In the meadows to either side, speckled deer raised their heads to watch them pa.s.s. She saw a lake with what appeared to be a Grecian temple in the middle. She heard the shriek of peac.o.c.ks-those useless living ornaments of the rich.

Then the curve of the driveway presented Belcraven. Beth gaped. In the setting sun it was a mountain of golden stone decorated with carvings and crenelations and set with the glimmering jewels of hundreds of windows. It was enormous, the largest building Beth had ever seen, and the most beautiful. This was to be her home?