Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (13 page)

"I do not care if my husband be handsome or not, Your Grace," Beth replied, "and if Lord Arden is charming, he has not been so to me. I find him cold and arrogant." But then she had to admit to herself that he had not been so until she had said those terrible things.

"It is not really like him, my dear," said the duchess. "He does not like this situation any more than you. But someone has to give a little. Could you not make the first approach?"

Beth had tried that. She shuddered. "No."

The duchess sighed. "I will speak to Lucien then." If she did so, it had no effect.

Apart from the problem of the marquess, Beth became somewhat reconciled to life at Belcraven. She grew accustomed to the scale of the great house with an ease which surprised her and could soon find her way to all the principle rooms unaided. She could not deny that she obtained enjoyment from the beauty of the spacious chambers, the exquisite moldings and decorations, and the priceless works of art. Who could complain, being able to sit in private contemplation of a Rafael Madonna, a Van Dyke portrait, or a landscape of merry Breughel villagers? Who could be totally unhappy in a marvelously well-stocked library?

This lofty, magnificent room with its two tiers of gilded, glass-fronted shelves became Beth's primary haunt. Here were all the classics and many newer and exciting works. It soon became known that if Miss Armitage were needed, one need look no farther than one of the three deep window embrasures in the library.

Nor did Beth often have to share the room with the Reverend Steep. Though he held the position of librarian, his passionate interest was the muniment room and the family archives. Only if his researches required it did he invade Beth's territory.

She encountered a different invader one day, however. She was sitting curled up on the brown velvet window seat when clipped footsteps caused her to peer around the curtains.

"Good morning, Mr. Westall," she said cheerfully, always pleased to see the pleasant young man.

He turned with an open smile. "And to you, Miss Armitage. I should have known I'd find you here. I don't suppose I can prevail upon you to assist me, can I?"

Beth willingly laid down the entrancing adventures of Sir John Mandeville. "Of course. What is it you require?"

"The duke is interesting himself in a new invention by a Mr. Stephenson. It is a traveling machine, a locomotive which is driven by steam. He believes there is an article on a similar subject by a man called Trevithick, but," he added with a twinkle, "he cannot recollect in what journal it was published."

Beth chuckled in sympathy. "It cannot be so very long ago, though," she said, "for I surely heard of Mr. Trevithick not ten years since."

"Less than that, I believe. Where shall we start?"

Beth thought for a moment. "I haven't seen any purely technical collections here, such as those put out by the Royal Society. Have you?"

"Indeed no. I cannot say the duke has shown much interest in engineering before now. Now, however, he says he is resigned to such engines being the key to the future and is determined to understand them."

"I think either the
Annual Register
or the
Monthly Magazine
then. There are complete collections of both. Which do you choose?"

With a shrug the young man said, "The
Annual Register."
Then he looked at Beth suspiciously. "Now why are you looking triumphant, Miss Armitage?"

"Why," said Beth saucily, "because the
Monthly Magazine
has an index, sir, while the
Annual Register
has merely a list of contents."

They were both laughing over this when the marquess walked in. His eyes narrowed. If he had hackles, Beth thought, they would have risen. She knew she was blushing guiltily when there was absolutely nothing about which to be guilty.

He nodded coolly at the secretary. "Westall."

Mr. Westall made a more substantial inclination, "My lord." He quickly retreated to the other end of the room to begin his search.

Beth held on to cool composure and just looked a question at her husband-to-be. What could have brought him to seek her out? The answer was the duchess.

"My mother asked me to bring this to you," he said, offering a copy of
Ackerman Repository.
"She has apparently mentioned to you some designs for a wedding gown."

Beth had no enthusiasm for choosing such a gown and took the magazine with limp fingers. "Thank you."

The marquess looked at Mr. Westall, skimming through bound copies of the
Annual Register.
"Perhaps you would like to drive, Miss Armitage?" he said at last.

"No, my lord, I don't think I would," said Beth firmly. Surely he couldn't believe she and Mr. Westall....

Of course he could. With frozen features he sat in a heavy library chair and prepared to watch their every move. Though the back of her neck prickled, Beth forced herself to take up the business of helping the secretary. She saw Mr. Westall cast one or two nervous glances in the marquess's direction and wondered if she were being fair to the secretary. He, after all, was an employee here and could be easily dismissed. The one thing of which Beth could be sure was that no one was going to cast her out of Belcraven.

She could not bear to quiver into submissive silence under the marquess's glare, however, and when she came upon a relevant article she took it over to the secretary.

"See, here is an account of a steam carriage in use in a Yorkshire mine. It could be of interest."

"Indeed it could," he said, taking it. "And here is an article about Trevithick which must be the one the duke had in mind. Thank you, Miss Armitage."

Clutching his volumes, Mr. Westall left, clearly relieved to escape the atmosphere in the room.

Beth turned to look stonily at the marquess. "There," she said, "not a lascivious moment."

He rose with slow arrogance. "I will tell Westall he is not to be here alone with you again."

Beth was so angry it took a moment for her to get words out. She was still spluttering, "You—you—" when he left the room. Ferociously she slammed a glass door shut and a crack shot out from the beveled edge. She looked at it with horror. "Heavens above," she whispered, "what does one of those cost?"

Then she remembered she had no need to fret about such things. Willy-nilly she was one of the family. She walked briskly to the center table and rang the bell there. Promptly, a footmen entered.

"A piece of glass has cracked," she said. "Please inform someone so it may be fixed, Thomas." All the footman were known as Thomas when on duty. It simplified things a great deal.

"Yes, Miss Armitage," said the young man with a slightly startled look and left. Beth realized it was the first time she'd addressed a member of the staff with the crisp arrogance of one born to it. She didn't know if that was progress or defeat.

She knew she still felt embarrassment that the footman might have heard or guessed some of what had happened here but then she shrugged. She had soon come to realize that the only way to endure life at Belcraven was to pretend the servants were wooden dummies.

It occurred to her that she would, in fact, be much happier as a servant at Belcraven rather than one of the family. An upper servant, of course. The housekeeper or at least one of the senior maids. Then she could spend the evenings discussing the strange goings-on among the ducal family and relax and be herself.

It only later dawned on her that she had been given an opportunity to speak to the marquess and clear up the matter of her morals and had thrown it away.

The duchess's maneuvers had failed and so the duke took a hand. During an evening
en famille,
he looked sternly at his heir. "The notice is in the papers, Arden," he said, passing over a copy of the
Gazette.
"It is time to formally introduce your bride to our people here."

"As you will, sir," drawled the marquess in a bored voice, with only the briefest glance at the newspaper. He had been reading a book and kept his finger in his place.

"Don't doubt my will," said the duke coldly. "There is to be a reception for the tenants and a ball for our neighbors. You may expect a great many callers. You and Elizabeth will greet them together and behave appropriately."

Beth could see the marquess tense as he looked over at the duke. She wondered if he would rebel, but he merely repeated in a mechanical voice, "As you will, sir."

The duke's face became tinged with anger, and the duchess hastily intervened. "Even the servants think your behavior peculiar, Lucien. You are supposed to be in love. Besides, how are you and Elizabeth to come to an understanding if you avoid each other?"

The marquess smiled at Beth, a smile that could have frozen the oceans. "I believe Elizabeth and I have come to understand each other very well,
maman."

The duchess looked helplessly between the two of them.

"Tomorrow," stated the duke, "you will take Elizabeth on a tour of the house and estate, Arden, and explain it to her."

The two men stared at one another, and Beth saw the duke silently promise retribution if the marquess repeated his abrasive "As you will." The silence stretched beyond bearing.

Then the marquess turned to her, impersonally courteous.

"Of course," he said. "What time will be convenient, Elizabeth?"

"After breakfast, my lord?" said Beth a little squeakily. "Half-past nine?"

He inclined his head and, after a sardonic look at the duke, returned to his book.

Beth looked around the room. The duke was glaring at the marquess as if he would demand something more. The duchess was glancing between her husband and son with concern. The marquess was ostensibly absorbed in his book. Beth found the atmosphere in this family so hard to bear. Was it just this marriage, was it the past infidelities, or had it always been so? She was surprised to find she would like to help them in some way, then put the thought away. She had enough to do to save herself and had no strength to spare.

She quietly excused herself and escaped to her rooms.

In bed she considered the next day, a day to be spent in the marquess's company. Her nerves were already jumping at the thought. But perhaps, she thought, she would find an opportunity to undo the damage her silly words had caused. Then at least they could start afresh and seek to build some basis for an honest marriage out of all this.

* * *

Though she had found her way about the dozen or so rooms in family use, the next day Beth realized she had not grasped the scale of the enterprise which was the Duchy of Belcraven. The marquess, on the other hand, knew the great house from cool cellars to dusty attics. Despite his apparent arrogance, he knew of and understood all the servants who maintained the place, and even knew many of their names.

They spoke with the butler, Morrisby; and the senior housemaid, Kelly; the head laundress, Margery Coombs; and one of the stillroom maids, Elspeth.

In addition, there were the many anonymous workers, some clearly startled to find themselves face-to-face with one of the family. There was the clock winder, for example, and two men whose sole task was to pass through the house trimming and replacing candles. There were the carpenters, painters, masons, and roofers who worked constantly to maintain the great house, the home farm, and the myriad of attendant buildings. In addition to the services for the family—the food, the laundry, the housecleaning—all this had to be done as well for the three hundred people who kept the machinery running. There were servants for the servants.

There was a brewery, a bakery, a vast laundry, and a bevy of seamstresses. Soap was made and vinegar, and all the produce of the home farm was cooked, preserved, or used in some manner.

The higher servants—the estate manager, the steward, the groom of the chambers, and the housekeeper—supervised the machine and lived in the state of country gentry.

As he guided her around and explained all this, the marquess was polite, so dauntingly polite that Beth found it impossible to raise a personal subject.

After lunch the tour continued. They progressed through the kitchen gardens and the orchards, the herb gardens and the succession-houses. They passed by the kennels full of hounds and on, by way of the farriery, to the huge stables which housed forty horses and could accommodate a hundred more when there were guests.

Mentally and physically exhausted, Beth called a halt. The marquess obviously loved his home, and she felt he had relaxed a little during the tour. If she was to attempt an explanation it had best be now. She began with simple conversation.

"How do you begin to understand such a place?" she asked him.

He shrugged twirling a piece of straw in his fingers. "I know it as the place where I grew up. I spent my childhood, when I could escape from my tutors, under the grooms' feet, or sticking a finger into a cook's mixing bowl, or wandering with Morrisby through the wine cellar looking at the wine laid down for my coming of age. But as for running it, I only know how to direct the people who run it. That is all you will need to know."

Beth could only hope the day was long distant.

"I never asked you," the marquess said. "Do you ride?"

"No. I never had the opportunity."