Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (22 page)

"We will do a minuet
a deux
at our wedding ball, Elizabeth."

"No," Beth said instinctively.

"But yes. It is the custom!"

The dance separated them again. It seemed very like their life together: brief moments of contact always moving into division. A minuet
a deux
would be an appropriate beginning to their marriage, and it was ridiculous to fear it. It would merely be a prelude to the greater trials of their life together.

After the minuet the dancing became general and much less formal. Beth danced a country set with the duke. After that, she passed from one partner to the next, glad to be lost in the dancing instead of pilloried for idle curiosity. The young eligibles had been dragooned by the duchess into doing their duty by the wallflowers, so Beth found herself dancing mainly with the older men, which suited her very well.

Only one gave her a problem. Lord Deveril. He was sallow and bony but with a kind of brutish strength in his jaw and hands. He also smelt. Not particularly unwashed—there were a number of people present who had obviously not taken up the fashion for cleanliness—but stale and slightly decayed. It could have mainly been his teeth, for when he smiled, which was rarely, they could be seen to be rotten.

"You must consider yourself a lucky young lady," he sneered at one point. "Not many plain Janes without a fortune find themselves so favored."

His manner was so unpleasant that Beth felt free to retort sharply. "On the contrary, my lord. The marquess is the fortunate one. Not many young bucks find themselves a woman of sense."

He showed his rotten teeth. "Now what would they want with such a thing? What good are brains in bed?"

Faced with this appalling ill-breeding Beth would normally have walked away, but she didn't want to create a scene, and this dreadful man was a guest. "I must ask you not to speak to me of such things, Lord Deveril," she said coldly.

"Good gracious. But you claimed to be a woman of sense. Surely you know the purpose of marriage? It is stated explicitly in the service."

Beth took refuge in silence, praying for the dance to end. It did at least move into a pattern which prevented conversation for a while.

But inevitably she found herself back with her partner.

"We are having such beautiful weather, are we not?" she said determinedly before he could pick his own topic.

"A perfect spring," he agreed. "Seeing the birds in their nests turns all our minds to matrimony. After all, I have no legal heir, not even a distant cousin. Like the marquess, I have obeyed the call of duty and selected my own satin pillow for the long cold nights."

Beth punished him with silence and heard with relief the music die.

As he led her from the floor Lord Deveril said, "Speaking of birds, my little pigeon, you should ask the marquess about the doves at Drury Lane."

Beth had not the slightest intention of asking the marquess anything at that man's instigation, but she sought him out from a simple desire for protection. She felt as if she had brushed up against something noxious.

His raised finger brought her a glass of champagne, and she drank deeply from it for refreshment and choked. "I think I would do better with lemonade, my lord."

"If you're going to quaff it like that, I should think so. You look hot. Why don't we walk on the terrace?"

She looked at him suspiciously, but he smiled. "Don't worry. We won't be alone. There are a number of couples out there in the cool. Come."

It was refreshing, and he had told the truth. They were not alone though there was space enough for a kind of privacy.

"Are you enjoying your first ball?" he asked. He seemed to be genuinely friendly. With the memory of that brief moment of pleasure during the kiss and their occasional accord during their battles of wits, Beth began to hope.

"It is pleasant enough," she said. "Except for Lord Deveril."

He frowned. "A man like that shouldn't even be here. Lady Gorgros brought him and it was decided not to create a fuss by throwing him out. Why did you agree to dance with him?"

Beth remembered it was Lady Gorgros who had presented the viscount to her. "I accepted anyone who asked," she admitted. Then she shrugged. "They all seemed respectable."

She saw him stiffen and fix his interest on her. "Was he not respectable? Am I to call him out?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she retorted. "Of all the stupidities of fashionable life, the worst is the habit of men fighting each other over trifles."

Ice settled. "Of course. You would consider your honor a trifle. How then did he offend you? Call Mary Wollstonecraft a doxy?"

Beth opened her mouth to blister him, but it was impossible with others close by. Beth discovered she had a crashing headache and closed her eyes.

"Elizabeth?"

"Just leave me alone."

"Are you unwell?"

"I have a headache," she bit out.

"Come then and we'll find
Maman.
She will take care of you. Perhaps you should retire."

Beth opened her eyes. There seemed to be genuine concern in his voice. More material for her conundrum. "I can't do that. What will people think?"

"That you have danced too hard and perhaps drunk a little too much. Come along." He put a hand gently on her back to urge her forward, but she resisted.

"Collapsing before dinner, retiring early. People will think our marriage a necessity."

He turned to her with close attention. "And is it?"

Beth wished the earth would swallow her. Why, oh why, had she been betrayed into those unforgivable words on this very terrace? "You know it is," she muttered.

"And you know what I mean. Are you with child?"

"No, of course I'm not," she said sharply. "You said you would never raise that ridiculous conversation again."

"Because if you were," he continued, "that would be cause to break off this engagement. Even my father wouldn't insist on it."

Beth forced herself to look at him. "I am afraid I cannot offer that escape route. And though it would suit you, my lord, it would be a poor sort of freedom for me, with a bastard in tow."

She could almost see the strain as he forced his mouth into a smile. "We are becoming heated, Elizabeth. Remember, we are the two turtledoves."

As they made their way back to the ballroom, Beth said, simply from the desire to hurt, "Doves of Drury Lane, perhaps?"

She was amazed to see him color up, but at that moment her next partner came to claim her. She smiled through her headache and cast a languishing look back at her betrothed.

Once she was away from him her headache began to fade. Another poor indicator for their future.

Eventually it was the supper waltz, for which the marquess was her partner. Beth joined him with some trepidation, wondering if he would pick up their quarrel. She was also concerned about her ability to maintain her high standard of dancing. The daring waltz had not been taught at Miss Mallory's.

But all went well. He did not refer to their earlier conversation, and Beth found her recent lessons to be adequate when reinforced by an excellent partner.

When they sat down to the meal they were at a large table, and Beth found she had Mr. Beaumont on her other side. She liked this man very much, for he was of easy address and had a wry sense of humor and, of course, she felt sorry for him because of his injury. Though he was as tall and strong as the marquess Beth didn't feel intimidated by him, perhaps because of the softer lines of his sun-darkened face or the warmth of his dark brown eyes.

She was less pleased to have Phoebe Swinnamer at the table, for she always felt the young lady would like to skewer her with the nearest sharp implement. The beauty's supper partner was Lord Darius. Beth could only hope the son of a duke would assuage the beauty's vanity though she feared the fact that Lord Darius was not the heir would weigh heavily with the girl, who had thought she had such a one in her grasp.

Beth turned to Mr. Beaumont. "Have you been a friend of the marquess for a long time, Mr. Beaumont?"

"Since Harrow, Miss Armitage," he said with a smile. "And I can reveal things about his school days he wouldn't want known."

Beth could tell from his manner he was not going to offend her, but the marquess overheard and broke in. "What are you up to, Hal?"

"Why, Luce, I think it only fair to tell your bride-to-be your terrible secret."

"Not the cow," said the marquess in alarm, causing Beth's eyebrows to rise.

"Of course not," said Mr. Beaumont, straight-faced.

"The bells?" queried the marquess anxiously.

"The merest peccadillo," replied his friend with a dismissive gesture. "In fact, I think you're still rather proud of that one."

Beth turned and saw the marquess grin as he said, "I am indeed. It took a great deal of ingenuity to cross all the wires on the servants' bells at school. Mind, it wasn't such a good idea to try it here."

Mr. Beaumont hooted with laughter. "You didn't!"

"I did," said the marquess ruefully. "I had to sort it all out again and then my father—" perhaps only Beth caught the little catch in his voice before he continued, "made me run useless errands for him all over this place to teach me not to cause the servants unnecessary work."

"How extraordinary," drawled Miss Swinnamer. "What does it matter to a servant whether they are called correctly or not? They can always make themselves useful."

"Well then," said Lord Darius dryly, "look at it from the point of view of the guest who rings for breakfast and doesn't receive it because the servant thinks the bell rang in quite another chamber."

"Oh, I see," said the young lady with a warm smile at her partner. Obviously a duke's son in the hand was worth something. "Of course, my lord, that would be most annoying."

"Doubtless gets the servant a fine jawing."

"Well, of course, Lord Darius," said the young lady blandly. "They would be fortunate not to be dismissed."

Lord Darius looked at her. "When it was all the fault of some prankster?"

"My mama," stated Miss Swinnamer, "says servants cannot be allowed to make excuses for poor performance or they will be forever shirking." She looked around and perhaps detected disapproval in the group. "The mischief-maker, of course, deserves a sound whipping."

"My dear Phoebe," drawled the marquess, "are you expressing a desire to whip me?"

Poor Phoebe had clearly lost track of the origins of the conversation. She merely gaped while others hid smiles with greater or lesser success.

Beth decided to intervene. "As I understand it," she said, "the offense has already been adequately punished. I approve of the duke's disciplinary measures. It is my belief that corporal punishment rarely achieves anything except to brutalize."

The marquess looked at Lord Darius and Mr. Beaumont. "I think she's calling us brutes," he said. He glanced sideways at Beth. "Probably baboons."

"Baboons?" they queried in unison.

Beth could feel the color in her face, but she frowned severely at the marquess. "Lord Arden is funning. I merely point out that children learn right from wrong more clearly if their fault is explained to them than if they are hit."

The marquess grinned. "Did I neglect to mention the whipping? But the explanation was very thorough, too. I think we're going to fight over the raising of our children, my dear."

The mere thought of children was enough to have Beth turn to Mr. Beaumont in search of a safer topic. "I think I will need ammunition. What was the dreadful secret you were going to impart, sir?"

The man smiled. "Why, the one he has kept hidden most carefully," he said. "Though I am not sure how you will find a way to use it, I am sure if anyone can it will be you." He cast a mock-wary glance at his friend, who was sharing a joke with Lord Darius, then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "He was brilliant," he murmured. "Quite the best student in our form."

After a startled moment, Beth chuckled. "I admit, I had begun to suspect.... But why keep it secret?"

"Good God, ma'am, you can't be serious! Be known as a scholar? It was just a temporary lapse of judgment due to inexperience. By the time we went on to Cambridge he was wiser and managed to survive his years there without drawing attention to himself."

Beth was about to protest this insanity, but she saw there was a strong element of truth in it and shook her head. "And you, Major Beaumont? Were you an intellectual prodigy?"

"Not at all," he assured her earnestly, yet with a twinkle of amusement. "Straight down the middle. Give you my word, Miss Armitage."

"And what have you done with your middling abilities?" Beth queried, knowing this man was no dullard.

"A very ordinary time in the army, Miss Armitage."

"And that's a lie," said the marquess, entering the conversation again; Beth suspected he'd been monitoring it. "Mentioned in dispatches so often the Horse Guards were tired of hearing his name—"

"Weren't we all?" broke in Beaumont hastily. "Have to be dashed unlucky in a war not to be noticed now and then."