Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (30 page)

"Yes. Eleanor and I intend to spend most of our time at our place in Somerset."

In another time and place Beth felt as if she could have had a real conversation with this man, but at the moment all she seemed able to produce were banalities. "We were at Belcraven until recently."

He laughed. "Red Oaks certainly isn't anything like Belcraven. That isn't the country. It's a town within walls."

Beth was startled into a chuckle. "You have it exactly. I would much rather live in a small house."

"So much easier to manage. When you return to Town you must come and visit us. We have a small house in Lauriston Street." He grinned at her. "We're
very
informal."

She grinned back. "That sounds wonderful."

He must have a magic touch. He had broken through her constraint and for a moment she felt normal, ordinary, sane. But then they were caught up in the vigorous country dance and there was little farther opportunity for discussion.

Afterwards, when he rejoined his wife, Nicholas Delaney said, "We should have befriended her sooner."

"Why?" asked Eleanor.

"She's terrified and feels very alone."

Eleanor looked at the bride who was standing with her husband and his parents, smiling and appearing reasonably happy. But she didn't doubt Nicholas's judgment; he had a gift for it. "Do you know what's going on?" she asked.

"No, but it's... treacherous. I think you, of all women, could have helped Elizabeth. But it's too late now."

"You think they should never have married."

She said it as a statement, but he shook his head. "I think they'll suit marvelously well if they give themselves a chance." He smiled at his wife and raised her hand for a kiss. "We know better than most how easy it is to dice with a chance of heaven. And nearly lose."

She smiled at him, wishing as she always did that they were alone. They needed no one else, except Arabel. "Can't you say something to Lucien?" she asked.

"I have, though I didn't understand how serious it is. There's nothing more to be done now. He's as keyed up as she is."

Eleanor looked at the handsome marquess. He, too, looked merely the proud and happy groom but here, because she knew him, she could see the artifice as well as Nicholas. The sparkling brilliance that made him look like a glittering gem was his response to tension and trouble. And it was dangerous. She looked her concern at her husband, an infinitely fascinating man but one who had never terrified her.

He shook his head. "He's beyond a soothing lecture. We can only hope his natural kindness wins out over his arrogant bloody-mindedness. And, I suppose, that he's read the books I gave him."

A waltz struck up and he led her toward the floor. "Books?" Eleanor queried in amazement. "Lucien?"

He tutted. "I do have a few volumes other than erotic texts."

"Of use to a man on his wedding night?" she queried naughtily.

They took their position for the waltz. "If you remember our wedding night," he said, "you will admit that a manual of clever moves would have been irrelevant."

Eleanor knew what he meant. Frightened by a series of strange events and by dim memories of a drugged rape, what she had needed, and found, was sensitivity and kindness.

"Are there books to teach magic of the heart?" she asked.

The music started and they began the twirling dance. "The Bible?" he suggested with a slight smile. "The Koran. The Veda. The Abhidhamma Pitaka. The Bhagavad-Gita...."

"You are trying to make me feel my ignorance," she said without rancor. "But I can at least guess that they are all books of religion. Are you saying you gave these to Lucien?"

"I wish I had thought of it," he said with a laugh. "In fact, I gave him Mary Wollstonecraft."

"You expect them to spend tonight debating the rights of women?" she asked skeptically.

"I think it would be a very good thing," he replied. "But having a mind above this prurient interest in other people's beds...." He drew her slowly closer, until they were joined together in a way that was quite improper. Fortunately by then he had also migrated them out of the room into a quiet corridor.

Eleanor was ready for his lips when he kissed her. She could feel the familiar aching melting, the longing for home, for Nicholas. She clung to him. "I'm trying to imagine," she whispered when the kiss ended, "what it would have been like if it had been like this on our wedding night. This hunger. And the knowledge that it would soon be satisfied to the full."

One sensitive finger played knowingly at the base of her skull, sending a shudder through her. "I wonder if a wedding night is ever like that," he said. "A knowledgeable wedding night seems to be a contradiction in terms." He sighed. "As I said to Elizabeth, this is a barbarous affair. I think it's time to leave. I have no wish to watch the victims led to the sacrificial stone."

"I will be pleased to be home. I would be pleased to be returning to Somerset." It was a strong hint.

As they descended the grand staircase he said, "So would I. But I think we have to look into this matter of Deveril. I may have forsworn petty revenge, but I don't like seeing him at such high water. I'd rather see him in the mud."

"So would I," she said, remembering the horrible man who had tried to buy her, then ruin her into marriage. "But he's a dangerous man, Nicholas."

"So am I," said Nicholas Delaney calmly.

Chapter 14

Beth saw the Delaneys leave and felt strangely as if she'd lost her only allies. True to his promise, Major Beaumont was not here. Lord Darius and Viscount Amleigh were apparently already on their way to Belgium to take part in the ever-more-likely war. She supposed Aunt Emma was somewhere about, but she didn't think that lady would be able to help.

No one would be able to help.

Beth took wine whenever it was presented and found it drew a comforting mist between herself and reality.

All too soon, however, it was time for her and the marquess to retire for the night. The duke and duchess, the bridesmaids, and a number of the marquess's friends all formed a procession to escort them to the bedchamber.

His bedchamber.

Beth had never considered before how public an announcement of their intended activity this would be. The picture of Mars and Venus loomed monstrous in her mind, and she desperately wished to run and hide from all the knowing looks, all the sniggering laughter. What an extraordinarily vulgar business a wedding was.

Then she found herself alone with him. The alcoholic veil fell away leaving her chilled with nerves and slightly sick. She simply stood and looked at him. So large, so strong....

After a moment he sighed. "Are you as terrified as you look or is this more acting?"

"Yes," she whispered. "I mean, terrified."

He poured her a glass of rich red wine. "Here," he said as he passed it over. "This should help." He took one for himself, drank it down, and poured another.

Beth supposed it might. She'd like the misty comfort back again, but her hands began to shake and the wine splashed a deep red stain down her beautiful white gown. She dropped the glass and began to cry.

She was swept up into his arms. She struggled frantically as he carried her to the bed and laid her on the silken cover.

"Be still, my dear," he said softly as he took his hands away. "I'm not going to rape you."

He sat beside her on the bed. "You really are an innocent, aren't you, Elizabeth?"

Beth nodded.

"You're a damn fool," he said almost angrily. Then he extended a finger to wipe away one of her tears. "What have we done to that spirited Miss Armitage I brought away from Cheltenham?"

Beth attempted a smile. "Turned her into a marchioness?"

He reached out and gently disentangled the tiara from her hair, tossing it carelessly on the bedside table. "So much for aristocratic grandeur. You know, my dear, it occurs to me that the duke has had it all his own way so far. We are married. He has no more say as to how we conduct our lives. I think you need a long period of repair before we progress to parenthood."

No Mars and Venus, thought Beth hopefully. "Will you not mind?" she asked.

"No," he said gently, "I will not mind." He sounded relieved. Perversely, Beth was a little hurt.

"But where will you sleep?" she asked.

"With you tonight. We don't want to cause talk. A man can sleep with a woman without anything intimate occurring." He collapsed down beside her on the bed, one arm over his eyes. "God. I've drunk too much."

His manner was so easy, so natural, all Beth's fears melted away and she giggled. "I think I have, too. The champagne made me feel so carefree." She found giggling suited her mood entirely and couldn't stop.

"And what do you find so amusing, Elizabeth?" he asked, rolling onto his side and grinning in sympathy.

"Beth," said Beth as she tried to control her laughter.

"Beth?"

At last she succeeded and turned her head to look at him. "My name is Beth," she said clearly.

"Why the deuce didn't you say so before?"

Beth shrugged. "It was a symbol."

He smiled. His blue eyes danced in the candlelight. "And now you've told me. Is that a symbol?"

"I suppose it is," said Beth, finding it difficult to focus or keep her eyes open. "Friends?"

"Friends," he said with a soft laugh and rolled her over to get at the buttons on the back of her gown. "I've done this for many a friend before now."

Beth was surprised at how little she cared that he undressed her—her body seemed a long, long way from her head. When she found herself slipped naked between the sheets, however, she giggled again. "How improper."

"Not at all," he said cheerfully. "No one would expect you to retain your nightgown anyway. If you want to give the servants a thrill, I could tear it a little."

"But it was so expensive."

"A curiosity of servants and a frugality of Armitages," he said, and at that moment it seemed profound. "Go to sleep, my sweet marchioness."

With that he left the room. Beth found his advice sound and let oblivion claim her.

The marquess took the wine with him to his dressing room, and he downed another glass as soon as he got there. Perhaps he should get thoroughly drunk; it was said to remove the ability to perform, though he had never experienced that himself. Having promised his wife a platonic marriage, the process of undressing her had made him feel very unplatonic indeed. What a surprisingly lovely body she had—creamy white skin, firm, full breasts, long, shapely legs, and the perkiest round rump he'd ever wanted to kiss and squeeze in his life....

He drank another glass of wine.

And she was an innocent. He supposed he'd known it for a while now, but she was unlike the women he was accustomed to—either worldly wise and experienced, or naive virgins. She was quick-witted and intelligent and had the ability to think for herself. He would never have sought out those qualities in a wife, but now they appealed to him strongly.

Reading the Wollstonecraft woman's books had given him insight, too. He didn't agree with all she wrote, but there was enough sense there to interest him. He was looking forward to an opportunity to discuss some of the questions raised.

He sighed. They'd probably have plenty of time for academic discussion. He'd rather be extending the education of his bluestocking bride in other directions, but she was not ready yet. She was a wounded bird, his Beth.

He almost drank off another glass of wine but desisted. It would not be advisable to be found fully dressed and flat out on the floor in the morning. He stripped off and climbed into bed with his wife, keeping well away from the soft, warm, perfumed body so close nearby.

* * *

When Beth awoke in the morning she slowly became aware of something different. She was naked. She never slept naked. Some hazy memories of the night before came to her. She opened her eyes a crack and looked sideways. She was alone in the bed.

She remembered the night before. She had been
inebriated.
On the go. Jug-shot. She felt herself blush at the thought that it might have been obvious to all the guests.