Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (32 page)

Beth undid the strings of her high straw bonnet, pulled it off, and tossed it to lie over his neckcloth.

His eyes sparkled and he undid the buttons of his shirt.

Beth eyed him warily. "This is not a competition I am willing to engage in, my lord."

He smiled. "Lucien—or I'll strip naked here and now."

"Lucien," Beth said hurriedly.

"Lucien, my darling?" he suggested.

"Just Lucien," she replied. "I call your bluff. You would not strip naked here."

"You really must learn not to challenge me, my lady," he said softly, echoing the words she had used earlier. But then he laughed. "I'll not take you up now. You did, after all, fulfill my condition. And I want no forced endearments."

Beth looked down for a moment to gather her thoughts. "I want to thank you," she said. "You are being very kind."

"You needn't sound so damned surprised." When she looked up in alarm she saw he was mostly teasing. "I'm not a candidate for sainthood," he said. "Love, sex, marital duties," he grimaced at the term, "call it what you will. It should at least be pleasant for both parties. I refuse to settle for less. We have the rest of our lives."

"Not quite that if I am to bear the heir to Belcraven," Beth pointed out, amazed that she was having this calm discussion on such a subject.

He flashed her a look of exasperation. "If you continue to be such a pedant, the rest of your life is likely to be a very short period of time."

Beth frowned at him. "You are constantly threatening me with violence."

"Oh, come now," he drawled. "There must have been a moment or two when I was less than bloodthirsty."

"Now who's being the pedant?"

"What's good for the goose...." he said.

"That," she retorted, "sounds remarkably like another challenge."

He didn't deny it. "'What dire offense from amorous causes springs, / What mighty contests rise from trivial things?"

"Pope.
Rape of the Lock,"
she said promptly. "Trivial," she mused, then offered, "'Women are systematically degraded by receiving the trivial attentions which men think it manly to pay to the sex, when, in fact, men are insultingly supporting their own superiority.'"

"Must be the divine Mary," he sighed, but there was still humor in his eyes. He thought for a moment then countered with, "'Friendship does not admit of assumptions of superiority.'"

Beth frowned. "I don't think I know that. It sounds like an excellent sentiment, though, and one Mary Wollstonecraft would have endorsed."

"I confess, I don't know where it comes from either. I think it was something Nicholas Delaney once quoted to me." He took her hand. "Last night we pledged friendship, Beth. Can I hope it still holds?"

She was alarmingly sensitive to his slightest touch but struggled not to show it. "We seem destined to squabble. It's a strange kind of friendship."

"The only kind," he said with a grin. "I don't have a friend whose eye I've not blacked."

"Violence again," she protested, but lightly.

He laughed. "I promise never to black your eye."

"Not even if I top your best quotation?"

"Not even then."

"Very well." Beth grinned at him. "'Friendship is a disinterested commerce between equals; love, an abject intercourse between tyrants and slaves.' Oliver Goldsmith."

With a shake of his head he gave her the victory. His thumb rubbed absently against the back of her hand and he considered his words. "Would it make any difference, I wonder, who was the tyrant, who the slave?"

"Not to me. I have no desire to be either."

He kissed her hand and let it go. "Then we must work at friendship. I don't suppose," he said dryly, "it will be particularly easy.
Idem velle atque idem nolle, ea demum firma amicitia est."

"You fear our tastes are too different?" she said. "How then do you suppose we recognize each other's quotations? And I do like your friends."

"That gives me hope," he said with a grin. "You obviously have a taste for rogues."

* * *

They arrived at Hartwell in excellent humor and it proved to be as unalarming as he had promised. It was a small house of two stories boasting only four modest bedrooms. It sat comfortably in pleasant gardens bordered along one edge by a stream. Beyond the walls the rest of the marquess' estate was given over to farming. The staff proved to be only five, and Beth felt she could manage that well enough.

She was relieved to find that she and the marquess were to have separate bedrooms, but was aware that there was no lock on the linking door and that she could not use one if there were. She had been coerced into this marriage, but she had agreed, agreed to a marriage in full. To be acting a farce over it at this point would be ridiculous.

Beth was disconcerted by her mental confusion about the intimacies of marriage, for she had always considered herself a practical woman. Despite their new harmony, any thought of the marquess and the marriage bed plunged her into a morass of fascination and fear. She hated the turmoil of it. She would much rather postpone the whole business until she could approach it in a calm and rational way.

But would he wait? Despite his strange words about waiting for her to seduce him, about waiting for pleasure, she did not expect much patience from such a man. Would his resolve last even the day? And would she perhaps not be better to get it over with?

There was no amorousness in his manner as he took her on a tour of the house, the gardens, and the outbuildings. In the stables they once more discussed riding lessons but this time without heat. She was touched to discover he had carefully selected a horse for her and had it sent to Hartwell to await them. The dappled gelding which carried the feminine name, Stella, seemed quiet and had a friendly look in its eye.

At six o'clock they ate a well-prepared but simple meal in the small dining room. The maid brought in all the dishes, including the cold desserts, and then left them to serve themselves. Beth felt it was the first normal meal she'd eaten since leaving Cheltenham but thought it wiser not to say so. Wiser not to raise any kind of controversy.

They talked mainly of poetry, contrasting Ben Jonson's statement that a good poet is made as much as born with Socrates's statement that poets work not by wisdom but by inspiration and an almost magical gift. Beth was surprised at how much she had to stretch her mind to hold her own. Hal Beaumont had obviously been telling the truth about the marquess' intellectual abilities. Beth was rather alarmed. She had once anticipated facing a fribble on this marital battlefield.

When they eventually called truce they settled for a less demanding activity—a few hands of casino. Then Beth played the piano for him, though she knew her performance to be competent rather than gifted.

It was superficially the most commonplace of evenings, but Beth's nerves were stretched like the strings of the instrument she played.

Eventually, unable to bear the situation any longer, she announced her intention of going to bed. He rose. She looked at him in alarm. He merely opened the door for her, kissed her fingers, and bid her good night.

She desperately wanted to ask what his intentions were but dared not. Redcliff prepared her for bed and left. Beth lay awake listening for movement next door, for the turning of the knob. She didn't know whether she would greet her husband's appearance with alarm or relief, but as the clock ticked the minutes away she began to think it would be relief. She couldn't bear much more of this tension....

The Marchioness of Arden drifted into sleep; she woke the next morning still an unsullied virgin. She told herself firmly it was exactly what she wanted and a sure way to foil the duke's plans.

* * *

They stayed ten days at Hartwell and the first day was the pattern for the rest. Every morning they rode, and Lucien proved to be a surprisingly patient and understanding teacher. Beth made progress but paid for it with aches and bruises. He taught her piquet and won a small fortune from her. She beat him at draughts every time. They sat in pleasurable silence reading books from the small but excellent library; later they indulged in fiery discussion of their reading, welcoming the sharing of ideas and insights but also seeking to gain points in the ongoing competition of their lives.

As they strolled in the garden or walked briskly across the fields, they discussed the international situation and the danger of Napoleon defeating the allies gathered against him and recommencing his attempt to rule the world. Lucien was sure he would be defeated and clearly longed to be with his friends who were preparing for that fight.

One day he even quoted the words Shakespeare put in the mouth of Henry V. "'And gentlemen in England now abed/ Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, / And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks/That fought with us—'" He broke off. "The where and when are yet to be decided. I doubt it will hold off until Saint Crispin's day, however."

If it would have served any purpose Beth would have laid down on the grass and told him to take her and be off to fight. But there was no guarantee that one act would achieve the end, nor that their first child would be the necessary son. Nor, she supposed, that it would live. The burden of privilege demanded that he stay as safe as possible and breed on her until the line was safe.

As Nicholas Delaney had said, it was all barbarous.

Apart from that outburst he avoided high emotion and most personal or controversial topics, though they did, tentatively, share some of their views on the liberty of the individual and theories of government. Beth was surprised to find him liberal for his class, though she was still tempted at times to blast him for arrogant shortsightedness.

He touched her only in the way a gentleman would touch any lady—to hand her over an obstacle, lift her down from her horse, or offer an arm when walking. Sometimes, though, Beth would catch him watching her, and the expression in his eyes would send shivers through her.

On June 15th, their last day at Hartwell, a lazy, sunny afternoon, they sat reading on the grassy bank of the stream. Lucien was in comfortable country clothes. His pantaloons were loose fitting, his jacket casual, and he had left off his cravat in favor of a knotted neckerchief. A straw hat shaded his eyes. Beth herself was in the lightest and simplest of her muslins with a wide villager hat to protect her from the sun.

Birdsong surrounded them and the busy clamor of the insects. Occasional soft splashes announced the presence of feeding fish.

"Perhaps you should do some angling here, Lucien," Beth said lazily. "You could catch our supper."

He looked up from his book with a grin. "Not unless you want to feast on gudgeon and chub, a nibble per fish. There's little in this stream worth catching."

"Could you not stock it?"

"I believe my father tried. It's not a good stream for sport fish. For one thing it almost dries up in a drought."

They were interrupted by the demanding quacks of a family of ducks which paddled busily around the bend, mother in front and ducklings in an orderly line behind, all except one which straggled, lagging absentmindedly then putting on a mad dash to catch up.

Beth chuckled as she reached for the bag of oats she had brought to feed them. "I do believe, our little sluggard is of a poetical disposition," she said to Lucien as he came forward to join her at the edge of the stream. "He is clearly so taken by the beauties of the scenery that he forgets to paddle."

"We'll have to name him Wordsworth then," said Lucien, watching his wife as she scattered the food widely on the water.

Despite her bonnets, the sun had brought out a few freckles on her nose which he found charming. Here in the country, living quietly, she had begun to relax and show him her spirit, her wit, and her humor. He was rapidly becoming entranced. If he'd considered the matter he would have said days spent in country walks and evenings with just one person, reading and discussing ideas, would soon pall. Now, however, he was reluctant to return to London and the social round.

There was something magical about Beth. On first acquaintance she seemed ordinary, and yet many things—the tilt of her head when she was curious, the twitch of her mouth when she was amused, the way her eyes lit up when she laughed—all transformed her into a spellbinder. It was a fragile magic, however easily banished when she was unhappy. He was desperately afraid of destroying it forever. Watching her now as she talked nonsense to little "Wordsworth" and scolded his mother for snatching food from her infant's beak, he longed to take her in his arms here on the sunny, grassy bank, and teach her the wonders of love.

Beth looked up and caught him studying her. Her eyes questioned him.

"I was just standing guard," he said lightly, "in case your enthusiasm pitched you into the water."

Beth hastily looked back at the ducks. It had happened before, this awareness. A perfectly ordinary moment would be broken by turbulent thoughts, disturbing sensations. Did he feel any of it, or was it just her own anxious mind?

He crouched down beside her so his breath warmed her cheek as he said, "Perhaps I should teach you to swim. There's a place near Belcraven which is deep enough and safe."