Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (33 page)

Beth felt her heart speed. She couldn't imagine going into water with him, perhaps being held by him there, their clothes pressed damply to their bodies. Or would he bathe naked as men were said to do? Her mouth dried and she knew her face was red. She kept her head down and concentrated on the ducks. "I don't think I would care for that, Lucien".

"Tut-tut," he murmured and brushed a curl back from her heated cheek. "Doesn't Shakespeare say, 'True nobility is exempt from fear.'? A marchioness should be afraid of nothing."

Beth rose quickly to her feet and faced him, dusting the last few oats from her hands. "He also says, I recollect, 'Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge?' I pray you, Lord Arden," she said with mock appeal, "of your mercy spare me the water."

He laughed as he rose gracefully to his feet. He touched her nose gently with one finger. "Will you always have a quotation to cap each of mine? You've spent too much time buried in books, my lady."

"Apparently an excellent training for marriage, my lord."

"Only to me, I suspect." He collapsed down again on the grass near their books. "Come and sit by me, Beth."

Before, they had been sitting feet apart, but it was not unusual for them to sit closer. Now, however, she sensed some significance in his request. She was very aware that today was their last day here.

Heart racing, but hoping she was outwardly composed, Beth did as he asked. As soon as she was settled on the rug on the grass, he tossed his hat aside and slid over to lay his head in her lap. "Read to me," he said and closed his eyes.

The weight of him across her thighs was like a brand. Beth's mouth was so dry she doubted she could articulate at all. But she was able to study him, laid out there before her in all his strength and beauty like an offering on an altar. Her fingers itched to work through the golden curls that fell over his smooth forehead, to trace down his straight nose to the elegant curve of his firm lips.

His blue eyes opened and spoke a challenge. "No?"

"Of course," she said hastily, not sure why it was so important to deny the effect he was having on her, the effect he surely
knew
he was having on her.

She picked up the new volume by Mr. Coleridge with unsteady fingers and began to read, "'In Xanadu did Kubla Khan / A stately pleasure dome decree....'"

Though a strange work, it seemed innocent enough, or had seemed innocent enough on first reading. Now, with her husband's body stretched by her, his handsome head nestled against her abdomen, the poem took on new meaning. Her voice trembled slightly as she read, "'As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing....'"

It was the last lines which struck her most, however:

Weave a circle round him thrice,

And close your eyes with holy dread,

For he on honeydew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Without opening his eyes he commented, "An adequate description of the pampered aristocracy, though not what poor Samuel means, I think. Are your eyes suitably closed, my houri?"

"No," she admitted, for she was feasting on his beauty.

"'Beware! Beware!'" he quoted from an earlier line. His eyes flicked open and held hers. "'For thou art with me here upon the banks/ Of this fair river; thou my dearest friend.'"Captured by his gaze, Beth licked her lips. "I don't recognize that."

He curled smoothly to his feet, leaving a chill where he had been. "Wordsworth, of course, though I don't remember which poem." He gave her a hand and pulled her up. Beth wanted to ask if she was his friend, if she was only his friend. Another line of Wordsworth had sprung disconcertingly into her mind and echoed there: "'Strange fits of passion have I known....'"

He retained her hand and quoted teasingly, "'A perfect woman, nobly plann'd. To warn, to comfort, and command....'"

It sounded like the description of a mother or even a governess. "I'm not sure I wish to be that kind of woman," Beth protested.

"No? I thought it would be the Wollstonecraft ideal. You may like the next two lines better. 'And yet a Spirit still and bright / With something of an angel light? It's time to return to the house, I think, my angel."

He turned away and gathered up their books and the rug, leaving Beth itchily dissatisfied.

As they walked back she admitted this friendship, this virtue, this talk of spirits and angels, which would surely have delighted Laura Montreville to ecstasy, frustrated her. Why? Because her thoughts were constantly on more earthy matters. How long could they go on like this, like Wordsworth and his devoted sister, Dorothy? For despite their strange family connection, brother and sister they most certainly were not. Would he really wait for her to make the first move? It was so unfair. She had no notion what to do.

That night, their last night at Hartwell, Beth suggested a walk in the moonlight. It was a perfect June evening and the full moon sailed beneficently over them. Again it turned his springy curls to silver gilt and Beth remembered that time at Belcraven and that casual thumb on her nipple. She shuddered, but this time it was not with fear or disgust.

"Are you cold?" he asked with concern.

"No, of course not. Someone walked over my grave, I suppose."

They were in the laburnum walk, and the long yellow blossoms were all about them, filling the air with their perfume. Beth sighed.

"Will you be so sorry to return to Town?" he asked.

"I will, a little. This simple life is more to my taste, but I know we must."

"When the Season's over we can return here if you wish."

"What would you normally have done?"

He shrugged. "Brighton for a while. Some time at Belcraven. Visiting friends."

"Do you miss your friends?" asked Beth curiously.

He smiled, teeth white in the moonlight. "I have a new friend."

She had to speak of it, but she turned away. " Do you not mind?" she asked.

"Having a friend?"

"Having only a friend."

He turned her with gentle hands. "Do I appear to be driven crazy with frustration?" he asked. "I'm able to enjoy a woman's company without demanding more."

Beth raised her hands helplessly and let them drop. "I know nothing."

He took her chin gently and raised her head so he could study her face. "I don't mean to tease you, Beth. If you want me, you have only to say."

She stared up at him, trying to read his secret thoughts in his features. "I don't know."

No flicker of regret or frustration marked him. He smiled and dropped a butterfly kiss on her lips. "When you do, you have only to tell me." He then drew her hand through his arm, and they turned back to the house.

As they reached the French doors through which they had left, it became unbearable to Beth that they simply go off to their separate rooms as they had every other night. She said suddenly, "Kiss me, Lucien."

He stopped and looked down at her, a smile tugging at his lips, warmth growing in his eyes. "Like a manservant with a maid? Well, why not?"

He placed his hands on her shoulders and slid them, soft as warm velvet, up her neck to cradle her head. Beth closed her eyes to savor his touch and felt his thumbs rub, gently rough, against the line of her jaw as he stepped closer and his body brushed against hers.

"Hold me, Beth." he whispered.

She put her arms around him and, driven by some unsuspected need, pulled him hungrily close. His hands released her and his arms came around as tightly so they were fused, as it seemed, into one.

He tilted her head and set his lips to hers and that touch became a point of light burning in the dark behind her eyes. The whole of him—his' arms, his body, his spirit, and his mind—seemed to whirl about her and that point of contact.

When his lips slowly left hers she was still spinning and whirling. His mouth trailed softly, moistly down her neck. She let her head fall back and he explored the front of her throat. Then his hands came up along her ribs to cup her breasts.

A shuddering response swept through her. Her wanton body recognized it with delight, but her mind flinched in alarm. She felt like a person who has prayed for gentle rain and received a raging torrent.

The French doors were pushed open and knocked against them.

They broke apart and turned sharply to see the horrified face of the butler. "My lord. My lady. I beg your pardon!" The red-faced man fled. Beth and Lucien looked at one another and burst into laughter. Beth could feel her face burning, though. She had never been so embarrassed in her life. She hastily readjusted her disarranged bodice.

"He probably thought it
was
the footman with the maid in the shrubbery," Lucien chuckled. "Well, it establishes our reputation as romantics." He looked at her, still smiling but thoughtful. She could see the passion in his eyes and yet he was once more in control of himself, and she was glad of it. Someone had to be in control in these wild waters, or they would surely drown.

For all that, she wanted to be in his arms again.

He made no move in that direction and merely held the door for her to pass through, then locked it after them.

They went through the parlor to the small hall. He picked up the lamp set ready for them there and carried it as they walked up the stairs. The lamp formed a globe of light in the dark of the quiet house, as if they lived inside their own magic circle, alone.

Though they walked apart, Beth was aware of him as if they touched. Surely he would come into her bedroom now and complete the swirling madness they had started with that kiss.

Did she want it? Oh, she didn't know. It terrified her and yet drew her.... One thing she knew, she wanted it done. They couldn't live on this knife edge much longer. Surely once it was done they could relax and be comfortable again.

He entered her bedroom but only to put the lamp down on a table there. He turned to look at her and Beth fretted over what she should do.

"You look terrified again," he said.

Beth tried to protest, but her voice formed an unconvincing choke out of her denial.

"It is doubtless very foolish of me," he said with a whimsical smile, "but when I love you first, my angel, I want my wife to be that fiery termagant who called me a baboon."

She watched helplessly as he strolled towards the door.

He turned and cocked an eyebrow. "I could be seduced out of that, if you wished to try."

At that moment, deeply stirred by the teasing humor in his blue eyes and driven by strange forces within, Beth would have made the attempt if she had any notion of what to do. While she was struggling to think of a provocative remark, he quietly left.

Collapsing sadly on her bed, Beth had to admit he was right. On their wedding night he had called her a wounded bird and though this time at Hartwell had been a time of healing, she still felt bruised in her spirit. She did not fear him anymore, but she didn't have in her the spirit to call a marquess a baboon. If that was the Beth he wanted, it would take a little while yet.

She could not bear to disappoint him.

Chapter 16

Lucien chose to ride back alongside the chariot. Despite the way their superficial friendship had grown, it was just like the first journey they had made and the rift was almost as great. During their journey from Cheltenham Beth had read
Self-Control,
but she no longer had any taste for Laura Montreville. What had that arid search for unimpeachable virtue to do with this... this roaring passion? Instead she spent the hours in serious thought.

There was something very precious almost within grasp. She thought it might be that ideal, friendship within marriage. She had imagined, however, that it would be separate from more earthy passions and might even be jeopardized by them. Now she saw it was quite the opposite. The incompleteness of their marriage formed a barrier to their true harmony.

She must apply herself to that and not let any trivial qualms on her part, or on his, interfere. She laughed at the folly of it all. After years of warning girls to avoid lustful men, it seemed to her ridiculous that she couldn't quite manage to get her husband into her bed.