Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (8 page)

In truth, Beth told herself sternly, there was no justification for her own self-pity when the shadow of war hung over them all. If Napoleon could not be brought to see reason, many fathers, sons, and brothers would be maimed or dead, which made a luxurious, if loveless, marriage seem a petty tragedy indeed.

She occupied herself for a little while in viewing the scenery. Spring had greened the grass and trees, and they rolled past occasional mats of yellow daffodils and blue harebells. A hare ran twisting and turning crazily across a meadow. In another field lambs frolicked near their mothers.

It was Beth's favorite time of year, but this spring heralded only misery, and though her problem was small in the greater scheme of things, it dominated her thoughts.

It would take most of the day to reach Belcraven Park, so Beth took out Miss Mallory's parting gift to her—
Self-Control, a Novel,
by Mary Brunton. It was supposedly based on the most upright principles. Though Mary Wollstonecraft had despised works of fiction, Miss Mallory thought it wise to permit the older girls to indulge their taste for novels, but only through directed reading. She had asked Beth to send back a report on the book as soon as possible.

By the time they paused to change horses, Laura Montreville had rejected her dashing suitor for the excellent reason that he had first tried to seduce her before attempting the more subtle lure of marriage.

By the time the next halt was called, the handsome colonel had persuaded Laura to allow him two years in which to prove himself a reformed character, and Beth was becoming a little impatient with the heroine. If she did not love the man she should give him no reason to hope. If, as it appeared, Laura did love him, it was silliness to demand that he give up all outward show of his feelings for her because of some notion that uncontrolled emotions paved the way to hell.

Mary Wollstonecraft had urged the honest expression of feelings and beliefs, and that meshed very well with Beth's naturally honest temperament.

Beth found herself wondering what Laura would have done in her own situation. She decided the young lady was so lacking in reality and common sense she would have sunk into a decline and died. Now
that
would serve the marquess and his father as they deserved, thought Beth with a grim smile, and ruin their plans into the bargain. Unfortunately, she could not see how it would do her any good at all. She just wasn't the stuff of which heroines were made. She lacked the right kind of sensibility.

Beth conceived a better plan than meekly fading away. The marquess was obviously unhappy with the marriage plan. If she was sufficiently abrasive, unattractive, and unpleasant, surely he would think a lifetime tied to her was too high a price to pay for a pure-blooded heir. It would be no effort at all to be abrasive and unpleasant.

The horses were changed frequently and with lightning efficiency, but when the team was unhitched at Chipping Norton the marquess opened the door.

"We will break the journey here," he said. "You will be glad of a meal, I'm sure." The hours of riding had ruffled his curls and brought a shine to his eyes. His smile was genuinely friendly as he asked, "I hope you are not finding the journey too tiring."

As she descended the steps Beth repressed an urge to respond favorably to this goodwill. She was not normally ungracious, but such good humor would not answer at all. She put an edge on her voice as she said, "How could I, my lord, when everything is of the first stare?"

His smile dimmed. "It is going to be very tiresome, Miss Armitage, if you are to carp at everything that is better than utilitarian." They had reached the door of the inn, and the host was bowing low to usher such exalted guests inside. Beth quailed. She had never been treated so in her life.

Lord Arden, however, appeared oblivious to the man as he added, "And if you will not make any effort to consider my feelings, then I perhaps will see no reason to consider yours."

Shocked back into consideration of her main problem, Beth stared at her husband-to-be.

"Truce?" he asked.

That wasn't what Beth wanted at all. "Am I never to say what I think?"

"It depends, I suppose, if you want me to say what I think."

All too aware of the host, still bobbing and bowing, Beth carried on into the private parlor. When they were alone she challenged him. "Why would I not wish you to speak your mind? I am not afraid of the truth."

He shrugged off his riding cloak and dropped it over a chair. "Very well," he said coldly. "I find you unattractive and this whole situation abominable. Now, how does that help?"

"Since I already knew that," she shot back, "it hardly changes matters at all." But it did. Beth was foolishly hurt by the very disgust she was seeking. And if the situation was abominable, why was he tolerating it?

He was leaning against the mantel, looking at her as if she were an intrusive stranger—an intrusive, ill-bred stranger. "Except now it is spoken," he said, "and before it was decently hidden. Spoken words assume a life of their own, Miss Armitage, and cannot be unsaid. However, in the cause of sanity I am quite willing to pretend if you will join in the game."

"Pretend what?"

"Contentment."

Beth turned away, her hands pressed together. "I cannot."

There was silence, a chinking, then she heard his boots on the floor as he walked towards her. "Here, Elizabeth." He sounded nothing so much as weary.

She turned and took the wine he offered, sipping cautiously. It was a rare indulgence at Miss Mallory's, and it encouraged her to resist the peace offering it represented. She forced herself to meet his disdainful eyes. "I have not given you permission to use my name, sir. I would ask you to remember, Lord Arden, that this matter—which is a minor disturbance to your life—has destroyed mine. I have been taken from my home, my friends, and my employment, and forced into a way of life in which I can expect no pleasure." She put her glass down with a snap. "It will take me a few days longer, I am afraid, to be able to pretend
contentment."

His eyes sparked dangerously. "I am not generally considered to be repulsive,
Miss Armitage."

Beth's response was swift and tart. "Nor is a baboon, I'm sure, in its proper milieu."

Any retaliation from the outraged marquess was forestalled by the arrival of servants with their meal. He turned away sharply and went to stand by the far window until the meal was ready. When the innkeeper obsequiously encouraged them to partake of his best, Beth and the marquess approached the table like wary opponents and took seats at the opposite ends. By silent agreement they ate in unbroken silence.

Beth kept her eyes on her plate. Her heart was pounding, and the delicious food formed lumps in her dry mouth. For one moment she had faced leashed fury such as she had only ever imagined. She had feared him, had feared that he might hit her, throttle her even. But she
couldn't
be terrified of him. Not if she was to turn him so totally against her.

It was beyond her at the moment, however, to attempt more taunts, and there were no further words before the journey resumed.

Beth opened her book once more but used it as a blind for thought. Her plan was not as easy as she had thought. Could she provoke him sufficiently to give him an overpowering antipathy to her without driving him to the violence she had sensed? She shuddered. She had never encountered such a man before. There was something about him, something coiled tight, able to be unleashed for good or evil.

Hands clenched painfully tight on
Self-Control,
Beth knew she must not, could not, marry such a man. Despite the duke's assurances, as her husband the marquess would have all right to her body. He would be free to beat her if he wished. If he were to beat her to death he would likely incur only a mild penalty, especially as he would have all the riches and power of his family on his side, and she would have no powerful friends to protest.

But she reminded herself of the maxims of Publius. Fear is to be feared more than death or injury. She could not afford fear.

The duke and the marquess needed her in order to achieve their end, needed her in excellent health for successful child-bearing. That was her protection from extreme violence and, after all, if blows were the price she must pay for making him reject her, she would count it—like the heroes of Athens—a small cost for her freedom.

She smiled wryly. It was perhaps uplifting to think of the brave men of Athens who died for freedom, but she did not fool herself that the next few days were likely to be easy or pleasant.

They changed horses again twice but only in minutes. An hour later, at the next change, the coach halted and the door swung open.

"It is another hour or so to Belcraven, Miss Armitage. Would you like some tea? You could take it in the coach or come into the inn." The marquess was a model of impersonal punctiliousness.

In the same manner, Beth extended a hand to be helped down. "I would like to stretch my legs, I think. Perhaps I could walk a little here."

"Certainly," he said and extended an arm.

Despite her silent debate in the coach, Beth found she did not want his company at all. He was such a big man and so very cold. "There is no need for you to accompany me, my lord."

"Of course there is," he said, staring into the distance. "It would be most odd if I did not."

Helplessly Beth laid her hand lightly on his sleeve, and they strolled along the road of the small town. She tried to force herself to say something offensive, but his silence was like a wall between them, and her tongue stayed frozen.

After about ten minutes, the marquess said, "Perhaps we should turn back now," and they did so.

At the inn he said, "Would you like some tea?" Beth agreed that she would. He arranged it and left her alone.

When she had finished and made a brief toilette, he escorted her to the coach, mounted his horse, and they were off.

Beth contemplated a lifetime of such arid courtesy and shuddered. A marriage like that would be death in life to her, but it doubtless would only be an inconvenience to him. What was needed, after all, to produce a clutch of children? A few brief, soulless encounters. For the rest of the time he would be able to continue with his present life undisturbed.

Her determination to pursue her plan was reborn and strengthened. To escape this kind of life she would do anything, face any threat.

Not during this journey, however. All too soon the groom on the box made a long blast on his horn and they swept through magnificent, gilded, wrought-iron gates. They were in Belcraven Park. The gatekeeper and his family doffed their caps or dipped a curtsy as appropriate. Beth turned her face away. It was not right that these people pay her homage.

The carriage rolled along the smooth drive between ranks of perfect lime trees. In the meadows to either side, speckled deer raised their heads to watch them pass. She saw a lake with what appeared to be a Grecian temple in the middle. She heard the shriek of peacocks—those useless living ornaments of the rich.

Then the curve of the driveway presented Belcraven. Beth gaped. In the setting sun it was a mountain of golden stone decorated with carvings and crenelations and set with the glimmering jewels of hundreds of windows. It was enormous, the largest building Beth had ever seen, and the most beautiful. This was to be her home?

Impossible.

When the coach stopped beneath the great curving double steps which led up to massive gleaming doors already open, Beth wanted to huddle in the coach. It, after all, was of a scale much more to her liking. The door was soon opened however, and the steps let down. The marquess stood waiting for her.

With trembling fingers she set her bonnet on her head and tied the ribbons, then ventured out. Hand on his arm she climbed the thirty steps (she counted them) and hoped no one could tell how her knees were knocking.

Inside the doors there seemed to be a great many people, all servants. A portly gentleman of awe-inspiring dignity bowed, then divested the marquess of his outerwear. "Welcome home, my lord."

"Thank you, Gorsham. Miss Armitage, this is Gorsham, our Groom of the Chambers."

Beth knew this meant he controlled the running of this enormous establishment, and he certainly looked capable of it. She received a bow all for herself. "Miss Armitage. Welcome to Belcraven."

Poor, speechless Beth was hard pressed not to curtsy but contented herself with a little nod, hoping it to be appropriate.

"How long to dinner, Gorsham?" asked the marquess as he strolled into a massive hall. Beth followed quickly after. For the moment he was her only connection in this place. She rather feared if they were separated, she'd be thrown out like the interloper she was, or wished she was.

She looked around in awe.

Spiral marble pillars banded with gold marched ahead over a tiled floor which seemed to stretch to infinity. Marble busts and statues of classical type were set about the chamber, and the walls were hung with ancient banners and weapons. Forcing herself not to gape, Beth looked up over three tiers of ornate balustrades and realized the room went all the way to the roof where there was an octagonal skylight which let in the afternoon sun. The whole of Miss Mallory's school could have fit in this one chamber.