Chapter 5 #3
“So what are you going to do if he mistreats her, William?” she challenged. “Forbid the marriage? You can’t do that and still achieve your purpose. Or will you bring them together for occasional matings, carefully guarded like a dangerous stallion and a prize mare?”
“Yolande!”
She leapt to her feet and challenged him. “Tell me. What are you going to do?”
He rose too, color on his cheeks. “A fine opinion you have of your son, madam! From knowledge of the father, no doubt.”
“His manners have been learned from you, Belcraven. And his cruelty.”
“You dare accuse me of cruelty?”
She turned away and ran her hands through her hair.
To the duke she looked like the girl he had married and adored. Her figure was still shapely and in the candlelight her hair looked guinea-gold.
“Yes, cruel,” she said softly, still facing away. “I never realized until you proposed this plan just how ruthless you could be. All these years I have thought you suffered,” she said, turning to stare at him with tear-filled eyes. “Now I see you were merely obsessed with punishing me.”
With that she fled the room. Too fast. Straight on the thought he realized how stupid it was to worry about the servants. Why should they not for once see the family as human beings, not remote demigods without emotions or flaws?
Punishing her? She thought he had been punishing her all these years? All these years of anguish and self-denial.
He remembered wanting something sharp to break their crystal prison. Was this what he wanted? To be hated? To see Yolande cry?
Seeking an outlet, the duke’s anguish turned to rage and found a focus. It was all Arden’s fault. Everything was Arden’s fault, and now he could not even manage a simple dynastic marriage with grace.
The duke stalked out onto the terrace to castigate his heir but found the place empty in the cold moonlight. Control slowly returned. The girl had been tired after her journey and nervous in a strange place. If there had been trouble, it had doubtless been over nothing and soon smoothed over.
He returned to the drawing room and extinguished the candles one by one.
In the moonlight he saw his wife’s book where it had tumbled to the floor, and he picked it up, smoothing the pages.
She had looked magnificent in her rage. He remembered those rages when they had been young.
He felt remarkably young himself tonight.
Again he clamped control upon himself. Their crystal cage was protection as well as restraint. Like an old lion he did not think he could live without the bars.
The marquess had left the terrace by the steps which led down to the knot garden.
He was marrying a whore. He might as well marry Blanche. Much better, in fact. He liked Blanche, and she had her own impeccable sense of honor. What would the duke say if he told him about Elizabeth Armitage’s promiscuity?
He wouldn’t care as long as the children were legitimate. No, he wouldn’t care as long as they appeared to be legitimate. The marquess only had to give them a name. As long as they were Elizabeth’s brats they’d be worthy of the de Vaux inheritance.
He slammed his hand into a tree. It hurt, but he didn’t care.
He strode over the rolling parkland, relishing his hate.
Who did he hate the most? Elizabeth? No.
He despised her, but she was just another puppet like himself.
The duke? Oh yes, he could hate the duke, but, legitimate or not, the marquess was a de Vaux with all the pride of the line, and he understood the duke’s motives.
He, too, wanted his sons to carry on the line.
His mother? Yes, that was the person to hate. Her foolish lust had caused all this. But with the thought came such desolation he could have howled.
Fury and activity burnt away some of his pain, and he began to think as he retraced his steps to the house.
Elizabeth Armitage was not unintelligent, and he had no evidence she was crazed with lust. He’d met women like that and she showed none of their concupiscence.
She could probably control herself, and he would make sure she did.
It offended him to think she was impure, but he could make sure it was no worse than that.
Seeking some kind of solace, he wandered towards the stables, his boyhood haunt.
Every second he could steal away from his tutor had been spent here or out riding.
It was dark and quiet, but the familiar pungent smell of horse and hay was there, and soft rustlings as the beasts moved in their sleep. He wandered around for a while.
He was about to leave when he heard a faint whistling. He followed the sound to a dark corner where a figure sat on a bale of hay, staring at the moon and whistling out of tune.
“What are you doing here?” he asked in a quiet voice.
The figure started and turned. The marquess recognized the boy he had found in London. Sparrow.
“Nothin’, milord.”
The boy was scared, and that seemed ridiculous. What was there between them except good luck? They were both misbegotten brats. He’d seen the boy only once after that night, given him his guinea in shillings, and arranged for him to become a stable boy.
Now he sat beside the lad on the bale. “Don’t be afraid. If you want to spend your sleep time staring at the moon, it’s no skin off my back. If I know Jarvis, he’ll take it out of yours if you’re slow in your work tomorrow.”
“That he will, milord, but I don’t need a lot of sleep mostly, and I like to look at the night and listen. It’s different from Lunnon.”
“I suppose it is. Do you like it here, then?”
“Yus, I does.”
The marquess leaned back and looked at the night sky. “Those three stars over there,” he said to the boy, “the ones in a straight line. That’s Orion.”
“That’s what?”
“Orion. It’s a name given to those particular stars. He was a mighty Greek hunter, but he chose the wrong prey and went after the Pleiades, so Artemis killed him and now he’s three stars.”
“Lord love us,” murmured the boy. “Furriners are a funny lot and no mistake.”
The marquess realized his musings were being taken seriously but only laughed. “Let that be a lesson to you, Sparrow, not to cross Greek women. If you can avoid Greeks altogether, it would be as well.”
He was on Sparrow’s ground here, though, and the boy caught the reference to card sharps and other thieves.
“That’s what me old friend Micky Rafferty used to say.
‘Just learn to know a Greek when you see one.’ You’d have liked Micky,” he said wistfully.
“He were transported for slumming.” Suddenly he recollected who he was talking to. “Beggin’ your pardon, milord.”
“Oh, don’t start that again, Sparrow,” said the marquess wearily. “You know, I really can’t keep calling you that. Don’t you have a real name?”
“It is me real moniker.”
“Well, what was your mother called?”
“Babs, milord.”
The marquess looked at the boy. Even in the past few weeks his face had filled out, and in his sturdy clothes he looked quite promising. He deserved a better name than Sparrow.
“I know,” he said. “We’ll change the bird. How would you like to be called Robin?”
“Dunno. I’m used to Sparra.”
“But it’s not a name for a young man who’s going up in the world, is it? Robin Babson. How’s that?”
The boy’s eyes seemed to shine like the stars in Orion. “Robin Babson? That’d be me?”
“If you want.”
“Yus,” said the boy fiercely.
“Good.” The marquess rose and yawned. “If you like the country you can stay here.”
“Forever?”
“Well, unless you want to go elsewhere when you’re trained.”
“If—if you don’t mind, milord, I’d rather stay with you.” The worship in the young voice was unmistakable.
The marquess considered his devotee ruefully. His attention had only been a whimsical kindness, a salve to his own wounded pride, but he couldn’t hurt the child. “Work hard while we’re here and you can help my groom, Dooley,” he said.
“Thanks, milord,” said the boy, bouncing up not out of manners but from sheer excitement. “Thanks.”
“If you’re going to look after my cattle, though, you need your sleep. Go to bed.”
“Yus, sir.” The boy ran off and then turned. “G’night.”
“Good night, Robin,” said the marquess softly in the dark.