Chapter 7
When she separated from the taciturn marquess, Beth took refuge in the library.
He seemed to believe she was a virgin and yet it had not greatly helped matters.
She had no idea what he thought she had done.
A solid education including the unexpurgated classics had left her, she thought, well informed about men and women and what they did together.
The reality, however, was like thinking knowledge of a bathtub adequate preparation for a life at sea.
She had not wished to be kissed in hate. What would it be like if she had to share a marriage bed in that spirit?
Tears threatened again, and again she pressed them back ruthlessly.
She would not degenerate into a watering pot.
She wished desperately that she had someone in whom to confide, someone to turn to for advice.
It could not be Miss Mallory, for she would simply tell her to return home and give up all notion of the marriage.
And besides, Beth had to suppose that lady’s worldly wisdom to be as flawed as her own.
The duchess was the only married woman available to her, and she could not bring herself to lay the whole sordid mess before the marquess’s mother.
Her only choice seemed to be to behave with such impeccable good breeding that the marquess would realize she could not be the kind of monster he imagined.
Who on earth were these men who were supposed to have handled her? With a choke of laughter Beth thought of her beaux, such as they had been.
Mr. Rutherford, the curate, who had blushed fiercely when forced one day to untangle her skirt from a rose bush; Mr. Grainger, the philosopher, who had once kissed her on the lips then apologized profusely for the presumption and fled; Dr. Carnarvon, who cared for the pupils at Miss Mallory’s.
The good doctor had hovered about her for a year before saying that he was quite unworthy of her because of his earthy desires. He had then married a sensible widow.
She tried to imagine any of those men treating her as the marquess had done—kissing her with an open mouth, touching her breast. That was not how a man touched a respectable woman. Perhaps she should write to the “men in her life” and ask for character references.
Then an illustration popped into her mind—a picture from one of Miss Mallory’s more outré books, one of the ones kept locked from the pupils. It was of Venus and Mars. Venus was lying half-naked in the lap of Mars who had one of his hands on her naked breast.
Good God! Did the marquess think she had done that? With Mr. Rutherford? Beth leapt to her feet, her hands pressed to flaming cheeks. How could she ever face him again? Surely such things only occurred in pagan times!
It was at that moment that the duchess walked in. “I knew I would find you here, my dear—” She halted, puzzled to see Beth standing in the middle of the room. “Is anything the matter, Elizabeth?”
Beth knew an outright denial would not be believed and so she said, “Just a little crise de nerfs, that’s all, Your Grace.”
“I hope it was nothing Lucien did,” said the duchess, coming closer. Beth knew she had just turned even redder. “He is fundamentally a good man, but he has enough of his father in him to be difficult at times.”
Startled at this casual reference to the marquess’s parentage, Beth could only say, “Oh.”
The duchess smiled her sweet smile which always had a dimming overlay of sadness.
“It needn’t be a forbidden subject between us.
St. Briac was dashing but totally unreliable.
He was a mess of fiery emotions, a constant explosion of impulses.
I could have married him, you know. He had property, and though a poor prospect for one such as I, was not totally ineligible.
He asked for my hand, but I would not marry him. He was too…explosive.”
So that was where the marquess got his temper. “And yet I am to marry his son,” said Beth.
“Lucien is not very like him, I assure you, Elizabeth. He is a lot like me and I, as you can see, am a very practical woman. He also has modeled himself a great deal on the duke, who is everything that St. Briac was not.”
Beth had suspected there was a deep love between the duke and duchess, hidden somehow by the formality of their lives.
She saw it clearly now as the duchess spoke admiringly of her husband.
But why then did they live as they did? She tried to imagine the duke and duchess… . Hastily she controlled her mind.
The duchess said again, “But as Lucien has that touch of wildness and a temper, I wondered if he had upset you.”
“It is only my situation, Your Grace, which disturbs me. It would be the same with any man.” Even as she said it, Beth knew that was not true. The marquess had a particular genius for setting her on edge.
The duchess, the practical woman, shrugged.
“C’est la vie. And I am afraid I must disturb you more.
There will be callers and there is the ball to consider.
I am afraid, my dear, if you do not wish to be a quiz, you are going to have to allow us to procure you new clothes. Lucien said you would agree to this.”
Beth looked down at her simple yellow round gown. She had thought such gowns ubiquitous and unremarkable.
“Yes, I know,” said the duchess with a deprecating smile, “But it looks homemade, my dear. We are not going to try to pretend to anyone that you bring a fortune, but they are bound to wonder why we don’t dress you.”
“Very well,” sighed Beth. She had, after all, given her word to the marquess. “But I must have some say in my clothes.”
“But of course,” said the duchess happily. “Now come along.”
Beth had already discovered that the duchess could move with great speed, and she was almost running as she kept up with the older woman on the way to her rooms. A footman was sent to find the head seamstress.
“Mrs. Butler is well able to make a stylish plain gown and will take your measurements. We will send a muslin toile to London and have a ball gown made for you. In fact,” she said with a shrewd glance at Beth, “I think I will send Lucien. It will get him out of the way and give him some light relief. He can execute a number of necessary commissions far better than a servant. We must look at the periodicals.”
Another footman was sent off to bring these from the duchess’s suite.
“We must do something about jewels, too,” said the duchess. “Lucien will buy you some, but there are pieces among the family jewels which you should have.” Another footman went hurrying on his way.
In Beth’s room they went straight into the dressing room.
“You had best slip out of your gown, my dear,” the duchess said briskly. Beth did as she was told and put on her wrap.
“Underclothes,” said the duchess, as if making a mental list. “Silk nightdresses.” Beth felt her cheeks heat up again. “Do you wish us to buy you a full wardrobe now or would you rather purchase it for yourself when you are married?”
“Does it make any difference?” asked Beth, feeling like someone who has moved one small stone and caused a landslide.
“It depends on where you are to honeymoon and how soon you intend to take up fashionable life.”
“I don’t know.”
“Ask Lucien,” said the duchess. Beth was not sure if it was an instruction or another mental note.
By then the summonses were having effect. A tall gaunt woman, followed by a little maid carrying a basket and a selection of swatches, proved to be the seamstress. She swiftly took measurements of all parts of Beth’s body as the duchess chattered on about types of gowns.
“Round gowns,” she said. “Of the simplest lines, I think. You agree, Elizabeth?” Before Beth had time to respond, she went on. “Muslin. Let me see. This cream jaconet is lovely, isn’t it? Or this figured lawn….”
Beth gave up and allowed the duchess to choose three gowns to be made quickly—one of figured lawn, one of jaconet muslin sprigged with green, and one of plain cambric. She also gave orders for the beginning of a trousseau of personal garments, all to be monogrammed.
The dressmaker left, and Beth resumed her maligned homemade gown.
She was immediately drawn over to look through the fashion magazines with the duchess.
She was prepared to protest if she thought the choices unsuitable, but otherwise she was resigned to letting the duchess make them.
What did she know of such silly matters?
In a moment, it seemed, six grand, and surely expensive, outfits had been selected to be ordered from London. “And a habit,” said the duchess firmly. “And boots.”
Next, the beleaguered Beth had a small fortune of jewelry spread casually on the table before her—silver, gold, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, pearls.
She could not help her fingers going out to touch a beautiful diamond bracelet that shot fire in the light of the sun, and a string of softly glowing pearls.
She pulled her hand back. Truly she was being seduced, and not with kisses.
She resolutely refused to accept anything except the string of pearls, traditional ornament of a gently bred young woman, a set of amber baubles which did not look expensive, and, under pressure, some diamonds.
She chose a delicate parure as being the least overwhelming.
“It is very pretty,” said the duchess doubtfully, fingering the diamonds, “but the stones are small. Will you not take this one?” she asked, opening a case to show a magnificent set in which huge diamonds flashed blades of rainbow colors.
Beth shrank away. What had Beth Armitage to do with a thing like that? “No, Your Grace. Truly. I much prefer the other.”
“As you wish, my dear,” the duchess said with her typical Gallic shrug.