Chapter 9 #3
It was as if a chasm yawned between them, as if they spoke different languages entirely. Anger drained from Beth, leaving only sadness. “You need not fear that, my lord,” she said quietly. “I will never try to use feminine wiles to rule you.”
With that she turned away toward the door but waited politely for him to open it.
“You will notice,” he said as she walked out ahead of him, “that I suppressed the obvious rejoinder.”
Beth responded to his light tone with one of her own. “That you would prefer feminine wiles? You are bound for disappointment there, Lord Arden. I have none.”
“How fortunate then,” he drawled, “that I have wiles enough for two.”
It was, she supposed, a gallant attempt on both their parts to restore some kind of harmony, but the evening loomed before them, full of traps and disasters.
They walked along in silence until they were nearly at the open doors of the drawing room.
A rumble of conversation escaped the room, lightened by exclamations and laughter.
Through the door Beth could see a number of glittering people, and she knew there were many more out of sight.
She came to understand his concern about appearances.
They were about to go on stage before the cream of the county.
She stopped and turned to him. “I’m sorry if I’ve been unreasonable, my lord. I no longer seem to know right from wrong, sense from nonsense. When we are struggling to keep afloat in strange waters, we do not always take care of others.”
He considered her seriously and again she had the impression that he was at least trying to understand her point of view.
He began to reply, then glanced over her shoulder.
“We are observed. I am going to give you a very small kiss, Elizabeth. It will do our reputation as mad romantics a world of good and cut down,” he added dryly, “on the required number of languishing looks.”
Despite an urge to escape, Beth stood still as he held her by the shoulders and touched his lips to hers.
As he said, it was gentle and unalarming, but it was not without effect.
It was their first kiss and contained a grain of something of worth—perhaps concern, or even the greater warmth of embryonic friendship.
Beth was aware that it was precious and raised one hand to gently touch the side of his handsome face.
He gave her a swift suspicious look. With a sinking heart, she realized he saw the gesture as evidence of boldness. Quicksands indeed.
She was not a blushing schoolgirl, after all. She was mature and confident, with at least book knowledge of men and yet, because of her foolish words, if she relaxed for a second he saw her as wanton. With a sigh, she replaced her hand on his arm and allowed herself to be drawn into the lion’s den.
The large, gilded drawing room was hung with huge Gobelin tapestries separated by ornate pilasters.
The arms of the de Vaux, repeated again and again in blue, red, and gold marched across the ceiling lit by hundreds of candles in scintillating chandeliers which seemed to spark flashes from ostentatious jewelry and avid eyes.
Conversation ceased. To Beth it appeared they were the focus of hundreds of pairs of eyes.
Her hand clutched at the marquess’s arm.
The duke and duchess came forward to stand by their side.
Then the duke introduced Beth. All these friends and neighbors applauded, but Beth was sure she could see incredulity in some eyes and envy in others.
When the guests looked away and recommenced their chatter, Beth knew that now they were talking about her.
She could imagine the words. “Such a dab of a thing.”
“Nothing special about her at all.”
“Can’t hold a candle to….”
Abandoning notions of independence, Beth thanked the heavens that the nature of the occasion made it proper for the marquess to stay by her side, for she might otherwise have given in to panic.
As it was she found her nerves jumping from the number of people—and these were only the ones invited to dinner—and the way they looked at her as she and the marquess circled the room talking to first one group then the next.
There were impertinent questions. There were jealous looks from a number of young ladies and their mamas. There was insincere, gushing familiarity. She was amazed and embarrassed by the number of people who tried to toady to her. She was really just Beth Armitage, schoolteacher.
The three young men brought from London seemed to have no problems with the betrothal. Beth wondered what the marquess had told them, for these guests must know him well.
Lord Amleigh was a handsome, dark-haired young man with lively gray eyes. He seemed rather intense, almost fiery.
Lord Darius Debenham was sandy haired with blue eyes. He would never be described as handsome, but his lively features were full of attractive good humor. He looked exactly the kind of man who would try to build a champagne fountain.
Major Beaumont was rather like the marquess in build and almost matched him in looks in a dark-haired, dark-eyed way. She noted with sympathy his empty sleeve.
The three were talking to two local men—Mr. Pedersby and Sir Vincent Hooke, both ruddy-faced and a little too loud.
It was Major Beaumont who stepped forward after the introductions. “Well, Miss Armitage,” he said, raising her hand and kissing it with the air of a practiced flirt. “So you are Arden’s secret treasure. I can quite see how it is. You are definitely out of the usual way.”
Beth glanced up sharply to see if there was innuendo in that comment, but if so it was well-concealed. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “I have never sought to be one of the herd.”
“But you are the very leader of the flock,” said Sir Vincent with a silly laugh. “The flock of beauties who have hunted poor Arden down.”
Beth glanced to the marquess for help, but he was laughing at some remark by Lord Darius.
She gave in to the temptation to vent her irritation on a suitable target.
“Flock?” she queried lightly, making play with her fan.
“Sheep? But sheep do not hunt. Or starlings? Pray tell me, Sir Vincent. Which birds hunt in flocks?”
“Well….” Plump Sir Vincent had turned even redder and was opening and closing his mouth like a fish. “A manner of speaking….”
“Perhaps you meant wolves,” said Beth kindly in her best schoolmistress manner. “The collective noun, however, is pack. Or lions? A pride?”
She became aware that the marquess, along with everyone else in the group, was listening to her.
“Are we starting a zoo?” he asked mildly. “A pride of lions? Perhaps it should be a pride of dukes.”
Beth couldn’t help a laugh. “Or marquesses. What about a peep of chickens? We could change that to a peep of maidens.”
“A gaggle of geese becomes a gaggle of dowagers,” he returned with a grin. “No, that doesn’t work too well. I have a better one. A leap of leopards. A leap of libertines.”
“Should I perhaps ‘peep’ at that one?” asked Beth, delighted at this quick-witted and absurd conversation. “And what would you do with a shrewdness of apes, my lord?”
“A shrewdness of schoolteachers,” he said triumphantly. “We are neglecting our guests, my dear.”
Beth became aware of the five young men watching them with various degrees of astonishment.
For a few moments she had forgotten her circumstances and discovered something precious.
She could not remember matching her wits like that before and it was a heady delight.
She flashed a quick, self-conscious look at the marquess and met a similar one of his own. He, too, had been surprised.
It was Viscount Amleigh who stepped into the silence. “You’d need a very special word, Miss Armitage, to describe the hunting beasts of Almack’s.”
Beth smiled at the young man who had doubtless been pursued there with great determination. “A militia of mamas?” she offered.
“A desperation of debutantes,” was the marquess’s dry contribution.
“I think we should stop, Elizabeth, or we’ll get an unconquerable reputation for bookishness.
” He turned to his friends. “I didn’t bring you three here to enjoy yourselves, you know.
You’re supposed to be lessening the desperation of some of the local debutantes. You, too, Pedersby, Sir Vincent.”
The men good-humoredly took their marching orders and went off to pay addresses to the young ladies sitting quietly with their parents.
Still relaxed from that exchange of wit, Beth grew careless. “Do you regret your bachelorhood, my lord?”
He looked down at her coolly. “What has that to say to anything? I do not blame you for our situation.” There was a slight emphasis on the pronouns.
Forgetting where they were, Beth felt anger boil in her again “Well—”
She gasped as her elbow was taken in a vice like grip and pain shot up her arm. She found herself in a chair.
“You are unwell, Elizabeth?” asked the marquess kindly.
The duchess hurried over. “Is something the matter, my dears?”
Beth shook her head, hiding her shock. “Not at all,” she said. “I felt a sudden pain,” she glanced up at the cool eyes of her betrothed, “…from my ankle. I sprained it last year and it sometimes betrays me.”
“I hope it will not prevent you from dancing, Elizabeth,” said the duchess.
Beth stood. “Oh no, Your Grace. It was the marquess’s excessive concern that forced me to sit in the first place.”
They were back into conflict again. At that moment the meal was announced and, as it was a betrothal event, Beth had to place her hand on his arm and lead the procession to the formal dining room.
“What a remarkable liar you are,” he said with cool admiration.
“Yes, aren’t I?” replied Beth, too angered by that moment of brutal dominance to choose her words.
They went ten steps in silence and she could not resist the urge to look over at him.