Chapter 12
Back in the safety of the carriage Beth could at least be reassured that he wasn’t a cruel master to his servants no matter how he was going to behave to his wife.
He ought to know that Robin was afraid of horses, but she had given her word to the boy.
She decided she would try to sort out this minor problem.
It would take her mind off her own predicament.
When they reached London, however, it soon drove thoughts of Robin out of her head. It was a whole new world.
She had only twice been to London, and though she and Aunt Emma had visited the Royal Academy exhibition at Somerset House and strolled by the Queen’s Palace, she had never ventured within the more select areas of Mayfair.
Her previous experiences had given her the impression that London was universally noisy and dirty, but she discovered there were islands of peace and beauty for those who could afford them.
Marlborough Square was surrounded by about twenty fine mansions, some fronted by courtyards set apart by wrought-iron barriers, and others with magnificent steps leading up to great, gleaming doorways.
The center of the square was a fine garden around a fountain.
Trees were in fresh leaf and flowers bloomed.
The carriage drew up before a large double-fronted house. The arms blazoned proudly above the door confirmed that this was Belcraven House. The doors swung open and an army of servants trooped out to take care of the family. Of whom Beth was now supposedly one.
She felt as if she had been politely escorted from one prison to another.
Once in the house Beth never had a moment to herself, and she certainly never set eyes on Robin Babson.
She was taken on an exhausting round of shopping, had endless fittings for clothes, and was dragged to one social affair after another every evening.
The Season was scarcely begun and yet there was no shortage of gatherings at which the Belcraven heir and his bride could be displayed.
It was usually three or four in the morning before Beth rolled into bed, but she was not afforded the luxury of rising at noon like the rest of Society.
She was up in the morning for extra lessons in court etiquette and the correct handling of social inferiors.
It was strongly impressed upon her by the duchess that soon everyone short of royalty would be her social inferior and any mistakes in her interactions with them would be disastrous.
Beth felt a rebellious desire to sit down with the housemaid and discuss the position of woman in modern society, but she knew the maid would be as distressed by this as the duchess.
After luncheon, the cycle began again with morning visits, salons, a drive in the park, an opulent dinner, the theater, a soirée, a ball or a rout.
Everyone stared at her; people said the same boring things over and over.
Even interesting events such as the maneuvers of Napoleon and the defeat of Murat by the Austrians were gossiped to death with so little insight as to be tedious.
Beth felt she never wanted to attend another social event for the rest of her life.
The marquess was nearly always by her side, but they were never alone.
This meant there was no opportunity to grow closer but at least they could not quarrel.
As a consequence, he ceased to be a person to fear and even at times became her support.
He was surefooted in this quagmire and could be depended upon to rescue her if she faltered, if only for the sake of the damned pride of the de Vaux.
He could even at times be depended on for a little intelligent conversation though it was clearly unfashionable to be too serious, even about the prospect of war.
Beth constantly hoped to encounter a friend, for Miss Mallory’s had catered to some of the higher families and Beth had made friends with some of the girls of her own age.
The friendships had lapsed as their lives had settled into different patterns—Beth’s into study and teaching and her friends’ into social life, marriage, and motherhood—but she had every faith that some of them could be revived now she had entered her friends’ world.
She never encountered any, however, and could not always remember married names or even their place of residence.
Nor was she successful at making new friends. In this artificial environment where she felt as much an object of curiosity as a freak, there was little basis for true understanding.
Beth was sure at least some of her troubles could be laid at Phoebe Swinnamer’s door.
The beauty and her mother had come up to Town, and Phoebe was affecting an air of hurt restraint as if she’d actually been jilted.
Heaven knew what stories the girl was telling, but if the marquess stopped to say good evening to her it was as if the whole room held its breath to listen.
The one time when he was somehow inveigled into standing up with her, other dancers were tripping over each other as they attempted to watch his every expression.
If they saw anything, they saw the marquess throw Beth a look of mock despair which made her want to laugh.
Their situation was not comfortable, but Beth was relieved to see that he was not enamored of another.
She remembered he had expressed horror at the thought of marrying such a vain widgeon. Poor Phoebe.
It was not so amusing however when she found herself in conversation with the girl, aware of nearby ears stretched to catch every word.
“How tiresome for you, Miss Armitage, to have your wedding rushed so,” the girl drawled.
“I would have—” Phoebe broke off and lowered her lashes.
She would doubtless have blushed had it been within her control.
“I will,” she corrected sweetly, “insist on plenty of time to make all proper arrangements.”
This was clearly a rehearsed speech. Beth lost all sympathy for the little cat. “Will you?” she said. “I am sure your husband will be pleased to know that your desire for show and ceremony outweighs your desire to be his wife.”
The beauty stared glassily but rallied. “I merely meant, Miss Armitage, that I would wish the wedding to be done properly.”
“How kind,” countered Beth with a smile. “I’m sure the duchess would appreciate your advice. Pray go and tell her in what ways you think the wedding will fall short.”
Phoebe had lost her script and was close to losing her composure, which in her case meant that the flawless perfection of her features was slightly troubled by emotion.
“La!” she said with a little laugh. “How you do take me up. I declare it must be exhausting to converse with one so clever as you. You cannot help but be aware, Miss Armitage, that it is usual in our circles for there to be a longer period between the betrothal and the wedding.”
The “our” clearly did not encompass Beth.
Beth was framing an annihilating and yet permissible reply when she became aware of the marquess beside her.
“Alas Miss Swinnamer, you must surely know,” he said with razor-edged meaning, “that I disdain to do the usual. I’m sure one day, when some man falls into the snare of your beauty, he will rush you to the altar just as I am rushing Elizabeth. ”
This masterly speech scored so many points that some titters were heard.
Mrs. Swinnamer, who had been hovering nearby, swept down to shepherd her daughter away.
The mother looked flustered and angry, but Phoebe wore only the slightest frown.
She glanced back once, exquisitely puzzled, and it occurred to Beth that the girl had never considered until that moment that the marquess was not truly smitten by her beauty.
“I confess, I feel sorry for the poor fool,” she said to him as they moved away from their audience toward a refreshment room.
“Don’t,” he said firmly. “She’s like a honey trap—to be avoided at all times.”
“If you had avoided her,” Beth pointed out, “we would not be subjected to such sugared ambushes.”
He steered her to a seat in a relatively quiet corner. “Would you like wine? Or they have negus and orgeat.”
“Negus, please.”
He signed to a hovering footman and commanded it. “If you have any complaint,” he said, “you must make it to my mother. She was the one throwing the beautiful Phoebe at my head.”
“She believed her a suitable wife for you?” asked Beth, puzzled. She’d thought the duchess more astute.
“She thought her a possible wife,” he corrected, “and was nobly willing to do her best.” The footman arrived, and the marquess passed Beth her chilled drink.
“It was all my fault, I confess. Phoebe was making a dead set at me and I was falling into the trap. Not of her beauty,” he said, “but of her lacquered gloss. I developed an obsessive desire to disturb it. It could have proved fatal if I hadn’t come to my senses enough to flee her orbit entirely. ”
It was one of the relaxed times when he talked to her as if she were just another human being, and perhaps one he liked.
She sipped her drink and said, “I’m sure even Phoebe must wake up with her hair disordered and sheet marks on her cheek.”
“Do you think so?” he queried lazily. “That was one of my almost fatal questions. Whether she could preserve the perfect finish throughout a wedding night.”
Beth froze. The negus went the wrong way, and she spluttered and choked. He rescued her glass before the contents spilled over her green silk gown. Beth finally gasped a breath.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “I didn’t think it was quite that funny.”
Beth rose to her feet. “I’m perfectly recovered,” she said, with another little cough which gave her the lie. “I think I have a partner waiting.”