Chapter 13
The wedding was to be held in the ballroom of Belcraven House and on her wedding eve Beth found herself drawn there.
The large room with its gilded pillars and arched ceiling was illuminated by only a cold touch of moonlight which reduced its magnificence to shades of silver and gray.
The flowers were already in place—in huge urns, on trellises, and hanging on the walls.
The moist perfume weighted the air and made it hard to breathe.
She was for once quite alone. The servants had finished their work here and were in their beds, resting before the long hard day they would have tomorrow.
In the pale light, the room looked rather like a chapel, but Beth was glad she was not to be married in a church.
There was nothing spiritual about this enforced joining.
Though it was sugared by civilized behavior, it was as brutal as the calculated abductions of ages past, where the affections of the woman mattered not a whit, only her fortune.
“And my fortune is just my misbegotten blood,” she murmured. “Wealth beyond measure to the de Vaux.”
She had to admit that the marquess had mostly been kind and considerate in recent weeks, particularly so during the past few days.
She could even confess that she was not immune to his charms. He was a beautiful man and viewed only as an objet d’art there was pleasure to be found.
He was intelligent and, after his own fashion, sensitive.
She could have enjoyed his company if they weren’t in this terrible situation.
After all, she would never have known his company if it weren’t for this terrible situation. With a caught breath Beth realized that even if she were given the chance she might not be able to find satisfaction any more in her old life. Without him.
He had the power to move her. The formal touch of his hand was often more than a touch; the sense of his body nearby could catch her breath; a look in his eyes could set her skin to tingling.
Perhaps this more than anything caused her to face her marriage with dread. By this time tomorrow she would be totally in his power, in the grip of these wanton sensations. And yet he felt nothing.
She wrapped her arms around herself as she shivered.
She desperately wished the duchess had left her in misty ignorance of where the marquess’s power over her might lead.
She remembered that horrible encounter on the terrace at Belcraven and the way he had been able to set fire to her body while his expression stayed cold as ice.
Now she was constantly assailed by the vision of him cold-bloodedly manipulating her into some frantic state, a state she knew was just a few touches away… .
The duchess walked into the room carrying a branch of candles. Leaping flames picked out the red walls and the gilding and made them dance. The room became gay instead of mysterious.
“Is something the matter, Elizabeth?”
“No,” said Beth, unable to fabricate an explanation for her presence here in the dark.
The duchess put down the candles and came over to take Beth in her arms. “Oh, my poor child. Please do not be afraid. Truly, there is nothing of which to be afraid in Lucien.”
“Nothing?” Beth queried, pulling herself out of the comforting embrace. “Nothing? After tomorrow he could beat me half to death and no one would care!”
“What?” exclaimed the duchess. “Has he ever struck you Elizabeth? If he has I will flog him myself!”
“No,” said Beth hastily, for the duchess was truly enraged. She swallowed the response that he’d twice threatened to.
“Thank God,” said the duchess and calmed.
“There is something of violence in Lucien, I will admit, but there is in most men. Let us be honest, Elizabeth, we are glad of it when we want them to defend us or fight for our country as so many of them will have to do very soon. Lucien is a gentleman, however, and can control himself. You must not fear him. If he ever hurts you, you must tell me, and I promise he will regret it bitterly.”
There was some reassurance to be found in this, but Beth was surprised to find she was ambivalent. She pinned down her reluctance to accept help and realized she preferred the battle between the marquess and herself to be an honest fight, just the two of them. How strange.
“Now tell me,” asked the duchess. “Why are you smiling like that?”
“I really don’t know, Your Grace,” said Beth. “It is all so ridiculous, though. I never wanted any of this.” She shook her head. “I think I had best go to bed and rest.”
The duchess watched Elizabeth walk away and sighed.
She had observed her son and his bride-to-be and was perplexed.
At times they acted well and at others they ignored one another.
Sometimes, if they had the opportunity to talk, they appeared to rub along together marvelously; she had been pleased to see her intelligent son using his brains instead of sinking to the inanities of most of his fashionable friends.
At other times, however, they almost seemed to hate each other and now, it would appear, Elizabeth was afraid of him.
She thought of speaking to Lucien, but Marleigh informed her he was out with his friends. As usual. She went instead in search of the duke and found him in the library.
He stood courteously until she had taken a seat opposite him, but he watched her warily.
The duchess realized she had never sought him out like this before, and following the thought, she had a revelation.
Their whole life since Lucien’s birth seemed now to have been distorted beyond reason.
She forgot that she had come to talk of the marriage.
“Why?” she asked softly. “Why have we done this to ourselves?” She saw him almost flinch under the question. “William, why have we let such small mistakes ruin our lives?”
“Small?” he asked sharply. “Having an heir who is not my son is not a small matter to me.”
She almost fled back behind the barriers of formality but steeled herself. “It happens, though. The whole world knows Melbourne’s heir is Lord Egremont’s, and there are other families in the same predicament. Do they all fall apart as we have done?”
He stood sharply. “We have not fallen apart. I have treated you with respect. I have treated Arden as my own son in every way.”
“In every way?” she queried.
He turned back, and her heart caught at the feeling in his eyes. “I love him, Yolande. How many times have I longed for ignorance? He can infuriate me,” he said with a slight smile, “but all offspring do that at times. At his best I could never wish for a finer son.”
“Why then can you not forgive me?” she cried.
He came quickly over and fell to one knee by her chair. “Forgive you? I forgave you the moment you told me, Yolande. Have I reproached you?”
She felt quite strange. Was she really over fifty years old?
She was flustered like a girl again. She reached out to touch his hair, first with her fingers, then with the whole of her hand as she caressed him.
“No, my dear,” she said softly, “you never reproached me. But you could not bear to touch me.”
He captured her hand and pressed a burning kiss into her palm. “I have ached for you, Yolande, with a greater pain than I could ever have imagined. Sleepless nights. Dreams of you so real I would wake in horror, thinking I had been with you….”
“Horror?” she asked, clenching her hands on his. “Horror?”
“You will hate me for this,” he said softly, but he raised his head to meet her eyes. “If I had given you another son, Yolande, I believe I would have killed Arden.”
Her grip relaxed, but she did not loose his hand. “William, you could never have done that.”
He pulled away from her, rose, and went to stand across the room. “Perhaps not,” he said in a hard voice, “but I would certainly have arranged his disappearance. The dukedom belongs to a de Vaux. Ironically, I think Lucien could understand that, even if you cannot.”
The duchess could feel the smile on her face and the tears in her eyes. She rose lightly and went to him. She wrapped her arms around him. “Well, it is certainly not a matter which need bother us anymore, my love.”
His arms had come around her with a life of their own, and he looked dazed. “Yolande? After what I said?”
“Perhaps you would have done as you say. We will never know now.” She reached up gently to touch his cheek. “I, too, have ached,” she said unsteadily. Her fingers traced softly over his lips. “You called him Lucien.”
The duke captured her wandering fingers and imprisoned them in his own. “I what?”
“You have never ever called him Lucien. It has always been Arden, even when he was a baby. Thank God for Elizabeth.” She was beyond subterfuge and the simplest of words escaped her. “Love me, William.”
His eyes darkened. “Yolande. It’s been so long.”
Fires kept banked for over twenty years were burning in her. “Have you forgotten how?” she teased. “Don’t worry. I remember.”
“Oh God,” he groaned. “So do I.” With that his lips came down on hers, and it was as if the years between evaporated and they were still young.
Her hands slipped under his jacket and felt the same fine lines of his back.
Her tongue tasted the special, wonderful taste of him.
Her body easily found the well-remembered contours and fitted itself to them.
His lips left hers and traced down her neck. To come against the ruffled collar of her gown. “Since when,” he growled, “did you take to wearing high-necked gowns?”
“Since I was forty,” she laughed, giddy with delight. “Allow me a moment with my maid and I can correct it.”
His hand slid down over the front of her sensible dimity gown and took possession of her breast. “I can play maid,” he said huskily. “My memory is recovering remarkably quickly. I remember undressing you many a time, my golden treasure.”
He turned her quickly and began to unfasten all the little buttons down her back, tracing kisses after his fingers.