"It is my profession."

"Not anymore, I'm afraid."

Beth didn't argue. "I'm less at ease with their parents. I feel so awkward, as if I'm acting in a play. 'Enter future d.u.c.h.ess, stage right.' I have never been very good at that sort of thing."

"Nonsense. They love you. You don't just speak to them. You listen. You make it seem as if you are, for a moment, one of them."

Beth looked at him. "But I am one of them."

He was arrested. After a pensive moment he shook his head. "Not anymore, I'm afraid." There was a trace of apology in it.

"I know," said Beth with a sigh. "But at least I can remember." She looked around the meadow full of people-chattering, dancing, eating, drinking. "Can you imagine," she demanded, "what it feels like to be one of these people? To worry about food for the table, a roof over your head, medicine for a sick child?"

"No," he retorted. "But if necessary I will put food on their table and a roof over their head, and send a doctor for their child. Who has the greater worry in the end?"

Before Beth could make a response he looked behind her. "Here's someone of the same lowly order as yourself. I'll leave you to wallow in your righteousness."

Beth abruptly found herself abandoned to the company of Major Beaumont, feeling very much as if she had been scolded, and possibly with justice. More than that she felt she might have hurt him again. It was time she started thinking of sensibilities other than her own. The marquess was arrogantly sure of his high place in the order of things, but he also took his responsibilities very seriously.

She wished he hadn't gone, so she could try to make amends, but for now all she could do was to continue to act her part. She chattered to Beaumont, trying to look like an ecstatic bride to be.

"Do you know, Miss Armitage," he said as they strolled back toward the house, "I wish you would not feel such a need to perform."

"What?"

"There's no need," he said gently. "Lucien has told me all about it."

Beth's eyes opened wide. "All about it?"

Mr. Beaumont studied her shrewdly. "Well no. He did not say quite why you had been chosen to be his bride, merely that it was his parents' wish."

"And it surprises you to find the chosen one so plain and ordinary?" Beth asked waspishly.

"Begging for compliments, Miss Armitage?" he teased. "You know you are neither."

Beth looked at him in surprise. "On the contrary. My mirror tells me daily that I am no beauty. And I set no store in flattery, sir."

"Perhaps you don't see yourself in animation," he said with a smile. "It's true your features are quite ordinary, but they become lively when you talk and you have what are called 'speaking eyes.' They shine with the light of your quick mind."

Beth could feel herself turning pink. "Please, Major Beaumont, you must not say such things to me. And they are quite untrue."

"Do you mean Lucien hasn't told you this? I'd thought him more adroit. In fact," he added with a light of humor glinting in his eyes, "he's a devil of a flirt. But if he is going to leave the field to others...."

They had arrived at the rose garden close by the house. It was now full of the better quality of guest who were strolling about and admiring the flowers, but Beth and Mr. Beaumont were some distance from the nearest people. He stole a rosebud from a bed and brushed it softly against her cheek. He leaned closer, and she felt his warm breath against her ear as he murmured, "Tell you what, Miss Armitage. I think you're wasted on him. Let's elope."

Beth choked with laughter. "You are quite outrageous, sir!" She was free of the tangled nervousness she felt with the marquess and was quite enjoying herself.

He smiled appreciatively. "Yes, I know. I'm the devil of a flirt, too. Shall we?"

Despite his declaration as a flirt there was a touch of honesty in the question which startled her. "Why are you saying such things when you know I cannot?"

He smiled still, but there was a wistfulness there. "I know a treasure when I see one. I would like a wife, you know, but what do I see around me? The Phoebe Swinnamers and the Lucy Frogmortons. You are a different type entirely."

There was no doubting his honesty, no matter how absurd it all seemed, and Beth was at a loss. "I know that, Major Beaumont, but...."

"But I have startled you." All humor was gone, and he met her eyes honestly. "When I first mentioned an elopement, Miss Armitage, it was a mere pleasantry. It is becoming more solid and desirable second by second. It will not do and I apologize."

He looked down at the creamy rosebud in his hand. "I am going to leave and you will not see me again before your wedding day. After that it will be as if this conversation never took place, as it never should. But before that, Miss Armitage," he said as he looked up again and held out the rose, "if it should seem wise to you, you may remind me of it."

Numbly, Beth took the flower and watched as he walked away. In truth, if there had been any way out of her predicament, she might have been tempted by Mr. Beaumont's offer, for he was a much more comfortable man than her betrothed. She could rub along with him without quicksands and violence.

Then she looked across the garden and saw Lucien de Vaux laughing with one of the tenants. The sun gilded his bright hair and he was relaxed and graceful. The air seemed suddenly thinner, and Beth knew that any place on earth other than this beautiful setting for a beautiful man would be bleak for her.

She moved quickly to join another adoring group.

In a little while the marquess was again by her side introducing her to yet more people to whom the Duchy of Belcraven was everything. She could do her part now almost by rote and had time to study the marquess' performance with these people.

He did take his job seriously.

He was surprisingly amenable. He knew most of the people by name and could often make flattering reference to some past encounter. He clearly understood the farmers' land and the major concerns of the professional men's occupations. He knew, too, that the women's lives were not of idleness and made mention of egg money, dairy work, and concerns over children.

He could flirt gently with the wives of all ages without giving offense-Beth remembered Mr. Beaumont saying he was a devil of a flirt and knew it to be true. It made her bitter that he never used his skill on her. Then she had to admit that he had tried once or twice and now doubtless expected to have a poker wrapped around his head did he do anything so foolish again.

He could depress pretension firmly but subtly so that the offender realized his or her mistake without public shaming. Much though she hated the necessity Beth thought she should study his technique.

She was surprised, though, by it all. Lucien de Vaux was good at his trade. He would, in time, make an excellent duke.

"And why are you frowning?" he asked as they moved on again, leaving the local corn factor and the ironmonger content. "Am I offending your radical sympathies again?"

"Tiredness, I'm afraid," Beth said in as conciliatory a tone as she could muster. "And I think I need to apologize. You do take your responsibilities seriously, don't you?"

"Of course." She thought he was pleased by her words. "It's a strange business, though. I am in training for a job I hope will be a very long time coming, and in the meantime I often have too much time on my hands."

"Would the duke not let you share in the running of the duchy?"

He looked at her skeptically. "The two of us in harness?"

Beth had forgotten the problem of his birth. "I think one needs to train for this kind of thing," she said. "It will be years, if ever, before I feel I belong in the role of d.u.c.h.ess."

"You'll get used to it in time. Now, however, I think you should go and rest. The event is all but over. Tomorrow we leave for London and there, I gather, you are supposed to cram a Season into a fortnight. You'll need every sc.r.a.p of stamina."

And that was the way it was. The next day they all set off for Town with three coaches. Beth traveled with the d.u.c.h.ess in her chariot, the one which had brought her from Cheltenham, while servants were conveyed in the other two. The duke drove himself in a curricle while the marquess rode Viking, the horse with which the boy had been careless.

Beth was guiltily aware that she had forgotten about Robin Babson. The large black stallion showed no sign of injury and was restive and difficult to handle, even for the marquess. It was unfair to even think of a child trying to control such an animal.

When they stopped for refreshments, Beth looked over the many servants but saw no sign of the boy. Had the marquess beaten him half to death? Dismissed him? She had to know.

As they took a turn around a small orchard next to the inn she raised the subject. "I met a young boy in the Belcraven stables. He said he worked with your horses, but I do not see him here."

"You must mean Robin. He's a troublesome scamp." It was an indulgent comment but didn't explain the boy's absence.

"Where is he?"

"He and Dooley are bringing my bays to Town by easy stages. Why?" The last word held a note of suspicion.

"I took a liking to the boy," Beth explained. "I gather he'd been in hot water for something to do with Viking. Is the horse all right?"

"Yes, but Jarvis thought he might have thrown a splint and dusted the lad's jacket for him." He looked down at her with a frown. "I hope he didn't come running to you to complain."

"Oh no," she a.s.sured him. "The subject came up quite by accident." After a moment she added, "He did seem worried you'd thrash him again when you found out."

"I might well have done if the damage had been serious. He's inclined to be careless and that horse cost me eight hundred guineas."

"For a horse!" Beth exclaimed.

"Yes," he replied with asperity, "for a horse. And if you give me prosy lecture on the extravagance of the aristocracy I'll doubtless thrash you, Elizabeth." Beth wasn't at all sure he was joking.

Chapter 12.

Back in the safety of the carriage Beth could at least be rea.s.sured 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 d.u.c.h.ess.

After luncheon, the cycle began again with morning visits, salons, a drive in the park, an opulent dinner, the theater, a soiree, 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 d.a.m.ned 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 rehea.r.s.ed 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 gla.s.sily 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 encompa.s.s 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 t.i.tters were heard. Mrs. Swinnamer, who had been hovering nearby, swept down to shepherd her daughter away. The mother looked fl.u.s.tered 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 d.u.c.h.ess more astute.

"She thought her a possible wife," he corrected, "and was n.o.bly willing to do her best." The footman arrived, and the marquess pa.s.sed 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 gla.s.s 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."