Confessions From an Arranged Marriage (10 page)

Had he been alone, he might have had recourse to his own book. Minerva's wedding gift of a handsomely bound collection of Pierce Egan's sporting essays touched him; at the same time it made him cringe. He knew he'd enjoy it, but he couldn't risk having her notice how laboriously he read, how infrequently he turned the pages.

“Do you often strike up conversations with strangers?” he asked.

“I find I learn the most interesting things from them. When I traveled to Vienna our party crossed France in the public
diligence
and I met all manner of people. Traveling in your luxurious coach is more comfortable but less educational.”

“I don't think you'll learn much from Mr. Bell other than the superiority of all things English.”

“Who knew that carpets were so important? I don't suppose, of course, that you've ever had to suffer a night in a room with a bare floor.”

“There you are wrong. The duke didn't believe in coddling. The nurseries at Mandeville and Vanderlin House were sparsely furnished, and unheated, except in dead of winter. I also passed several happy years in the luxurious setting of Eton.”

“Bad was it? My brothers make Harrow sound worse than Newgate Gaol.”

“We yield nothing to other schools when it comes to misery and privation.”

“Rufus always said they made school uncomfortable as a practical demonstration of Greek history. How the Spartans lived.”

“Oh yes, your brother the great scholar. Fluent in how many dead languages?”

He shifted restlessly. Of all the humiliations of his education, classes in Greek had been the worst. None of the methods he'd invented to disguise his inability could save him from the Greek alphabet, or get him beyond the lowest level of Greek studies. His father had been at his most scathing on that subject. Even the mention of Greek made Blake's hackles rise.

Minerva looked a little surprised at his tone. “Personally I think the study of Latin and Greek is a waste of time for most people. Rufus is a scholar and exploring ruins in Turkey, but why should farmers, and lawyers, and merchants learn them? It would be far more rational to educate them in modern languages, mathematics, and natural science. It makes me glad I am a woman so I wasn't made to study the classics. I can't abide philosophical speculations either.”

“I'm not one for abstractions myself.”

Minerva nodded vigorously. “Give me the practical details that affect people's lives. That's why I enjoy meeting strangers and learning about them.”

“I should apologize for taking you in a private coach then. Had I known I'd have arranged for us to travel by stagecoach. I'd like to have seen the duke's secretary's response to such a request.”

“It doesn't matter. I've been reading
Galignani's Guide to Paris
.”

Blake had the urge to try and impress his wife, probably a fruitless exertion. “It is possible to learn about the life of the people by observing the countryside.”

“What do you mean?”

“Looking out of the window as we travel, I've noticed fields of barley.”

“Yes?”

“But no vineyards. Which means that the local people very likely drink beer rather than wine.”

“Which means Mr. Fussell could be wrong! What fun. At the next inn we must ask for beer. Or rather you must. I can't stand the stuff. What else?”

“The woods are very fine. Excellent timber.”

“Oh.” She didn't appear to be interested in timber.

“The villages along the road are small and the houses for the most part mean. From which I would conclude most of the inhabitants are peasants.”

“No yeoman farmers?”

“I've glimpsed a few châteaux but very few houses of a middling sort.”

Minerva's eyes gleamed. “Which means the reforms of the Revolution have had no noticeable affect on the rural economy here.”

And off she went, discussing the French legal system and comparing it with the English. Blake was beginning to find her lectures enjoyable. They required little participation on his part and, as long as she wasn't thrusting further reading on him, he was happy to hear what she had to say. He occasionally ventured a question and she actually consulted him over details of English land law.

Late in the afternoon, when they pulled up for a change of horses, Mr. Fussell, who followed the coach in a hired chaise, along with Blake's valet and Minerva's maid, came to the window to assure them this was the last stop before Abbeville and they could look forward to the comforts of the Hôtel d'Angleterre in little more than an hour.

“Another Hôtel d'Angleterre?” Blake asked.

“This road is so well traveled by the English,” the courier explained, “that excellent inns have been established along the route to meet the needs and tastes of our countrymen.”

“It might be amusing to investigate the tastes of the French. What do you think, my dear?”

“Is there another good inn at Abbeville?” Minerva asked.

Fussell appeared astonished at the question. “Well, my lady. I wouldn't recommend the Tête de Boeuf but the Hôtel de France enjoys a good repute.”

“The Hôtel de France sounds perfect.”

“But I hardly think it would please your ladyship. I know for a fact that the bedchambers lack carpets.”

Since his bride was too overcome with giggles to speak, Blake stepped in. “In that case, Fussell, we shall most certainly spend the night at the Hôtel de France.”

Chapter 10

T
hough her brothers—and most other people who knew her—would have dismissed the possibility, Minerva was feeling shy. As the Hôtel de France drew nearer, conversation became sporadic and eventually faded to silence. Minerva couldn't think of a thing to say because she was too busy thinking of what she would
do
that night.

Theoretical knowledge of relations between a man and a woman was all very well, but at Abbeville she would have to engage in them. She, Minerva Montrose or rather Minerva Vanderlin, Marchioness of Blakeney, was finally going to do some of those things (pray God, not all of them on the first night) with this man. With Blake.

Never in a million years would she have dreamed of ending up in this situation. She'd plotted to prevent Diana from marrying Blake because she believed him to be shallow, conceited, and lacking in intelligence. And now he was her, Minerva's, husband.

Rocking along the French roads in the fading light, he lounged in his corner of the carriage, greatcoat open to reveal the careless elegance of his traveling clothes, one booted foot propped on the opposite seat. His thumbs were hooked into the pockets of his waistcoat and his eyes closed, though he wasn't asleep. No wedding-night nerves for her husband, but then he knew what he was doing.

She'd never denied the appeal of his appearance. Taking advantage of his inattention to stare at him, she observed that, despite his golden fairness, his eyelashes were long and dark. Perhaps her favorite feature in this very good-looking face was the mouth, shapely lips that could look sulky or sensual or both but were now curved in the faintest of smiles. A shiver of excitement rippled through her chest as she remembered their one kiss, and contemplated its repetition.

She didn't love her husband and she wasn't glad she'd married him. She didn't even respect him, though she'd been surprised by some of his thoughtful responses that afternoon. But, the truth struck her, she wasn't loath to consummate her marriage. Nervous, yes, but not reluctant.

She dressed carefully for dinner. As Blake helped her into her seat at the dinner table, his fingers brushed the skin revealed by the low back of her evening gown, arousing gooseflesh at his touch and a glow in her cheeks. In her imagination she felt those hands, smooth and well cared for but neither soft nor feminine, touching other parts of her. Parts that were now suitably covered by forget-me-not blue sarcenet and the finest lawn undergarments. She blushed some more.

The waiter handed them each a list the size of a London theater handbill on which was printed the bill of fare.

“What would you like to drink?” Blake asked her. “Will you join me in some wine, or would you prefer something else?”

“I'd like wine,” Minerva said, deciding an injection of courage from a bottle wouldn't go amiss. “Will you have beer?”

“Not tonight. For breakfast, perhaps.”

Although the waiter, like the rest of the staff at the Hôtel de France, spoke only French, he understood the exchange and left to fulfill it.

“Goodness,” Minerva said. “There must be over a hundred dishes listed here. How are we to choose?”

“I'll leave it up to you.” He put the paper on the table with hardly a glance.

Planning a meal was the kind of thing married ladies did, but interested her not a whit. When the duchess, her mother-in-law, had told her she need not trouble herself with domestic details she'd been pleased. Now she was being tested with very little chance of passing the examination.

“What dishes do you like?”

“Everything,” he said unhelpfully. “I eat everything.”

The menu was divided into several sections, each offering a dozen or more choices. Although a few of the words were unfamiliar, she understood most of them. It struck her she hadn't yet heard Blake speak a single word of French, though he must have studied the language. All Englishmen did, even when at war with France. True, there was a vast difference between learning in the schoolroom from books, and speaking and understanding a foreign tongue in conversation with natives. Minerva's German was excellent after her year in Vienna and her French almost as good, but only because she'd made the effort to seek out French speakers and practice.

Had Blake managed to pass through Eton and Oxford without learning enough basic French to read a list of dishes? Given what she knew of her husband's unscholarly disposition, she had to admit it was possible.

The waiter returned with wine and she asked him to bring them a selection of their best cuisine. Apparently this was the right thing to do. He began to speak with great animation of
Jambon de Bayonne
and
Fricassée de Poulet
and the freshest, most tender local vegetables. Minerva agreed with everything he suggested, much to the pleasure of the Frenchman who was quite young and handsome despite an exaggerated moustache. His assurances that milady (and milord) would enjoy everything the Hôtel de France had to offer were accompanied by languishing looks and lavish compliments on her beauty. Blake might not understand a word the Gallic Lothario said, but he got the idea and scared him off with a scowl.

Though jealousy had always struck her as an illogical emotion, the hint of possessiveness heightened her anticipation. A plan that had been lurking in the back of her mind took solid shape: to win her husband away from his mistress and make something more of their marriage than mutual toleration. She swallowed a mouthful of wine, then another, and it still seemed like a good idea.

Before the waiter brought their soup, she'd run through her mind every hint she'd garnered from her elder sister on the enticement of gentlemen. Unlike every other area of her studies, this one she'd neglected. She'd been a witness to Diana's efforts to entice this very member of the male sex. Unfortunately she recalled her sister listening with feigned fascination while Blake droned on about endless days in the hunting field in pursuit of the fox.

Perhaps there were limits to what she was prepared to endure to win her husband's attention!

But she drew the broader lesson from Diana's example: let a man talk about himself and what interested him. She could appreciate that, since she loved to talk about the things that aroused her enthusiasm. Her brothers had been known to mimic suicide by hanging after ten minutes of speculation about some parliamentary maneuver.

“You've been living in Devon,” she said. “Tell me about it.”

T
he food was good and the knives and forks clean. Blake found nothing to complain about in the Hôtel de France other than the impertinence of the waiter. After a pleasant afternoon he looked forward to dining with his bride.

He could hardly complain of the picture she presented, sitting across the white linen expanse of the table. Her gown in some soft silky material brought out the clear blue of her eyes and showed off the excellence of her figure: a slender neck, breasts high but short of voluptuous, graceful shoulders and arms. Flawless white skin was set off by a string of small pearls that caused him a twinge of compunction about the emerald necklace, stowed in his luggage. He couldn't decide whether to give it to her.

She listened with flattering attention to his description of the improvements he'd made during his self-imposed exile in Devon. Her animated responses were multiplied by the mirrors that lined the walls of the hotel dining room, offering him a variety of angles from which to admire her classical profile and fair beauty. Her hair was dressed without the fussy curls favored by fashionable ladies, simplicity making her look older than her years.

Something shifted in his view of her. She was no longer Diana's tiresome little sister whom he'd been force to wed. The new Lady Blakeney was a grown woman and a fascinating one. A woman he desired. The discovery was unsettling and unwelcome. It complicated the decision he'd made about the course of their marriage.

“You've made a study of estate management,” she said as the long meal drew to a close. Who would have guessed Minerva Montrose would address him with a measure of respect?

“I suppose it's my occupation, if I have one. I hope my father will let me have the running of Mandeville now. What else am I to do to be useful?”

The china blue eyes grew wide. “The Dukes of Hampton have been deeply concerned with the business of the nation. Surely you will wish to continue the tradition?” The note of reproach was muted but unmistakable.

“Do you know how the Vanderlins achieved their exalted position?”

“The first one came to England with William of Orange in 1688.”

“Gerrit Vanderlin, the best looking man in Holland. It's said the ladies swooned when he first appeared at the English court.”

Minerva's snort expressed her opinion of such weakness. “But he was a brilliant man! He didn't enjoy William's confidence because of his looks.”

Blake smiled at her naïveté. “You think not? Very fond of a handsome man was William.”

He was happy to see he'd managed to confound his bride, though he couldn't tell whether it was shock at his ancestor's inappropriate friendship with a monarch, or merely the suggestion that the Vanderlin political dynasty had been founded on something other than merit.

He was also glad of the reminder that his major asset in Minerva's eyes was his ancestry. For a while he'd made the mistake of believing she saw him as a man and not merely a Vanderlin.

There was something she needed from him in order to become fully a Vanderlin herself. He derived a certain pleasure from the fact that she hadn't yet worked it out for herself. For all her intelligence and grasp of politics, Blake didn't believe she understood her place in the Vanderlin firmament.

Until she had a son she was a very small star indeed. Inconsequential and unlikely to be permitted the least degree of influence. Ironically she needed his manhood if she was to prove her worth and conceive the much needed heir. She wasn't going to succeed any time soon.

She examined a tray of pastries and selected a tiny cherry tart. Her shapely mouth closed over the glistening ruby sphere and she took a bite. As he watched her slender white throat swallow the morsel, and a pink tongue sweep away a crumb from her lips, he felt desire stir, fortunately concealed by the table linens.

Even if his feelings for his wife had softened, he still wished to disappoint his father. He would not go to her chamber that night.

H
er bare feet on the earthen tiles gave Minerva a new appreciation of carpets. She dismissed her maid and jumped into bed. Aside from the floor, the night wasn't cold and she left the old-fashioned casement window ajar. Instead of getting all the way under the blankets, she sat back against the pillows, covered only to the waist. She spread her loose hair, crinkly from being unbraided, over her shoulders and wondered how to arrange her arms in an alluring manner. After experimenting with two or three positions she felt silly, and less attractive by the minute.

She wished she'd paid more attention to the chatter of girls in Vienna and London when they talked about pursuing men. She'd scorned such tactics, wanting to be chosen for her character and intellectual talents. The joke was on her, because she had married a man who had no time for either.

She thought of the way Sebastian's face lit up when Diana entered a room, of the warmth in his gaze as it followed her every move. It occurred to her she might enjoy the same things from a man and to envy her sister's ability to inspire them.

She couldn't even bring herself to think of all that Diana had said about the marriage bed. For the first time in her life Minerva felt truly unsure of herself, eager for Blake's arrival and what would happen that night, and terrified that her ignorance would cause her to do something wrong and disgust her handsome, experienced bridegroom.

She looked down at the shadow of her nipples showing through the fine lawn of her nightgown and thought about the size of her breasts. Didn't men prefer them larger? Why else would stays be designed to push them upward and enhance the swell? Snatching the blankets she covered herself to the neck.

She heard footsteps in the adjoining room, occupied by her husband. An exchange of words with his valet competed with noise drifting through the open window. The sounds of wheels, hooves, harness, and horses were common to inn yards in every country. They mingled with the calls and chatter of patrons, ostlers, and maids, undistinguishable but unmistakably French.

How long did it take a man to prepare for bed? Less time than a woman, she would have thought. He didn't have a complicated hairstyle to be taken apart and he didn't wear stays, at least Blakeney didn't. She felt a slightly hysterical giggle arise, thinking of various gentlemen she'd met who tended to creak when they moved, signaling the presence of corsets to contain excess flesh.

Deciding she'd feel better in the dark, she blew out the candle on the table next to the bed, and waited. The sounds next door ceased and she expected any moment that the connecting would open to admit her bridegroom.

Time passed. Five, ten, fifteen minutes? She recalled their earlier parting. Once the covers were removed she'd risen from the table and stated her intention of retiring to bed, since the day had begun early and they'd dined late. He walked her to the door and said he'd stay for a last glass of wine. He hoped her room was comfortable and she had everything she needed, despite the lack of a carpet. She was too nervous to laugh at the joke. He kissed her hand. Very proper and gallant.

Had he said anything about seeing her later? She rather thought not, but surely it had been implied. Weddings were followed by beddings. All the information she possessed was very clear on the point. She waited.

And waited.