Confessions From an Arranged Marriage (6 page)

Chapter 6

B
lake had given his mistress her congé, but they hadn't yet parted. Desirée couldn't understand why parting was necessary, especially once she grasped that marriage would greatly improve the state of his purse. She had a very French attitude toward the institution of matrimony.

“Of course,” she said, stretched out on the mattress of her large, lace-trimmed bed. “I don't understand why
monsieur le duc
did not arrange a marriage for you before. It seems quite strange that you must wed this
jeune fille d'aucun importance
just because of
un petit scandale
.”

Stark naked, Blake stood over her and helped himself to the coffee that had been delivered to the chamber, along with the midday sun. He didn't ask how she knew about the
scandale.
The members of the demimonde always knew at least as much about their beau monde counterparts as the highborn gossips of Mayfair.

“The point isn't the scandal for me. It's that I ruined her prospects for another respectable match.”

“She has done well for herself. Better than she could expect. She must be very pleased,
je crois
.”

“Miss Montrose? She thinks she's far too clever for me.”

“If she is so clever she knows she has made
une alliance superbe
.”

“No. She dislikes me, thinks me a fool.”

Beneath his protests a seed of doubt was sewn. It bothered him that Minerva Montrose might be coming around to the worldly benefits of their marriage. Why should he care? Wouldn't it be better if he and his bride found grounds for mutual accommodation? The source of his disquiet niggled the back of his brain. During their nighttime adventure in Shepherd's Market he'd softened toward her, even liked her a little. That she should continue to despise him for his stupidity yet enjoy the material advantages of being a Vanderlin seemed intolerable.

He thought of their kiss, initiated by him for reasons that had nothing to do with desire. For a girl who entirely lacked experience it had been a fair effort. She hadn't kept her lips clamped shut like a trap. Her body—and he admitted the excellence of her figure—had melted under his mild caresses. For a moment he'd looked forward to his coming duty of taking her to bed. Until he remembered he wasn't going to.

He looked down at the Frenchwoman, displayed shamelessly for his visual delectation. He'd never before had a woman who shaved or plucked every hair that wasn't on her head. And she was full of tricks.

“
Viens, mon cher,
” Desirée demanded in her most lubricious tone.

He set aside his cup and returned to bed.

An hour later he lay on his back, lightly panting, happily spent, with some new French words in his vocabulary.

“
Mon amour,
” she whispered in his ear. “To part would be a tragedy. After the wedding
voyage
is over, you will come back to me.”

“You should find a new protector,” Blake said without much enthusiasm.

“Is she beautiful, your fiancée? As beautiful as me?”

He raised himself onto his elbow and looked down at the flawless features, knife-sharp cheekbones, and full carmine lips.

“Miss Montrose is exceedingly beautiful,” he said and was rewarded with a sulky pout that made him think of the uses of a skilled mouth. She hadn't made him wait for the ruby bracelets, which should be ready for delivery from the jeweler in a day or two. Alas, they would be her farewell gift.

“You will forget Desirée. You love this
jeune fille,
this English virgin.” Almond-shaped black eyes filled with tears, arousing admiration for her acting and an inkling of interest in another bout.

“No.”

“Then come back to me. What is it to her, as long as you give her jewels and children?”

“Give her jewels!” he yelled and jumped up from the bed. “What time is it?”

Once again Desirée had made him late for an appointment at Vanderlin House. This time his parents' summons was for the purpose of surveying his new living quarters and deciding which of the family jewels should be assigned to the use of his bride.

Not that he had any intention of setting up house under the ducal noses, but he hadn't yet evolved his strategy for resistance. Time enough after their wedding trip to Paris.

He scrambled through his ablutions and into his clothes. It wouldn't be the first time Minerva had seen him unshaven. Neither, alas, would it be the last.

“After the honeymoon . . .” Desirée reminded him as he gave her a quick parting kiss.

“I'll think about it,” he said.

M
inerva liked pretty clothes, but not enough to spare much time for them. When Diana had insisted on ordering dozens of garments in preparation for the season, Minerva left most of the decisions to her knowledgeable sister and made sure she had something to read during the fittings. The modistes became accustomed to Miss Montrose standing with her nose in a copy of
The Reformist
magazine while they pinned and tucked and hemmed around her.

Despite her indifference she knew she was one of the better dressed ladies making her debut that year. Her sole regret was her stubbornly frivolous golden hair, and she envied her sister's rich brown locks. The young daughter of her Viennese hosts had compared her to a flaxen-headed doll. The little girl meant it as a compliment, but Minerva had taken a dislike to the wide-eyed simper on the face of the toy. After that she refused to have her hair curled, preferring to wear it in neat braids pinned around her head.

As for jewelry, she was content with what she had: a necklace of small pearls presented at birth by her godmother; her parents' confirmation gift of a gold cross and chain; a modest pearl set of brooch, bracelets, and eardrops from Diana and Sebastian. They went with everything and required little thought.

Even Diana's lavish jewelry collection didn't prepare her for the extent of the Duke of Hampton's possessions. Boxes and cases were heaped high covering every inch of the desk in the duke's study, whence they'd been hastily removed by a procession of three or four footman under orders from Blakeney's mother. She didn't say so, but clearly the duchess had realized the library, the scene of the late unfortunate incident, might not be the best location for a ceremony accepting Minerva as bride to the heir to the dukedom.

Not that the heir had deigned to appear. Minerva had arrived at the appointed hour and enjoyed a tour of her future quarters without the participation of the man who was to share them. She ought to be insulted, she supposed, but found it easier to answer questions about her taste in bed curtains without the presence of the man who would have the right to join her behind the drapes.

Aside from the duke and duchess and herself, the only attendant in the study was a very old man, whose sole duty seemed to be the care of this impressive treasure. Minerva had never heard of such a specialized servant and had no idea what his title might be. He wore a footman's wig but rather than livery he dressed like a clerk. He seemed to know his part in the ritual. He made a selection from the array of boxes, opened it, and placed it before the duke's eyes with a deferential air. His master would either shake his head or, less often, gesture for the duchess to see the contents. If the latter agreed, Minerva's opinion was sought.

Many of the pieces were old-fashioned and not, to her ignorant eyes, attractive. At first she tried to murmur something noncommittal but when an uncommonly ugly antique bracelet was added to the pile of items to be given to her, she decided she'd better make her feelings known if she wasn't to end up with a box full of unwearable horrors.

“Thank you, but it's not to my taste, ma'am,” she said, barely repressing a shudder at a brooch of frightening brown and yellow stones.

The duke waved the piece away while the duchess looked at her with a glimmer of respect, and began to take a more active part in the proceedings.

“Diamonds,” she said. “You must have a diamond set. They are always useful.”

Despite having managed her entire life without such a convenience, Minerva obediently considered two different necklaces with matching earrings and bracelets. Not for the first time she wished Diana were there. Her sister would know exactly what to choose. Not wishing to appear greedy, she picked the set with the smaller stones. Then she expressed admiration for a pretty collar of cameos that had the virtue of simplicity.

“A lovely group,” her future mother-in-law said.

“Those are ancient Roman gems I bought on my Grand Tour,” added the duke. “I had them made up into a necklace for my mother.”

“You mean these carvings are almost two thousand years old?” Minerva asked. “The faces look quite modern.”

“I always thought that myself. Some of the subjects are known. Two or three of the men are Caesars. There's a record of the names somewhere if you would care to see it.”

“Thank you,” Minerva said politely, despite only a cursory interest in Roman history. The duke displayed unusual animation, as though his gift to his mother held some importance for him.

“Is it in the case? Give it to Miss Montrose.”

The Steward of the Jewels, as Minerva had mentally dubbed the attendant, silently handed her a folded paper. The foolscap sheet bore a drawing of the necklace, with about half the cameos identified by name in a neat copperplate. Beneath was inscribed a paragraph about each historical character.

“ ‘Livia, the wife of Emperor Augustus.' ” Minerva smiled. “I never thought to wear the image of an Empress of Rome.”

“Are you going to adopt the lady's habit of ruthlessness?” asked a voice from the doorway. “Should I be alarmed?”

“Blakeney,” said the duke, his tone plunged from balmy to frost. “You honor us. Pray come in and close the door.”

Blakeney sauntered forward and bowed to his father, managing to convey derision in the obeisance. Not troubling with an apology for his tardiness, he greeted the ladies with a kiss on the hand apiece.

“My dear Miss Montrose,” he drawled over her knuckle, “are you planning to run the Roman Empire from behind the throne?”

He was only being provocative. Surely he had no idea that had always been her plan for marriage, down to almost those very words. Surprised to find him so well informed about Roman history, she glanced again at the paper in her left hand and read the paragraph to herself.

She smiled sweetly. “Like Livia and Augustus I look forward to fifty-one years of devoted matrimony.”

“A very proper sentiment,” said the duke. “You shall have the cameos.”

“My grandmother's antique necklace,” Blakeney said. “I remember her wearing it and telling me the stories behind the gems. I never knew my grandfather, the third duke, but I do remember the duchess as an old woman. Like my mother she was younger than her spouse.”

Minerva had known the Duke and Duchess of Hampton by sight since she was a child. She'd always regarded them as deeply venerable and extremely old. Now she covertly examined the couple with greater attention for their appearance than she'd ever accorded before. The duke had to be well into his sixties, given what she knew of his career, which was almost everything. If anything he looked older, his face lined and gray, and with a stoop of the shoulders as though he carried the burdens of the world. The duchess looked as healthy as Minerva's own mother and about the same age: not many years above fifty.

“The dukes of Hampton always marry much younger women,” Blake went on. “The ten years difference in our ages is nothing. I'd have to wed a child to stay in the family tradition.”

“A singularly foolish remark,” said the duke. He turned to Minerva with a warm smile that seemed a deliberate snub of his son. “Now, my dear. Do you think you have enough baubles?”

“More than enough, sir. You and the duchess are very kind.”

Blakeney approached the small table on which the Steward of the Jewels had placed Minerva's selections, searching for something. He pushed aside the flat box containing the cameos to open the larger one beneath. The diamonds. He set his shoulders back and looked his father in the eye. Minerva had never seen her fiancé so . . . intent. She looked from the younger man to the older and, for the first time, saw the resemblance. In his youth the duke must have looked very like Blakeney. Now he seemed wrinkled and pale in contrast to his son's vigorous, golden glow. A fleeting notion of an old king challenged by a young prince tickled her brain, but she couldn't place the reference.

“The George I amethysts are not here.” Blakeney's statement sounded like an accusation.

The duke said nothing.

“And the Queen Anne pearls? Why does Miss Montrose have these puny diamonds instead?”

“They are not puny . . .” Both Blake and his father ignored her interruption.

“Miss Montrose,” the duke said calmly, “shall have the use of all the family jewels in due course.”

“Why not now?”

Minerva couldn't see what Blakeney had to be angry about, yet clearly he was upset. She moved across the room to take his arm, the first time she'd touched him uninvited.

“Their Graces have been more than generous. They've given me everything I could possibly need. I have no desire to deprive the duchess of her jewels.”

Blakeney's muscles were tense under her hand. “There's no question of depriving
the duchess
of anything.”

Minerva sensed undercurrents in the exchange. Perhaps Blakeney thought she minded because she wasn't being festooned in pearls and amethysts, but she found it hard to believe he cared.

The Duke of Hampton had long been one of the statesmen she admired the most and, though she'd told herself she needed to try, she hadn't yet broken the habit of thinking Blakeney the next thing to an idiot. He was engaged in some kind of contest of wills with his father, something beyond the kind of masculine strife she was accustomed to observe among her four brothers. Blakeney's paternal battle appeared to be more serious. Did it merely arise from the duke's disappointment in his son's indifference to weighty matters of state? Minerva could understand such displeasure. Yet she couldn't help feeling there was a greater conflict at work and she was curious to discover it.