Confessions From an Arranged Marriage (8 page)

“I wasn't bored,” he said, and summoned his most seductive smile

This time she couldn't hold his gaze. She drew back, her cheeks scarlet. “Neither was I. The company in the box was excellent. I enjoyed meeting your old school friend Mr. Huntley.”

She was clearly flustered by his attention, but she couldn't have said anything more guaranteed to break the flirtatious mood and sour Blake's temper. He'd been trying to put that particular encounter out of his mind.

He leaned back in his chair and stared straight ahead. “We make all sorts of friends in our youth.”

His discouraging tone seemed to restore her poise. “I found Mr. Huntley agreeable and sensible.”

He shrugged, not daring to say what he really thought of Huntley, in case he gave a hint of the truth.

“I understand he comes from an ordinary family,” Minerva continued, “and his grandfather was a merchant. He was quite open to me about his origins when he told me about the by-election he is contesting.”

When the blackguard had invaded the duke's box, it had taken all Blake's restraint not to cause a scandal by tossing him into the pit. He'd stepped out into the passage to regain control of his temper and missed the fact that Minerva and Huntley had spoken at length. His gut tightened, worrying what his “old friend” wanted with his fiancée. Nothing good, that was for sure.

“Huntley told me he decided to stand for Parliament,” he said.

“What's wrong with that?”

“Nothing, I suppose. I've never had much time for politicians. Seems they're all jockeying for advancement.”

“Just because a man needs to make his way in life, it doesn't mean he cannot also act for the greater good. Not everyone is fortunate enough to be born into wealth and position. Our public life needs men of talent, regardless of their birth. But perhaps you disagree.”

If she expected him to respond to her challenge with a defense of hereditary government, she'd be disappointed. Blake had always been alive to the irony of his place in that system. Many people, starting with his father, found it ludicrous he had been born to inherit power and responsibility. He heartily concurred.

As did his future bride. “It's shocking the way, as Shakespeare said, that some men are born to greatness and yet deserve it so little.” The amazing thing was, she spoke without any edge of malice. She looked at him as she spoke, obviously had him in mind, but had no idea her words might be interpreted as a personal attack. Her expression was one of alert interest.

“That's arrant nonsense, Juliana.” Iverley's outburst fell into a moment of quiet around the table and saved Blake from the need to respond. “That binding is seventeenth century or I'm a Dutchman.”

“Total twaddle, Iverley,” replied Lady Chase. “Any idiot can see it's Elizabethan.”

“Sebastian's off again,” Minerva said.

Blake groaned. “Books!”

“Oh please, no!” added Stephen Montrose.

The three of them spoke almost simultaneously, then burst out laughing.

“Sebastian and Juliana will be at it for ages now,” Minerva said. “They used to hate each other. Even though they are friends nowadays, and she's been allowed to join the Burgundy Club, their relations tend to be argumentative.”

Sebastian, Tarquin Compton, and the Chases were members of a society of book collectors, not an organization Blake had ever been in danger of joining.

“And does Lady Chase generally win?” he asked.

“I neither know nor care. I'm afraid my interest in antiquarian books is slight. Or nonexistent.”

“There's no need to apologize to me,” he said, drawing another smile from her. “I couldn't agree with you more.”

Stephen made a gagging noise.

In this gathering of bibliophiles it felt good to be with Minerva and Stephen, in shared scorn for the pursuit of book collecting. Although in his case scorn wasn't quite the right word. Dread rather.

His relief was short-lived. William Montrose and Celia Compton were also talking about books, but the kind one read. Or rather the kind everyone else read. Their exchange about their preferred novels by the author of
Waverley
degenerated into a table-wide debate. Blake learned that everyone in the room, even his scholarly cousin, his high-minded betrothed bride, and her youngest brother, read all the most popular novels of the day. Opinions on
Ivanhoe
and
Rob Roy,
Miss Edgeworth, Miss Austen, and Mrs. Radcliffe were tossed across the room like Stephen's bread.

Blake sank into his seat and yearned for invisibility. He'd spent his entire life avoiding such discussions and chosen his intimates from those who derived their amusement from less elevated pastimes. In his future he saw no escape. He faced the truth that he was doomed to join a family with a passion for the written word.

What would these literate people think if they knew he'd sooner attempt to swim the English Channel than plow through one of Sir Walter Scott's endless volumes?

What would they say if they realized that their newest member, a grown man of thirty with a famous name and the finest education England had to offer, could barely read? That he could only decipher a simple printed page with the greatest of difficulty?

Blakeney knew that many people, starting with his own father, thought him stupid. Almost no one knew for certain that it was the absolute truth.

Chapter 8

G
etting drunk was very tempting. The decanters of port and brandy being passed around the table were far friendlier than the men at the table. The ladies had left, leaving Blake at the mercy of the Montrose brothers, Iverley, and his friends.

Since the disaster with Huntley, Blake avoided drinking to excess. Come to think of it, the last time he'd overindulged was the evening of his mother's ball for Minerva.

Look where being drunk had got him that time. He pushed away his glass without taking a sip and resigned himself to dealing with potentially hostile company in a state of sobriety. He was saved by the arrival of a footman with a request that he join Lady Iverley in the library.

What was it about libraries? Why did people have to have so many damn books?

Diana received him alone.

“Is this wise? May I expect my cousin to burst in and knock me down?”

Diana laughed. “I told Sebastian I was going to speak to you after dinner. He promised to behave.”

“I assume that's only if
we
behave.”

“You have no more desire to misbehave with me than I do with you, so don't pretend otherwise.”

“You know I've been pining for you ever since you so cruelly threw me over.”

“I know nothing of the kind. And a good thing too, since we are to be brother and sister.”

Diana came forward, took both his hands and kissed him on the cheek. “Welcome to the family.”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I never meant to compromise your sister.”

“I know that, Blake. Now sit down and let us talk about it. First tell me how you are. I haven't seen you since you were at Mandeville two summers ago.”

“I've been living in Devon, managing the estate there.”

“And does farming suit you? You are looking well.”

“I enjoyed having something useful to do. But I'm glad to be back in town for a while.”

“Did your rustication have anything to do with that little money problem you had?”

“Thank you for your loan. I'm sorry it took so long to repay.” If she noticed he hadn't answered the question she gave no sign. “Did you tell your sister about it?” he asked.

“No, I didn't think it my business to do so. If it's something she should know, I trust you to tell her yourself. If not, I think we should both forget the matter.”

Blake found himself relaxing. He'd always felt at ease with Diana, one reason he'd wished to marry her. He had to admit Minerva was the more beautiful of the sisters. Judged dispassionately, Diana's face was ordinary. Her appeal derived from a luscious figure, shining dark hair, and impeccable grooming and dress. The only feature she shared with Minerva was their wide, clear blue eyes. Aside from her large fortune, he'd always thought her eminently beddable. Not that he ever had bedded her, alas, before she was swept off by the loathsome bookworm Sebastian. An outcome that Blake still didn't entirely comprehend, though he supposed it had something to do with love.

He reminded himself that she'd been an experienced widow when he courted her, while Minerva was a virginal miss. In their conversation that evening there'd been a hint of sensuality, a suggestion that his bride could be aroused to passion. It crossed his mind that not bedding her might cost him something. Also, by frustrating his father's plans, he would injure his bride, who must expect motherhood as a result of marriage. Fatherhood wasn't something he'd ever much considered, but he, too, might like to have an heir some day.

He felt his resolve waver. His decision had been made in a moment of anger at his father, perhaps in too much haste. If they continued to get along as well as they had this evening, it would be difficult, foolish even, to hold to it. The emerald necklace was in the pocket of his greatcoat. He'd intended to present it to her after dinner, in front of her family and friends, as a public token of goodwill. He should seek a private audience instead.

“Blake! Pay attention.”

“I beg your pardon. What were you saying?”

“I hadn't started yet. I want to talk about Minerva. She's a good girl and I think you can be happy together. She wants to put the—er—manner of your betrothal behind you.”

“I'm glad.”

“She's much younger than you.”

“Ten years is not an uncommon difference in ages. And she seems very self-assured.”

“Min has always been grown-up for her years but that doesn't mean she knows as much as she thinks she does. She tends to be impulsive and get herself into scrapes. Sometimes she needs to be saved from herself.”

This was the first suggestion, in any discussions of their marriage, that Blake could bring anything to the union apart from his name, his fortune, and his virility. The thought of guiding his all-too-clever fiancée warmed him, gave him an unwonted feeling of protectiveness.

“You mean,” he said with a grin, “bailing her out of prison as needed?”

“I trust,” Diana said repressively, “that Min has outgrown such indiscretions. Not that you were any help rescuing her. Thank God for Sebastian.”

“Yes, thank God.”

“Stop it, Blake. You never really cared for me and he had a reason to hate you.
You
at least should be over your quarrel.”

What could he say? No one, with the exception of Amanda, knew why he'd detested Sebastian on sight, the perfect cousin, brought in by the duke to set an example of intellectual attainment to his idle, dunderheaded heir.

“I will, of course, do my best to care for my wife. I wish we could be wed under better circumstances. I know she'd rather have a clever man as a husband.”

“She's quite come around to it, you know. She has always wanted to be in the thick of the political or diplomatic world. What family occupies that world more thoroughly than the Vanderlins?”

“None,” Blake said.

Diana continued, blithely unaware that she could hardly have found a thing to say that would make him
less
enthusiastic about his bride. “Her ambition since she was quite a child has been to be a political hostess. She's so excited about going to live at Vanderlin House and training under your mother for the position of duchess. She'll be the greatest help and credit to you. In fact, you really couldn't have chosen a better wife.”

A chill seeped through his veins. The last thing in the world he needed was to be “helped” with his accursed ducal future. All he wanted was to forget it.

A sense of injustice, so powerful as to be almost physical, hit him. The marriage had seemed bearable when it was equally unpalatable to both. He'd been prepared to search for some kind of mutual accommodation with his bride.

Instead, far from reluctant, Minerva was apparently getting everything she wanted: Vanderlin House and the great influence and power of the Dukes of Hampton. She made no bones about the fact that her husband-to-be was undeserving of his inheritance. But it wouldn't stop her enjoying it.

And he, Blake, what did he get?

Money. He got money and plenty of it, ironically, thanks to the efforts of Sebastian Iverley who had negotiated hard with the duke on behalf of his sister-in-law. After a lifetime of being kept on an allowance that was meager considering the extent of the family holdings, and two years of penny-pinching, Blake would enjoy all the appurtenances of a rich man's heir.

But it came with strings attached. He had to dispose of a mistress who satisfied him, wed an irritating miss ten years his junior who would have no idea what to do in bed, and please his implacable parents by siring as many children as possible.

The oblivious Diana drove the final nail in the coffin of his good intentions. “I know Min doesn't have the fortune or connections the duke desired, but I believe he will see, has already seen, that Minerva is the perfect wife for you.”

T
wo days before the wedding the jewelry was delivered to Portman Square where Celia Compton took tea and gossip with Minerva and Diana in the latter's boudoir.

“I can't wait to see what Minerva chose,” Diana said, opening a box with a cheerful avidity that couldn't have presented a greater contrast with the formality of the scene at Vanderlin House. “Oh, this is lovely.”

The case contained the Roman cameos. Gratified to have her taste validated by her fastidious sister, Minerva explained the history of the necklace.

“When you get to Paris,” Diana said, “you must have a gown made to wear with them. Dark rose, I think. Puce looks liverish with your hair.”

Celia shrieked. “Lord, this a beastly thing.” She had found the ugly bracelet. “Are these cornelians, Diana?”

“How could you, Min?” Diana said with an eloquent shudder. “You'll just have to lose it.”

“I could drop it in the gutter, I suppose.”

“I hear they have very deep gutters in Paris,” said Celia. “And huge French rats that eat rocks. What other horrors did you pick?”

The ladies fell on the jewel cases and as they examined the booty their comments became both politer and quieter. Minerva realized her sister in particular was distressed, but didn't understand why.

“Where are the major pieces?” Diana asked.

“There's a whole set of diamonds. Necklace, bracelets, and so forth.”

“It must be in here,” Diana said, cheering up as she reached for the largest case. “Oh. They're quite small.”

“Are they?” Minerva asked. “They seem large enough to me.”

Diana shook her head. “Does Blake know which jewels you've been given?”

“Yes.”

“And he was satisfied?”

“Well, he did say something about some pearls, and amethysts I think. The duke said I'd have them later. Why?” She could see Diana was upset.

“Never mind. It probably isn't important.”

Minerva had never seen eye to eye with her sister when it came to the importance of fashion. As far as she was concerned the diamonds, and everything else, were quite adequate. She was more curious about her bridegroom, of whom she'd seen very little since the Iverleys' dinner party.

Her hopes of building a cordial alliance with Blake had been depressed by his behavior since that evening. They'd had fun at the table. They'd agreed to address each other informally. He'd threatened to call her Minnie, which, while not a good thing in itself, was the kind of teasing she associated with a warm close family relationship. And surely there was no closer family relationship than that of husband and wife, nor one in which warmth, even heat, was more desirable. The way his deep, heartfelt laugh affected her body made the latter a real possibility, at least from her point of view.

They'd returned to the drawing room where the party continued a lively discussion of the latest novels. Minerva had noticed her fiancé's dark blue eyes had a tendency to glaze over when the topic was the minutiae of government she found so fascinating. This being a reaction she'd observed in others, she was quite ready to feed him her favorite subject in small, manageable morsels.

But novels? A man as frivolous as Blake should enjoy them. It wasn't as though the Montroses or their friends went in for the moralizing tales of Hannah More. What could be more enjoyable than Scott's dashing adventures? Blakeney hadn't offered an opinion on any book.

He'd taken his leave at an early hour and the Chases and the Comptons, though they tried to hide it, were embarrassed for her. Probably thought he'd left to spend the night with his mistress. The idea was surprisingly painful. Since their flirtatious exchange at dinner, she had been looking forward to slipping off to the library with him for another kiss. Since then they'd never been alone and Blake had made no effort to change that state of affairs.

“Did Blake say anything to you about the jewels?” she asked Diana. “Do you have reason to think there's something odd about them?”

Diana shook her head. “As I told you before, we had a very amiable chat.”

“I may be able to throw light on the matter,” Celia said. “Lord Hugo's valet was in Rundle & Bridge at the same time as Blakeney. Perhaps I shouldn't go on. I don't want to give away secrets or spoil a surprise.”

Whatever it was, Minerva decided she'd rather know. “I don't much care for surprises.”

“According to Lord Hugo, Bennett saw Blake buying some very expensive trinkets. Two ruby bracelets and an emerald necklace.”

“Hmm, rubies,” said Diana. “I'm not sure they will suit Min. But you'll look marvelous in emeralds. I'm so glad to hear Blake is doing the right thing by you. You must pretend to be astonished when he gives them to you.”

Minerva felt a glow of pleasure. She might be indifferent to the size of gems, but not to gifts from her future husband. Thank goodness she'd found the perfect gift for him. It wasn't expensive but she knew he'd love it. She had it specially bound by Sebastian's bookbinder.

“You were right to tell us, Celia,” Diana said. “I was already confident, but now I have no doubt everything will be fine once Min and Blake are married.”

“You are not going to be married!” Sebastian appeared at the doorway looking furious. He strode into the room, Tarquin Compton at his heels. Ignoring his wife's greeting and shaking off her restraining hand on his arm, he stood over Minerva's chair. “I won't let you marry that man.”

“Goodness,” Celia said, “whatever happened must be serious to drag you two away from a book sale.”

Tarquin dropped a kiss on her knuckles. “I thought I'd better come in case Sebastian decided to make a detour and kill Blakeney on the way here.”

“Sebastian!” Minerva said. “I wish you'd stop glowering and tell us what's the matter. What has Blake done now?”

“That idiot Winchester, who gossips more than an old woman, saw him in a box at Covent Garden last night with Desirée de Bonamour.”