Confessions From an Arranged Marriage (18 page)

She panted with rekindled rage and the exertion of walking at full speed. “You have not the slightest idea what I believe or what I wanted of life. If you think I'd rather be married to a man whose merit comes only from his birth, you couldn't be more wrong. I admire a man who advances on his own merits.” That wiped the arrogance off his face. “As for being a duchess, the wife of a duke, and the mother of another—it is to me a matter of supreme indifference.” She stopped walking, folded her arms, and stuck her nose in the air.

To her gratification, Blake's voice lost its reasonable tone. “Hah! You say that, but you know it's unlikely you could have wed anyone who will wield the kind of sway my father has. He controls over a dozen seats in Parliament and influences as many again. I may not want to do what he does, but I know the kind of power I'll inherit. You're a very clever woman, Minerva. You know this and it's what you want.”

The grain of truth in his accusation struck a nerve and made her angrier. “You pompous ass!” she yelled. “You don't know me at all. I despise the power of the aristocracy, the corruption of a system that gives a single man so much power. When true reform comes, the nobility will be nothing and England will be ruled by the common man. The only use I have for aristocratic power is to use it against itself.”

Instead of becoming angrier, or cringing in shame, he had the gall to sound intrigued. “Does my father know what you think? By God, Minnie. You're a Radical. Does he know that?”

She made herself speak calmly, to try and get it into his fat, ignorant head that they were talking of matters more important than his family issues. “The duke is a man of great vision who has fought to change things, even against his own interest. I revere him for that. But he's old-fashioned. He sees gradual and limited changes, which will leave much of his inherited influence intact. I don't think he understands that the forces of change are too strong to control and he will eventually lose everything. Unfortunately, I doubt it'll happen in his lifetime.”

This time his response truly surprised her and she wondered if he'd lost his mind. “Why are you laughing?”

“My father has outwitted himself, the old devil. He thought he was getting the family a broodmare with the bonus of a little political knowledge to help his poor idiot heir. Turns out he's let a fox into the henhouse.” He grabbed her by the waist and before she could struggle, swung her in a circle. “I'm glad I married you, Minnie. I can't wait to break the news to my venerable sire.”

“You irresponsible blockhead!” she spat, shoving at his chest until he put her down. “It's all just a game to you. An idiotic male grudge match with your father that matters not a whit to anyone else. I don't know what you have against him and I don't wish to. My concern is the future of England and the English people.”

“And you called me pompous!” He wasn't laughing anymore.

“Better pompous than irresponsible. You were born to a position where you could do some good in the world, and as far as I can see you've done nothing to prepare for it. You don't read the newspapers or study the issues of the day. You don't even try! You may be handsome and you may know all about horses but I made a huge mistake in thinking you might be worth more than that.”

Now he wasn't laughing at all. He walked the short distance home without uttering another word, his mouth white and set into an ugly grimace. Despite her own fury she was disquieted at his palpable anger, so cold and controlled compared to her own. Could she be in the wrong? Surely not. Even if she was mistaken about Mademoiselle de Bonamour—and she didn't believe it for an instant—everything else she'd said was true and fair. Wasn't it?

Nevertheless, by the time they entered the apartment she felt chilled and depressed at the ruin of her day.

The ruin of her life.

Blake stalked off to his own room, but returned before she'd finished removing her bonnet. “Here,” he said, thrusting a familiar case in her hand, together with another smaller one which she opened. Matching bracelets. Just like Mademoiselle de Bonamour. Minerva couldn't decide whether to throw them in Blake's face or apologize.

As she wavered, a knock came at the door and the footman admitted a gentleman. She recognized him from her visit to the Embassy, one of Sir Charles Stuart's senior attachés.

“Lord Blakeney.” He bowed. “My lady. I have bad news. The letter came by diplomatic courier, but another dispatch brought the news to Sir Charles and he desired me to acquaint you with the facts directly.” He handed Blake a sealed letter. “I'm sorry to inform you that the Duke of Hampton has suffered a seizure.”

“His heart?” Blake asked.

“So I understand. He is not expected to live long. I have been instructed to help with arrangements for your immediate return to London.”

Minerva's hand crept over and took her husband's free one. He stared at the inscription on the envelope like a man who has received a death sentence.

“From my mother,” he said. His words were enunciated crisply but his voice was devoid of expression. “Would you be so good as to read it, Minerva, while I discuss our journey.”

Chapter 17

H
eld up by a flooded bridge near Beauvais, it took Minerva five days to reach London. She prayed that Blake, traveling ahead on horseback, had made it in time to see his father.

Incessant rain followed her across the Channel and onward from Dover. The gutters along Piccadilly worked overtime, their efficiency threatened by the thick layer of straw laid down on the street to muffle the clatter of carriage wheels and preserve the peace of the invalid in Vanderlin House. The absence of signs of mourning at the entrance, or on the servants' liveries, reassured her that the Duke of Hampton still lived. Her short term as Marchioness of Blakeney would continue a little longer. The idea of becoming a duchess and mistress of this, and half a dozen other mansions, seemed unreal.

The atmosphere in the house was one of sobriety and anticipation. Standing in the gilded hall at the foot of the great staircase, surrounded by bowing footmen with somber faces, she wondered where she should go. This was her home now, but she wasn't even sure if she could find the way to the suite she'd only seen once. She wished Blake would appear, and dreaded it.

After the news of the duke's illness arrived, all their conversation had been of practicalities. She'd offered to ride with him but, excellent horsewoman as she was, she couldn't keep up with his speed and stamina and had acknowledged the fact. She stayed to supervise the transportation of their possessions and servants from Paris. The honeymoon was over.

Hanging over her were two facts. She and Blake were new lovers. And they'd just had a blazing row. She wasn't sure which was paramount and both made her nervous about their coming reunion.

She'd had plenty of time on the road to ruminate. She admitted to herself that she'd said some hard things to her husband. Not that she thought all of them unjust, but she'd been less than tactful in their expression. In fact she'd been beastly. She had survived dozens of arguments on the practice and philosophy of politics, and prided herself on an ability to make the kind of rational case of which many men thought a woman incapable. Blake had driven her to an unprecedented rage and she didn't know why. Neither had she any idea how to approach him.

Her own uncertainties aside, she was concerned for him. Despite the complexities of his relations with his father, which she didn't understand, he must surely be affected by his parent's grave illness. She suddenly longed for her own father and a comforting embrace from that cheerful and loving eccentric. The contrast between William Montrose and the Duke of Hampton couldn't be greater and, for all the duke's material advantages, she rather thought she'd been dealt the better hand.

A footman took her traveling cloak, but the butler who'd greeted her with a respectful “My lady” had vanished. Within a few minutes a young woman entered the hall.

“Lady Blakeney,” she said with a deep curtsey. “I am Amanda Vanderlin. Let me show you to your rooms. I'm afraid your suite is full of painters so we've prepared one of the guest chambers for you.”

This was Blake's favorite sister. If Minerva hadn't recognized her, she would have known by the strong family resemblance.

“I'm glad to finally meet you, Amanda. I've seen you often over the years. We may even have met at a public day at Mandeville.”

For a moment Amanda seemed disconcerted by the familiar address. Then she smiled and looked very like Blake at his most charming. “Of course we've met. Those public days are rather hideous, aren't they? Everyone seems so stiff and proper and embarrassed to be there.”

“I wish we were meeting at a happier time. How is His Grace?”

“Not well. We fear he may not last the week.”

“Where is Blake?”

“He's sitting with the duke now. So is my sister Anne, Lady Kildarren. Our mother is resting after being with him all night.”

“I'd like to see Blake,” Minerva said. “Does he know I'm here?”

“Filson will inform him. Meanwhile, let me take you upstairs. You must be weary from the journey.”

While she washed off the dust and did her hair, Amanda told her how things stood. “Anne and Kildarren and I arrived from Scotland yesterday. Maria and Gideon Louther have been here most of the time, but they've returned to their own house for a while. I can't really believe it. My father has had a bad heart for a long time, but he never showed any weakness. At nearly seventy years old we shouldn't be surprised, but he's always seemed immortal and invincible. My mother says he has weakened, but I've seen so little of him in recent years.”

Minerva squeezed her sister-in-law's hand for a moment. “I can see how distressing it must be. I've been very little at my father's house in the past two years and this makes me realize how much I miss him. I am glad that marrying Blake means I shall be only three miles from him and my mother at Mandeville.”

They'd barely settled in the morning room when Blake entered. “Amanda,” he said, sounding harassed. “Where is Gideon? The Prime Minister is threatening to come and pay his respects and I don't think the duke is up to it. Gideon will know how to fend him off.”

Minerva stood. For an aching moment their eyes clashed and she thought he was pleased to see her. A tentative smile died unborn when he offered her a formal bow.

“Minerva,” he said tonelessly. “I trust your journey was comfortable.”

All she could do was murmur a commonplace. His hair and clothing were less than pristine. Dark shadows under his eyes emphasized his pallor and spoke to his exhaustion. She had an urge to smooth back a stray lock from his brow, but nothing in his manner suggested he'd welcome the gesture.

“Do you have everything you need?”

“Amanda has been most kind.”

An awkward silence descended as Blake took in the sight of his wife. Amid the cold formality of Vanderlin House, rendered even grimmer than usual by the circumstances, she seemed young, vibrant, and very beautiful, like a fresh bloom in a catacomb. He was foolish to be glad she'd arrived. How could he take pleasure in the presence of a woman who despised him? While he faced the dread and grief of his father's last illness, their quarrel and the words she'd spoken haunted him. Because they were true. He was about to step into his father's shoes and be revealed in all his inadequacy.

He remembered the way she'd taken his hand when the news reached them in Paris, the calm efficiency with which she'd read his mother's letter aloud. He had no doubt he could rely on her for any assistance he requested. Minerva would be a dutiful wife. Though not an obedient one. The thought induced an inner smile, the first he'd had in five days.

The humor didn't reach his face and quickly faded from his mind. He didn't want a dutiful wife, but the point was moot. Whatever type of spouse he wanted, he had one already and she stood before him, expectant.

“What can I do to be useful?” she asked.

He shrugged helplessly. “Not much. All we can do is wait.”

The butler came into the room to deliver a letter and announce a visitor. “Lord Iverley.”

Minerva welcomed her brother-in-law with a kiss on the cheek. Heaven forbid that he, her husband, should merit such enthusiasm.

“Blakeney.”

“Sebastian.”

The cousins greeted each other with their usual coolness.

“Louther says the duke wants to see me.”

Of course. His father wouldn't see the Prime Minster. But the nephew he'd always admired and loved, who had all the intellectual attributes Blake lacked, Sebastian Iverley he would see. If Blake were a bigger man he'd take him upstairs himself and witness the last meeting between his father and the man he wished had been his son.

“My lord.” The butler held out the letter. “This was delivered from Windsor.”

The king himself had written. “It requires my immediate attention,” he said to his cousin. “Filson will show you up to the duke's room. Amanda, will you come to the study with me? I need your assistance.”

He was glad of an excuse to escape. He didn't know what to say to Minerva beyond trivialities. Their quarrel felt like a great barrier he needed to dismantle or climb over, but he had no idea how to do it. Neither, at this time, did he have the energy to try.

Left alone, Minerva tried not to be put out that Blake had turned to his sister before his wife for help. Was she going to have to make the first move to restore amicable relations?

When she thought about their last exchange in the streets of Paris she felt uncomfortable and confused. She couldn't understand why she'd been quite so angry. It wasn't as though either had entered their marriage willingly. Why did she care so much about his manipulations, or even his mistress? Things she'd said about his lack of concern for matters of importance were true. But she couldn't deny she had said them in an ill-mannered, cruel way.

Applying her experience with her own family, especially Stephen, her closest in age, might help. They'd had dozens of vicious quarrels and they settled themselves in one of two ways. If things became virulent, violent even, a parent, nurse, or tutor might intervene. At which point brother and sister forgot their disagreement and united against the interfering authority. As they grew older, pinches and hairpulling ceased and verbal fluency improved. They'd argue each other to a standstill (or Minerva's victory), refuse to speak to each other for half an hour or half a day, then carry on as though nothing had happened.

Neither of them, in her recollection, had ever apologized beyond a muttered, “I'm sorry.” She had little experience with the concept. And she could hardly compare her relationship to her brother with Blake, with whom she'd shared a bed and would share a lifetime. Being married was turning out to be a lot more complicated than she'd imagined.

“W
ill you read to me?” The duke's white hand trembled as he pointed to a brown leather book. His father's presence had shrunk to that of an old sick man of no special power.

The first time he'd seen him lying there, Blake had been shocked at how insignificant he looked. The huge room itself, dominated by the ancient bed of carved oak, had drawn most of his unwitting attention. Over all the years he'd never visited the room. The duke's children had no part in his intimate life.

During one of the stilted conversations they'd endured since then, he'd learned the bed had come from Holland with Gerrit Vanderlin, the first duke. It seemed to have swallowed up the once tall and proud figure, just as family tradition dominated his father's life.

Either Blake or his mother or one of his sisters attended the duke at all times, more often than not several of them. In addition, his brothers-in-law were often there, especially Gideon. And always a servant or two, and a doctor.

Today the duke had dismissed everyone but Blake. He could be thankful there would be no witnesses to his humiliation. With a hollow opening in the pit of his stomach he took the volume and opened it.

“Greek,” he said with relief.

“Herodotus.”

“You know I was never any good at Greek. The person you need is Cousin Sebastian.”

The duke gave no sign he'd noticed the bitterness Blake couldn't keep out of his voice. “No matter. Your mother read to me from
The Times
earlier, but I find I don't much care for the news. It's hard to be interested in present events when I shan't be here to witness their outcome.”

There was nothing to say. The doctors had told the duke he had only a few days to live at the most, and his father was ever a realist.

“I'd rather talk about the past. I've been thinking about my father.”

Blake prepared for another lecture on past Vanderlin glories. He'd heard many in his life and he supposed he could survive one more.

“I was twenty-two when he died. Like you I was abroad. The news of his last illness reached me in Rome. Unlike you I didn't get back in time to see him.”

“I'm thankful I was no farther away than Paris.”

“I was about to leave for Greece. I never got there, you know. I never saw it.”

“Did you want to?”

“More than anything I ever wanted. I fancied myself something of a classical scholar in those days.” Regret filled his voice, a sentiment Blake had never associated with his father, who'd always appeared boundlessly confident and self-satisfied. “But it was not to be. I was Hampton and there were expectations.”

Blake braced himself for a final harangue on his own inadequacy. Instead the duke's faded eyes regarded him a pensive expression. “I'm sorry I can't live longer and spare you the dukedom a few more years.”

“Don't you mean you wish the dukedom could be spared me?”

“Don't jest about it, Blakeney. It's not a burden to be carried lightly. If I've sometimes been hard on you, it's because I wanted you to be prepared. I fear you are not ready for what you must face.”

“I have never seen you display any discomfort in your position.”

“I had a good many years to grow into it. And everything became easier once I found your mother.”

In thirty years Blake had never heard his father even approach a discussion of his personal affairs. He wasn't precisely eloquent now, but something in his voice when he mentioned his own marriage conveyed a depth of emotion his son hadn't suspected.

“I'm sorry I've been a disappointment to you, Father,” he said, the first time he'd ever addressed the duke in such a familiar fashion. “I wish I could have made you proud.”

A small rare smile creased the duke's pale lips. “You have. You did well in Paris. I didn't expect you to identify those friends of the Duke of Orleans in such a short time.”

“I should have guessed. That task was your idea, not Gideon's.”

“I thought it was time to give you something to do. You justified my confidence.”