Confessions From an Arranged Marriage (5 page)

So it went on, with little or no contribution from himself, till the long meal was over. His betrothed wife drank it in. She'd always been as drearily obsessed with politics as any proper Vanderlin. After a while she ventured a remark which was received with approval and encouragement.

Blake had to admit avid interest added animation to her insipid beauty. He'd always known she was clever. Just like the rest of her family, even her sister, though Diana never flaunted her brains or Blake wouldn't have considered marrying her. Just like his bloody brilliant cousin Sebastian, whom Diana had preferred.

Almost since he could remember, Blakeney had wondered why he was the only stupid member of a family famous for superior intellect. Perhaps he'd be doing the Vanderlin line a favor by letting the dukedom go to his cousin. He didn't think his bride would mind. In the carriage she'd made it clear she was far from forgiving his error. And she'd flinched in disgust when he touched her hand.

He didn't think Minerva would complain if he neglected to consummate the marriage. Hell, she'd likely be overjoyed if he never visited her bed.

M
inerva was used to the Duke of Hampton's principal country seat. She'd grown up on a small estate next door. Vast as Mandeville House was, familiarity let her see the massive mansion in reduced perspective. The first sight of Vanderlin House had astounded her. She scarcely believed a family could own a house so large in the middle of London, where even couples as wealthy as the Chases and the Iverleys lived in relatively modest, though spacious, houses. The Piccadilly residence was large enough to house the population of a small town and, judging by the ever-present number of liveried servants, it did.

When the duchess had offered to give the ball for her in Diana's absence, she'd refused to be intimidated. But living in this gilded palace was another matter. Ridiculous.

Every room was designed to impress and couldn't have presented a greater contrast to her childhood home: shabby, cozy Wallop Hall with its low ceilings, cramped quarters, and dogs.

Ridiculous, and a little alarming.

Since the disaster in the library she'd steadily refused to look beyond the wedding ceremony when she became the Marchioness of Blakeney. Between that event and the rest of her life lay the consummation. She'd been curious about marital relations in an academic sort of way; it seemed the sort of thing a girl should know. But once she'd wormed the truth out of Celia (Diana having always very meanly declined to inform her until she was betrothed) she'd lost interest. Diana and Celia seemed to like it, but the business all sounded odd, messy, and possibly unpleasant.

And not at all the sort of thing you wanted to do with someone you didn't like.

At the end of the meal the duchess led her to the drawing room she used every day, a high-ceiled room with plentiful gilt plasterwork, but modest compared to the series of reception rooms used for big entertainments. With a fire in the grate and the curtains drawn it was as close to cozy as any part of Vanderlin House Minerva had yet seen, and that wasn't very close at all. The apartment was a perfect match for its mistress: handsome, elegant, and chilly.

“I had thought,” the duchess said as they settled on tapestry-covered chairs, “to show you the quarters the duke has decided on for you, but I think they are better seen by day. Let's settle down and talk informally. Do you like this room?”

“Very elegant.”

“A good size for everyday use. There's one very similar in the west end of the house which will be yours.”

Minerva hoped it had more comfortable seating. Though Diana often scolded her for it, she liked to put her feet up on a sofa and read for hours. The duchess appeared never to so much as bend her spine.

“Naturally for formal entertaining you will use the principal rooms,” she continued.

Though Minerva dreamed of being a great hostess, she found the idea of receiving hundreds of people in this vast house intimidating. Her ambitions were on a smaller scale.

“Don't worry, my dear. We have an excellent staff so there will be no need for you to concern yourself with the mundane details of domestic arrangements.”

“You know, Your Grace, Blakeney and I have not discussed where we shall live. I had the impression the duke's kind offer of rooms here came as a surprise to him.”

The duchess swept aside such an insignificant obstacle as her son's opinion. “He will do as he's bid.” Her voice dropped to a confidential level. “The first time you dined at Mandeville, after your sister wed Iverley, I was impressed by your grasp of national affairs.”

“Thank you.”

“It was why I offered to have your presentation ball here. And because of the duke's affection for Iverley, of course.”

“I was most grateful.”

“Perhaps not so grateful anymore?” Minerva thought there might be a hint of mischief in the duchess's question, the first she'd ever detected in that formidable lady's demeanor. She wasn't sure, and even if there were, she couldn't think of a suitable reply. She kept quiet and waited.

“As I am sure you realize, the wives of great men have important parts to play in affairs of state. If we are clever we women can exert great influence.”

How often Minerva had said the same thing, in almost the same words, to her family and friends. For the first time in days her heart beat with excitement instead of rage.

“I am the very person,” the duchess continued, “to instruct you in your future role.”

About to fall on her knees, at least figuratively, and beg her future mother-in-law to let her study at the feet of the master, another thought brought her up short. The duchess spoke of the wives of great men and the Duke of Hampton was one, by most measures. He had been deeply involved in the affairs of the nation for two score years and held numerous offices. He'd almost become Prime Minister back in the last century.

Minerva, on the other hand, was to be the wife of Lord Blakeney. And anyone with less resemblance to a great man was hard to fathom. “But . . .” she began, striving for a tactful way to tell Blakeney's mother that he probably wasn't statesman material.

Her compunction was wasted.

“Blakeney has never been up to the task he will inherit,” the duchess said with brutal candor. “He will need your help if he is to perform his future role with any degree of competence.”

“I am flattered by your confidence but under the circumstances I believe I have very little influence.”

“A clever wife has ways of making herself attended. And since your other duty is to ensure the future generations of Vanderlins, the interests tally nicely.”

Greatly as she respected the duchess, Minerva thought she'd better stand up for herself.

“I do not think the methods you suggest,” she said carefully, “will win Blakeney's affections since he has no interest in me that way and I have no experience at all.”

“Of course you don't! But you will. Lucky you are such a pretty girl.”

“And if I should be in the position to persuade him, how can I make him attend to matters for which he has no predilection?”

“Despite his behavior, including the incredible foolishness that has brought us to this pass, I do not believe my son to be a truly stupid man.”

“Of course not,” Minerva murmured. She wasn't entirely sure the duchess was correct. As far as native wit went, Blakeney might not be lacking. But she'd never had a discussion with the man that wasn't idiotic by her standards. She hated talking about sports.

“If only he would work harder, but he is lazy. From earliest childhood he refused to apply himself to his schoolroom lessons. His idleness was ever a disappointment to his father.”

Perversely, Minerva had a sudden urge to defend her fiancé. Nothing about Blakeney had ever struck her as lazy. On the contrary, he appeared to suffer from an excess of energy, which he expended in physical activities. And he was good at them. Little as Minerva might share the passion, she'd grown up with a hunting-mad mother and knew you didn't become a brilliant horseman, and owner of a first-rate stable of hunters, without the expenditure of considerable effort.

It also didn't seem right to hear the duke and duchess disparage their son because he didn't care to follow their path. Her own parents had never discouraged their six children from following whatever direction appealed to them, and as a result the six of them ended up with a dizzying variety of interests and occupations. William and Margo Montrose might be surprised by some of their children's choices, but they regarded all of them with enormous affection and pride.

Blakeney's attitude to the affairs of the country baffled Minerva. She recalled his indifference to the terrible massacre of Peterloo a few years earlier. How could he not care, especially when he'd been brought up in the very center of English political life? Hazily she wondered if years of proximity could have actually fostered indifference.

For the first time she felt a stirring of curiosity about Blakeney, what kind of man he was, and how he'd reached the age of thirty as that man.

Chapter 5

T
he carriage drew up at the door and Blake could hardly wait to get out of Hampton House and breathe the free, if smoke-tainted air, of the streets. He'd drop his betrothed in Berkeley Square, dismiss his father's servants, and take a hackney to Covent Garden. Or maybe he'd walk. His limbs felt cramped, his chest tight, a common physical response to the company of his father. The best remedy was a hard gallop over open fields, or a bout of fencing or boxing. Absent either possibility, the company of Desirée would relieve his restlessness. The duke hadn't put a precise date on his mistress's dismissal.

Minerva ignored his hand as he offered to help her into the carriage. “Could we walk?” she said.

He glanced down. “In white slippers? I wouldn't give odds on them reaching home unsoiled.”

“I should care, but I don't. I have a fit of the fidgets only exercise will ease.”

Blake had rarely felt so much in harmony with the girl. “Very well, Miss Montrose. Take my arm and watch where you step. And let's try not to get either robbed or arrested.”

“I have every confidence you are capable of saving me from the former fate. As for the latter, I wish you'd stop bringing that up. I was very young then, and I no longer do such foolish things.”

“When my sister Amanda got into trouble at that age it was usually borrowing the older girls' gowns or ogling the footmen. I don't recall her breaking any laws.”

“And I shall endeavor not to do so again between here and Berkeley Square.”

He dismissed the carriage with a few words and they made their way out to Piccadilly in silence. When they reached the corner of Devonshire House Minerva dropped his arm and skipped on ahead.

“We should turn here,” he called.

“No,” she said over her shoulder. “I want to keep walking. I'm never allowed to walk around London at night.”

“That's because it's not safe for a lady.”

“I am sure you are well able to protect me.”

He caught up with her right under a streetlamp so was favored with a clear view of a smug little grin. Abandoning hope of a quick escape to Covent Garden, he soon learned she had a particular destination in mind.

“Not a good idea,” he said when she turned at the narrow entrance to White Horse Street.

“I want to see Shepherd's Market at night. I read about the old May Fair where all sorts of wicked things happened, but during the day there's nothing but food stalls.”

Blake shrugged. The riotous fair had been abolished decades earlier, although the area retained its odor of notoriety. Minerva was likely to see nothing worse than a few ladies of ill repute. If she was shocked, so much the better. Still, he seized her arm and held her firmly at his side.

As they approached the market square, a couple of prostitutes eyed them curiously. Blake noticed his companion return their gaze and wondered if Minerva knew what these women were. Mercifully she was, for once, quiet, until one of the streetwalkers, a bold piece with a heavily painted face, stepped directly in front of them.

“Lookin' for a three-in-a-bed, are you?” she demanded. “Or I can find a stallion for your lady if that's her taste. Mind you,” she continued, lowering her eyes to Blake's groin, “I bet a well-hung cull like you can take care of us both.”

Minerva's response to this interesting proposition he would never know. Just as he backed away from the thrust of the trollop's ample and mostly uncovered bosom, he felt a disturbance at his back and swung around, grabbing a wrist just as its hand extracted the purse from the tail pocket of his coat.

“Caught in the act,” he said with satisfaction.

The thief was small and wiry and wriggled like a trout on the line while emitting a stream of obscenities. The whore, probably his accomplice, turned and fled.

“Quiet in the presence of a lady. You're coming with me to find the Watch,” Blake said. “Miss Montrose, stay close. I need both hands to manage this rogue.” He tossed her his recovered purse.

His betrothed could not, of course, be expected to behave like a normal female. She neither succumbed to the vapors, for which Blakeney was profoundly grateful, nor expressed shock and outrage at the attempted theft. Instead she ignored his command and moved to face the blaspheming pickpocket whose arms Blake had firmly twisted behind his back.

“Let him go,” she said.

“What?”

“He's little more than a boy.”

“That's right, miss,” the rogue said, ceasing to struggle in Blake's grip. “Let me go. I never done anything like this before but my mum and little brothers and sisters is starving.”

“For Heaven's sake! You're not going to credit such . . .”

She interrupted him. “Let him go. Please. There's no harm done and you still have your money.”

With a mental shrug, Blake decided to comply. Dragging the miscreant to Piccadilly to track down a representative of London's somewhat haphazard law enforcement wouldn't be easy, and having both hands occupied would leave Minerva unprotected or—just as likely—free to get into trouble.

“If you insist,” he said and released the thief.

“Thanks, guv.”

“Thank the lady.”

“Thanks, miss. How 'bout a shilling to buy supper for the little 'uns?”

“Don't press your luck.”

At Blake's threatening move the lad took to his heels and melted into the alley from which he'd come.

“Let's get out of here.” Grasping Minerva firmly by the arm, he hustled her across the square and through to the better lit civilization of Curzon Street.

“It's coming back to me what a cursed nuisance you are, Miss Montrose. Can't you behave like a normal young lady? I was mad to agree to this walk.”

“Nonsense. It has been a most interesting experience.”

He occurred to him he agreed with her, and his protests were mere bluster. A bride who wasn't a “normal young lady” might make life interesting in some ways. He looked down at her, calmly keeping pace with his stride that made no effort to accommodate ladylike steps.

“You didn't believe the pack of lies that boy told, did you?” he asked. “Far more likely he's part of an organized ring of thieves.”

“Far more likely, but we can't be certain. And the law makes no distinction between a starving boy who steals a loaf of bread and a practiced criminal. Either way he could get sent to the gallows or the hulks. Who are you and I to judge and condemn that youth to such a fate?”

“Is lawlessness the only alternative?”

“Reform is the alternative.”

And off she went, speaking of theories of justice and bills in Parliament, Bentham and Cobbett, and Elizabeth Fry, prisons and public education. To his astonishment, Blake found himself interested. He enjoyed hearing her discuss public business without reference to political maneuvers, realizing his father's affairs always seemed to concern the wrangling of the ministry, Parliament, and party. Minerva had the knack of presenting facts in a clear but entertaining fashion, omitting excessive verbiage and getting straight to the point. After a lifetime of hearing and blocking out such discourse, he paid close attention. She made these matters sound truly important. For the most part he listened in silence, only venturing a question or two.

“Is the new prison on the Millbank a great improvement?” he asked.

“Better than Newgate or the hulks. But the prisoners don't stay there long before being moved on. Until Parliament acts there will be no true justice.”

By now they'd reached the south end of Berkeley Square, almost at the Chases' house. Minerva came to a halt and turned to study his face. Under the light of a gas streetlamp, blue eyes blazed with an intensity that belied the pallid perfection of her features.

“I do believe you care, Blakeney,” she said. “I would never have thought it. Let me send you some pamphlets on the subject.”

His heart sank. Pamphlets. She wanted him to read pamphlets. It was like being at school again.

She carried on, oblivious to his discomfort. “When you read the details you cannot fail to be touched by the horrors visited upon these unfortunates. No one could.”

He needed to change the subject, fast. Though it went contrary to his resolution earlier in the evening, he could think of only one way to do it.

Minerva was pleased by the attention her reluctant betrothed paid her. According to previous experience, Blakeney never showed curiosity about anything but hunting. While he courted Diana they'd suffered interminable accounts of the pursuit of foxes. Perhaps the intervening years had effected a change in his frivolous outlook.

Again she noted the spiderweb of lines extending from the corners of his dark blue eyes, a physical manifestation of his maturity. She had to admit, he really was very good looking. As she studied him in the gaslight, something odd happened. His expression, the quality of his regard, altered. In any other man she'd have read it as . . . desire.

“My dear Miss Montrose. If I have to listen to such dry stuff, let it be from the lips of a pretty girl. Or why not put those pretty lips to better use. Does a future husband merit a kiss?”

He held her gaze with unwavering heat for some moments, while she tried to interpret this unexpected turn of events. At the beginning of the evening she'd have sooner kissed a snake than Blakeney. But now?

“Why not?” she said slowly. “We may as well both find out what we are getting.”

His breath caressed her cheek. “In the interests of discretion,” he murmured, his deep voice descending to a basso profundo, “and because I don't wish to have to answer to Lord Chase at sword-point, I suggest we move away from the lamp.”

He offered his arm in an oddly formal gesture and led her to a dark spot in the center of the square. The garden was large enough to provide a refuge from urban noise, even in this exclusive neighborhood. The racket of hooves and wheels on cobblestones, music and chatter emerging from the open windows of a mansion, faded into the distance, leaving the murmur of a soft breeze through new leaves and the discordant song of a nightbird.

Minerva wondered how many lovers had hidden among these trees to steal a kiss. But she and Blakeney weren't lovers. She waited curiously with unwonted passivity as he placed one hand on her shoulder and tilted her chin with the other. Unable to read his expression in the dark, she closed her eyes, sensing his body heat, the scent of starch, his warm breath lightly laced with wine.

She envisioned that shapely sulky mouth as it touched her, lips soft and firm, brushing the breadth of hers. She gave an involuntary smile. It felt good.

He came closer and she opened to his unspoken request, mingling her breath with his, enjoying his gentle sucking on her upper lip. He knew what he was doing.

Responding to her participation, he lowered his hands to part the velvet cloak she wore over her evening gown, then drew her in close so his clothing—fine wool and crisp linen—caressed the exposed skin of her chest and neck. Her flesh tingled.

“Now,” he whispered. The word wafted between her parted lips, followed by his tongue, teasing and stroking the tender skin within. Minerva found herself being thoroughly kissed by someone she recognized as a master of the art.

Her head began to buzz and, fearing she might faint, she held onto his head, and learned the golden locks were as silken to the touch as the eye. She tried to analyze the experience, define the taste of the kiss, but it was like nothing she recognized, neither sweet nor sharp. It tasted . . . physical. And very good. Her thoughts dissolved along with her breath.

Then, quite abruptly, he set her aside and stepped back so she had to clear her muddled head and find her balance in a hurry.

“Thank you, Miss Montrose. You kiss as prettily as you look. Now let me see you to Lord Chase's door before you succumb to the dangers of the night air.”

The words sounded genuine and were delivered with a winning smile, but she didn't feel complimented. By the time she took formal leave of him in the hall of the Chases' house she knew why.

It wasn't the first time Minerva Montrose had been kissed. In the spirit of research and a liberal education she'd accepted embraces from a couple of gentleman, one of them a highly attractive Austrian count. She'd carefully selected him for the experiment, knowing him a hardened flirt and quite uninterested in marriage to an English girl of moderate fortune. In an anteroom of a Viennese ballroom, after a superb waltz, he'd kissed her every bit as thoroughly as Blakeney had just done. Unlike Blakeney the young Graf had emerged from the embrace panting with a flattering degree of desperation.

Not so her betrothed husband. If Minerva judged correctly, he had been scarcely affected by her. Yet he'd initiated the encounter with theatrical seductiveness.

Theatrical indeed. Thinking back on it, she believed he'd proposed the kiss to change the subject. He was trying to avoid something, very likely her conversation, which hurt a little. She'd thought him engaged by the subjects she found so engrossing. Her kisses, apparently, were no more fascinating to her future spouse, and this also irked her. For she'd found him a much better kisser than the Austrian, and it piqued her vanity to be found wanting.