Beth felt the door of hope open a little wider. Now was the moment. She either threw herself through that door or closed it forever.
“I should be happy to accept your offer of marriage.” The words, once uttered, almost shattered her. What had she done? She felt her eyes grow large. She could not get enough air in this stifling room. Why ever did Lady Rangle always set these chairs so close to the fire?
They stared at each other as though a chasm had opened up right here in the drawing room and they tottered on the edges. “Right,” Rufford said, recollecting himself. “Ahhh, when would be convenient? I had thought tomorrow? There is some urgency, you know.”
“Tomorrow!” This was becoming altogether too real. “One can’t get married upon a moment’s notice. There are the banns, the arrangements . . .”
He fished a heavy paper from the breast of his coat awkwardly. “I have a special license. Just in case, you know, you agreed. A ship leaves Portsmouth for Casablanca before dawn Saturday. I think we should start there. Kivala is somewhere east of the Atlas Mountains and west of El Golea.”
Beth drew her brows together. “However did you get a special license?”
He glanced away, then deliberately back. “It’s very hard to resist a vampire’s request.”
“Oh.” Beth’s mind darted over the possibilities inherent in that statement. Had he compelled her to accept him? She hadn’t felt compelled . . . but tomorrow? Who would she get to stand up for her? And she had nothing to wear, an objection she could never voice to Rufford. She was becoming positively missish. The pink will do, she thought. “Could we settle upon day after tomorrow? That would give me time to pack, and yet we could still make the sailing on Saturday.” Rufford nodded. But he must pass a final test. “One thing I must know.”
His eyes opened in apprehension.
“What is behind the doors you want me to unlock that will allow you to defeat Asharti?”
He swallowed. “You are ever practical.” He took a breath, and she could see him resolve to tell her the truth and let her make her own choice. “It is a temple. In it, a strange being waits whom Asharti calls the Old One, He Who Waits. His blood made the first vampires. It makes Asharti strong. If I can get him to give me his blood, perhaps I can defeat Asharti.” He shook his head, embarrassed. “It’s not much of a chance.” He shrugged. “It’s the best I have.”
He had passed the test. She squared her shoulders. “You deserve your chance. I will do what I can.”
He peered into her eyes, searching her soul. He did not seem to see what he had anticipated. He shook himself. “I expect I must ask your aunt for permission. I don’t suppose she is equal to it now, but there is so little time. . . .” He fidgeted with the license.
“Up to it? She is probably waiting for it.” Beth rang for Edwards.
“Do you think . . . ? I mean it is sudden.”
Beth raised her brows. “You will find her grateful for taking me off her hands.”
Beth was not wrong. Lady Rangle cared nothing for propriety when so great a catch as the very rich brother of a Viscount was involved. She cooed and clucked, “Oh, Mr. Rufford, how satisfying it is to see a man so carried away by love!” Both Beth and Rufford were discomfited. “Thursday, you say? But how will I recruit a respectable attendance?”
Beth glanced at Rufford. “Mr. Rufford and I were thinking of a private ceremony.”
“Yes, Lady Rangle. We are beginning our wedding trip from Portsmouth on Saturday. I thought we would visit Miss Rochewell’s beloved Africa.”
“Oh! Oh, dear. No reception after the ceremony?” She looked from one shaking head to another. “No.” She sighed, obviously mourning a chance to show off her niece’s catch to jealous matrons. “That will look so havy-cavy. Well,” she acquiesced.
“I . . . I will send round with all the details. Whom should I see about the marriage settlements?” Beth could see he had not thought this far. A sheen of perspiration broke out upon his forehead. Her own thoughts were already spinning ahead to the wedding night and on to all the arrangements to be made for an expedition and then back to the wedding night.
“My man of business, Edgely at Drummond’s, will see to it. Do you go to the Fairfields’ ball?” Lady Rangle asked with slightly more animation. “We were just about to leave.” Ahh, Lady Rangle saw an opportunity for an informal announcement of her triumph. Beth was wrung with conflicting anticipation of dances in Mr. Rufford’s arms and society’s astonishment that someone like Mr. Rufford could have offered for someone like her.
Rufford bowed punctiliously. “May I escort you, ladies? My carriage waits.”
All the way to Fairfield House, through streets crowded with carriages, Beth responded incoherently to her aunt’s chatter. Not that she wasn’t grateful for the distraction—Mr. Rufford was as silent as she was. But doubt assailed her. Why ever had she agreed to this mad plan? Because he needed help? Of course, but marriage? And the fact that he was right about it ruining her reputation was only an excuse. She wanted Ian Rufford as a husband, mystery, painful past, even vampire and all. He did not love her. He had admitted that. She had vowed she would never marry without love on both sides. Yet he liked to be with her. He wanted to protect her. And there was that mysterious expression when he looked at her. . . . Were these together something on which she could build? She was not the Countess of Lente. She might endure a lifetime of the pain of his constant association with creatures more ravishing than she. But in the moment she accepted him, she realized she could not imagine her future without him. The months until she saw him again had been a desert more bleak than any in North Africa. There would be danger at Kivala, if they could even find the place. That was nothing to the danger she faced on the interior landscape of her heart. He had it in his power to make her pay a horrifying price for her love. But better she pay it in his presence for however long she could induce him to stay with her than suffer the huge rip in her life made by his absence.
As they alighted from the carriage, Lady Rangle was claimed instantly by the ancient Earl of Silchester and began whispering to him. Beth placed her hand on Rufford’s arm and felt the electric warmth shoot through her. He looked down at her with eyes full—of what? She could not read them. He had not said six words to her since informing her aunt of his intentions. But he filled her present with his presence and that was enough. She indulged in a tiny pang of regret that she would be seen on his arm tonight in a light blue dress of figured muslin that was her aunt’s idea of maidenly propriety. There was nothing wrong with light blue, of course, on Miss Fairfield, but it was a disaster with Beth’s coloring.
As they entered the house, blazing with light, and ascended the stairs, Beth had a terrible thought. What if Mr. Rufford was embarrassed by being seen with her in public with her odd looks and odd manners? Would he regret his offer? She resolved to be as circumspect as possible. Inside the great ballroom of Fairfield House, they came first to Miss Fairfield and her brother, greeting guests near the door.
Miss Fairfield glanced from Rufford to Beth and smiled a knowing smile. “Miss Rochewell, how good of you to come. You are looking well.” Her brother shook Rufford’s hand.
“I am not, Miss Fairfield, and you know it,” Beth said. “Why my aunt insists on pastel colors I have no idea, unless it is the same impulse which drives her to call me Lizzy no matter how many times I protest.”
Miss Fairfield laughed. “Then you must order your own dresses. You have no choice.”
“No choice indeed. You have no idea.” She caught Rufford looking strangely at her, even as, behind her, she heard an old woman say in the loud voice of the deaf, “What an odd girl!”
So much for circumspection.
They made their way into the hall, trailing stares. Lady Rangle talked in excited tones to Lady Jersey and several other matrons. Beth saw the astonished glances, Lady Rangle’s self-satisfied look. She could practically hear her aunt saying, “He is so eager that it is to be a quiet, immediate aff
air. The ardor of the young!” She flushed with the imagined conversation.
“May I get you some refreshment?” The rumbling voice above her startled her into the present. “It is quite warm in this room.”
She spared him a glance and looked quickly away. “I am fine, thank you.”
“Rufford!” The musical voice was unmistakable. The Countess of Lente sailed into view in all her glory. It was emerald green tonight. Beth shrank inside. “I wondered where you had got to.” There was a sharp edge to the beautiful woman’s voice. “Have you decided to go abroad?”
“We have, but to North Africa, rather than America.” Beth saw relief bloom in the radiant face, followed closely by puzzlement. “Countess,” Rufford continued, “will you permit me to introduce Miss Rochewell, my future bride? Beatrix Lisse, Countess of Lente.”
The Countess raised a single brow. “I am charmed to meet you.” She looked quizzically to Rufford.
It was Beth who found a need to explain. “I hope to be useful to his . . . quest, Lady Lente. I can read the ancient texts and—”
Rufford interrupted. “We leave on Saturday. I trust that is sufficiently urgent?”
“It is.” The woman looked at Beth curiously. “I hope you know what you are doing.”
Beth gathered herself. “I do.” But it sounded frail even in her own ears.
The Countess sailed away, saying only, “We will talk, Rufford.” In her wake, Beth could clearly hear the surrounding chatter.
“Whatever could he see in her? Such a brown girl.”
“And that dress! Dreadful.”
“Well, I know what he might see in her. One does in those kinds of girls.”
“Her manners are so free—”
“All those foreign climes. You know what the Equator does to one.”
“All well and good, but why marry her?”
“A few hundred pounds a year could keep one like that.”
Beth stiffened. So did Rufford. He had heard as well. Beth was mortified.
“Refreshment is in order, no matter what you think,” he said sternly, and guided her over to the table with a champagne fountain. Of course the Countess of Lente would provide the latest fashion in refreshment. “Punch or champagne? Never mind. Champagne.” He took the crystal dipper and filled a glass. “Drink this.”
She took a sip.
“Miss Rochewell?”
She turned to see a man nearing sixty, dressed not only in a bottle green coat but one that actually sported skirts. “Yes?” Was her reputation so free that anyone could accost her?
“I am Bernard Chively.” Beth’s stomach sank. “Your aunt arranged for you to care for my own dear aunt. You can take the Mail Coach on Friday. The place is in quite a state, of course. We haven’t had a housekeeper for months. Now, you won’t mind my aunt’s crotchets, will you?” Here he pinched her cheek. “We pay extra just to compensate.”
Beth found herself trembling. “Mr. . . . Mr. Chively. I—”
“Miss Rochewell will not be going to wherever it is your aunt resides,” Mr. Rufford said decisively. “We start our wedding trip on Saturday.” Mr. Chively’s mouth dropped. “I am afraid you must find another victim for your aunt’s ill will. You will excuse us.” He took Beth by both elbows from behind and guided her away. Just as well, since she felt somewhat unsteady.
“Drink your champagne,” Rufford ordered roughly.
Beth was so embarrassed she could not speak. He must be so chagrined to find that he had offered for one who was on the brink of hiring herself out as a housekeeper and companion. How could he ever respect her? How could he . . . ? No, she would not think of that. She sipped the champagne, her eyes averted. She began to breathe again.
“More. Drink the whole glass.”
She did.
“Your father spent your portion?”
“On his last expedition.”
“Your aunt would not . . . ?”
“I refused two offers. She was at her wits’ end. I couldn’t hang on her. I could find no position, no recommendation, without her help. Finally I asked, and she did help me.”
“I see.”
“I am sorry to embarrass you. Perhaps he will not tell anyone.”
“We will be long gone in any case.”
He took her empty glass and set it on a passing servant’s tray. “Dance with me.” She looked up at him. The blue eyes were serious, the bowed lips sensuous. Then a glint of humor twinkled in the eyes. “Make them stare,” he commanded.
Her smile was tenuous. He turned her. It was a waltz. She had not noticed. Again she felt his hand on her waist. Again she placed her palm in his, feeling the warmth of his skin in places down somewhere unfamiliar. Her hand on his black coat sensed the muscled shoulder beneath. She had touched that naked flesh once. She heaved a breath as the music swept them away.
The room whirled around her. She could see the bent heads whispering. Miss Belchersand and Miss Campton were looking daggers. Her aunt buzzed from group to group. Mr. Chively was descending upon her aunt, grievance writ loud on his features. She did not care. She wanted to remain here, just so, with Mr. Rufford’s arms around her, swirling on the music. She let her head fall back as she spun, giddy, and let him guide the dance. The chandeliers above twinkled like the bubbles in champagne.
The music stopped. Mr. Rufford bowed. “You have fulfilled your social obligation. Let us go.” He took her hand and led her toward her aunt. Before they could reach their destination, however, Rufford caught sight of Major Ware and bore down upon him. “Ware, just the man I wanted to see,” Rufford said.
Ware looked startled at his vehemence. “What? What is afoot?”
“I am going abroad on a mission of which you would approve. I will not be accosted by your confidants at Whitehall, however. You’ll keep them at bay until Saturday?”
“I . . . I shall certainly try.”
“You are a diplomat, Ware. I count on you. We have booked a packet. But if you could arrange a cutter, we could reach our destination faster. As you know, time is of the essence.”
Ware cleared his throat. “Do you have a chance of succeeding?”
Ian glanced down for a moment, then met the Major’s eyes. “A chance.” He almost turned to go. “And Ware . . . one more favor I might beg?”
Ware nodded, his eyes still wide. “Whatever you wish.”
Rufford looked stern. “St. James’s Church at five Thursday. I have need of a best man.”
Ware looked in astonishment from Rufford to Beth. “Congratulations, old man!” he sputtered, shaking Rufford’s hand. Then his face went gray and he looked back to Beth.
Beth wanted so to reassure him. “You should be congratulating me, Major Ware, in spite of convention. Am I not blessed with a most extraordinary fiancé? Be assured, I think so.”
“Do you?” Ware examined her.
“Yes, and you may have known him longer, but I know more of his secrets than you do.”
Ware practically stepped back a pace.
“Can you bring yourself to serve us?” Rufford asked, his voice harsh.
Ware looked from one to the other and said, “Yes. I think I can.”
Rufford nodded brusquely and drew Beth into an alcove.
“There is much to do,” he said. “Do you have someone to stand up with you?”
“My aunt . . . though she is promised to a funeral in Bath for some cousin of her husband. I am not sure she will forgo it since the ceremony is to be so private—”
“Not your aunt. Let her go to her funeral.” It was as if he pronounced a verdict.
“Well . . .” Beth hesitated. “I might ask Miss Fairfield.”
“Yes. She will do. Send word if you come to a stand. I am at Albany House, number five.” He paused. “I will be quite engaged tomorrow. But I shall meet you and Miss Fairfield at the church Thursday.” Something struck him. “Will St. James’s do? Or would you prefer to choose another?”
He would never be able to get the
Reverend at St. James’s to marry them on a moment’s notice. It was the most stylish church in London. All the ton displayed their acquaintance and their tailor’s or their dressmaker’s finest work there each week. She raised her brows. “Whatever you think.” That would give him an out when he couldn’t arrange for St. James’s.
“All will be in order; do not fear.”
“I do not fear you,” she said simply.
He leaned forward and took her hands. “You will never have cause. Now let us get you home.” He led her protectively out toward her aunt.
“Lady Rangle,” he announced, “your niece has the headache. You will take her home.” His tone brooked no contradiction, but Beth saw her aunt’s expression turn mulish. Lady Rangle turned to Lady Jersey to find an ally for her complaint. “You will take her home or I shall.” Rufford’s voice was all soft threat.
The very thought of such a scandal left Lady Rangle outraged.
“Oh, go, Cecilia. Let the young people have their way.” Lady Jersey laughed and pushed her aunt toward the door. “It is exhausting to be affianced.”
Before she knew it, the carriage had been called. Rufford handed her into the darkness. A touch of his hand, no more, a salute, and the carriage clattered away.
Once inside, snug in her pelisse, the lap rug securely tucked about her, Beth sighed and collapsed into the upholstery. The emotional drain of her private uncertainty that Rufford even wanted to marry her, and the public’s certainty that she was not worthy of him, were almost more than she could bear. She stared out the window at the passing streets. It had rained, and now a damp fog settled over the city.
It was not far to Curzon Street. Beth entered her aunt’s house feeling that the entire evening had been unreal, dream and nightmare in one.
Seventeen
The next day was a blur for Beth. She slept hardly at all. She alternately resolved to write a note to Rufford crying off and fluttered with hope that she could bring him ultimately to care for her. And then there was the fact of his nature, the terrible mission he was bent on, the danger to him, to her for that matter, in finding Kivala and what might wait there, the fearful conflict with Asharti he was resolved on—at times she felt faint.
Susan Squires - [Companion Vampires 0] Page 28
