Beth felt a strange reluctance to open it. It would surely be a giftand perhaps not one she wished to accept. But she had no choice.
It was a fan. With a turn of her wrist Beth flicked it open. It was awork of art. Ivory sticks carved into lace supported fine silk painted inthe Chinese style. The pin was gold and the endpieces were overlaid withmother-of-pearl. She turned her hand again and it flowed smoothly, as agood fan should, back into its closed position.
It was an elegant, appropriate, well-thought-of gift. For some reasonthat disturbed her. What was her husband-to-be? The scholar or the rake,the friend or the man of violence? Perhaps all of these. A man could quoteSallust and still be a brute.
Redcliff wanted her to rest, but Beth preferred to read, a pastimedenied her recently. Mrs. Brunton, however, did not suit her mood, and shepicked up some volumes of poetry she had brought from the library.
Dipping here and there she came across Pope’sRape of the Lock:
Say what strange motive, Goddess! could compel
A well-bred Lord toassault a gentle Belle?
O say what stranger cause, yet unexplored,
Couldmake a gentle Belle reject a Lord?
What indeed? thought Beth, on reading these relevant lines. Most peoplewould think her mad. Most people would not realize how painful it was tobe thrown into such foreign circumstances, no matter how luxurious. On thebrink of what to most young ladies would be a night of triumph, BethArmitage wanted only to be back in her small, chilly room at Aunt Emma’spreparing a project for the next day’s classes.
When Redcliff indicated it was time, she took her bath in delicatelyperfumed water. She dried herself and dressed in light stays, silkstockings, and shift. Then the maid assisted her into the gown. It was asif it had a life of its own; it flowed and hissed and demanded only themost graceful, the most elegant movements.
She had not realized how fine the fabric was. It was true that over hershift the outfit could not be considered revealing, and yet it did nothide her figure as she would wish.
She had not realized how low the neckline was, nor how cleverly shapedto raise and emphasize her breasts. It did not seem at all proper, but shehad to wear it.
She had insisted that a cap be ordered to match, but this too proved tobe a shock.Capwas obviously a word open to interpretation. This was merelya bandeau of matching silk and pearls upon a stiffened frame. It wastrimmed with satin ribbons which formed a love knot at one side.
“Should I dress your hair in a knot behind?” asked the maid.
A knot sounded very decorous, and Beth agreed, but when it was doneBeth knew it had not helped. With her hair drawn tightly up, her neckappeared more slender, and when the diamond necklace was clasped aroundit, positively swanlike. Resigned, Beth allowed the maid to assist herinto the long kid gloves and fasten the bracelet over one wrist. Redcliffthen clipped the pendant diamonds onto her ears and pinned the brooch inthe center of the knot of ribbons on her bandeau.
It only remained to step into her satin slippers and stand before themirror. Beth knew what she would see. It was Beth Armitage at herprettiest ? slender but well-rounded, clear-skinned and glossy haired. Theproblem, as she had known, was that she still was no beauty. She did wellenough and her hosts would have no cause to blush for her, but this, thebest that could be done for her, left her still just a passably prettyyoung woman. She would rather not appear to have tried.
She was surprised when told the marquess had come to escort herdownstairs but accepted her fate with resignation. Tonight was theiracting debut.
She had forgotten to wonder what he would look like. Her breath caughtat the sight of him in formal black and pure white, his tanned skin andgolden hair thrown into brilliance. She felt that little tremor insidewhich warned her again that she was not immune to his charms.
Why should she wish it when he was to be her husband?
Because it was a matter of pride not to go willingly into slavery.
“How pretty you look,” he said in a friendly way.
Nerves abraded, Beth responded sharply, “I could say the same to you, Ithink. Fine feathers do make fine birds, do they not?”
His eyes flashed, but his smile never faltered. He drew her arm intohis and they began their walk.
“Are you suggesting, Miss Armitage, that under this magnificence, I ama mere sparrow?” His tone was still light.
She glanced up at him. “Too small. A rooster, perhaps?”
He met her look and, though he continued to smile, his eyes werechilling rapidly. “You assume I will not take vengeance when you are inall your finery? You could be right. But perhaps I will hold agrudge.”
That was too close to the mark. Beth knew she was guilty of holdingonto her resentment. “Then we can be a pair of broody hens,” she saidbitterly, “sitting on our grievances until they hatch into disaster.”
She intended it to be a kind of peace offering and perhaps he took itthat way for he laughed. “I refuse to be any species of fowl. I prefer tobe thought of as a hawk. Noble hunter, sharp of claw.”
That was too frightening an image. “I’m sure you do,” Beth said tartly,“but I think it is more a case of a magpie, snatching at small glitteringthings of no particular value.”
