Slightly Dangerous (23 page)

To say that she had felt seriously discomposed at that moment would be greatly to understate the case. She had almost panicked, if the truth were known, and jumped out of her pew and blundered back along the nave of the church to make her escape—and a public spectacle of herself. Instead, she had looked sharply away from him at just the moment when their eyes met and had completely missed the wedding of Audrey and Lewis, even though it had been solemnized right before her eyes.

She had been aware only of the proud, rigid, broad-shouldered, handsomely clad back of the Duke of Bewcastle. And memories of that dreadful fortnight at Schofield Park had come flooding back—as well as of the final evening by the lake. And of his return ten days later to call upon her at Hyacinth Cottage.

She had never for one single moment considered the possibility of his being at Audrey’s wedding. She had thought it was to be an intimate family affair. She would not in a million years have come within a million miles of London if she had known.

She might as well have been in an empty barn rather than a splendidly decorated ballroom and have eaten straw rather than sumptuous banquet fare during the wedding breakfast for all she had concentrated upon either after the wedding was over. She was aware that she had smiled rather too brightly at the Earl of Kitredge and conversed rather too animatedly with him. She was also aware that she had recovered some of her aplomb during the meal and had not looked meekly downward whenever her gaze and the duke’s had happened to lock, but even so it had been one of the most uncomfortable days of her life.

She had been enormously relieved when he left early.

And then she had been mortally depressed for the rest of the day even though she had chattered and laughed and sparkled until she had arrived back at Melanie and Bertie’s quite late in the evening and was safely shut up in her own room.

She believed she had quite effectively forgotten the Duke of Bewcastle in the six months or so since she last saw him. Her reaction to seeing him again, therefore, shook her considerably. How could she
ever
have believed that lying with him by the lake on that final night was something that could be casually done and easily forgotten? Would her reaction have been any less intense, though, if that had
not
happened? And if he had not come back after ten days to offer her marriage?

It was impossible to know. She had never understood any of her feelings of attraction to a man who was simply
not
attractive. Handsome, yes, but not attractive—not to her anyway.

It did not matter. She was to return home a day or two after the wedding and would simply have to work on forgetting again. If her emotions were far more involved than she had supposed, then she had no one but herself to blame. No one had forced her to walk in the laburnum alley with the duke. It had been her idea to go into the maze. And no one had forced her to go to the lake with him.

And then Melanie changed her mind. About returning home, that was. The original plan had been to come up to town for the wedding and then return to Schofield until after Easter when the Season would begin, bringing with it an endless round of entertainments. Christine would not be returning with them for the Season, of course.

“But the thing is, Christine,” Melanie said at breakfast the morning after the wedding, “that there are more families back in town than there usually are at this time of year, and each morning the post brings with it a number of invitations to events one would really hate to miss. And of course one feels it almost one’s civic duty to attend as many as possible, since no one can expect a great squeeze of a crowd this early in the year. And it does seem a shame to have come all this way only to go back before we have had a chance to enjoy ourselves. It seems a shame to deprive Bertie of his clubs so soon.”

Bertie, who was partaking of breakfast with them, cut into his juicy beefsteak and rumbled. He had perfected the art of making that sound to serve as a suitable answer to whatever Melanie asked or suggested, Christine had noticed, and had thereby released himself from the necessity of listening to everything she said.

“And you have all your new clothes,” Melanie said, “and are looking pretty enough for a girl half your age. You simply must have occasion to wear them. Mama and Justin will be disappointed if we leave so soon, and Hector would be too, the poor dear, if he had noticed that we had arrived. Besides all of which, the Earl of Kitredge is quite smitten with you, Christine, and is surely within an inch of declaring himself. And though I know you cannot possibly want a husband who is all of thirty years your senior and who is portly even
with
his stays, it is nevertheless vastly diverting to watch him pay you court—and it cannot hurt your consequence for the
ton
to watch it too, at least that portion of the
ton
that is in town.”

A few times Christine had opened her mouth to speak, but, as usual, it was impossible to get a word in edgewise when Melanie was launched upon an enthusiastic monologue—especially when she sensed that the answer at the end of it all might be no.

“We will stay for another week,” she continued, setting down her coffee cup and laying a hand over the back of Christine’s on the table. “We will be busy from noon until the early hours and have a thoroughly enjoyable time. I can have your company in town for a whole week, or a fortnight if you count the week we have already been here. It will be so marvelously diverting. What do you say? Do agree to stay. Do say yes.”

It was really not the time to be firm, Christine thought in some dismay. How could she say no? She had come here in the Renable carriage and she was staying in the Renable town home and eating the Renable food. How could she dictate when they were to return to the country? It did occur to her that she might return alone on the stagecoach, but she knew that if she even suggested such a thing Melanie would threaten a fit of the vapors—and she might well be genuinely offended. Even Bertie would probably exert himself enough to speak actual words.

But a whole week? With the
ton
again? It was a horrible thought. But it was
only
a week—only seven days. And at Schofield it had been generally agreed that the Duke of Bewcastle did not attend many social events. Had not Lady Sarah Buchan said that she had not seen him at all last spring even though she had been making her come-out and must have gone everywhere where the
ton
was gathered in large numbers? And, indeed, Christine herself had not set eyes on him during the seven years of her marriage.

“If you wish to stay, of course, Melanie,” she said, “then I must.”

Melanie tapped her arm sharply before picking up her coffee cup again.

“That is no answer,” she said. “There is no
must
about it. If you would prefer to go home, then we will deprive Bertie of his clubs and go. But we will miss Lady Gosselin’s soiree the evening after tomorrow, and she is a particular friend of mine and will be vexed if I go home instead of waiting and going there first. And we will miss—”

“Melanie.” Christine leaned toward her across the table. “I would be delighted to accept your hospitality and stay one more week.”

“I knew you would.” Melanie beamed at her and clasped her hands with delight. “Bertie, my love, you will be able to go to your clubs and to Tattersall’s. You will be able to play cards at Lady Gosselin’s, where the stakes are always high enough to be to your liking.”

Bertie, more than halfway through his beefsteak, rumbled.

And so she was stuck, Christine thought with glum resignation, not only in London, but also with the obligation to attend any social event that Melanie chose for their amusement. It soon became apparent that there was a formidable number of such events despite the earliness of the season. There were teas to attend and a private concert and a dinner—and of course the soiree at Lady Gosselin’s.

C
HRISTINE WORE ONE
of her new gowns to the soiree—a midnight blue lace on velvet that she particularly loved because its design was flowing and elegant yet not fussy. She felt that it suited her age as well as her coloring. She borrowed a pearl necklace at Melanie’s insistence but wore no other adornment, only her white evening gloves and an ivory fan Hermione and Basil had once given her for a birthday gift.

She smiled brightly as she entered Lady Gosselin’s drawing room, the first of several adjoining chambers that had been thrown open for the convenience of guests. And the very first person she saw—of course!—was the Duke of Bewcastle, looking dark and elegant and toplofty as he stood at the opposite side of the room conversing with a handsome raven-haired lady who was seated and sipping from a glass of wine. She was Lady Falconbridge, a marquess’s widow, whom Christine remembered from past years.

If she could have retreated in good order and returned to the Renable house—or all the way to Hyacinth Cottage—she would have done so. But Melanie had linked an arm through hers, and the only way to go was forward.

Bother, bother, bother, Christine thought, noticing irrelevantly the elegance of Lady Falconbridge’s upswept curls and the fineness of the plumes with which they were adorned.

She felt like a country cousin again.

There must surely have been a dozen people in the room whom Melanie knew. Better yet, there must have been a dozen people in the
next
room. But she brightened noticeably at sight of just the one person, lifted both her chin and her lorgnette, and swept across the room with Christine in tow in a manner that would have had Eleanor in stitches of mirth if she could just have witnessed it. Bertie had already disappeared, presumably in the direction of the card room.

“Bewcastle!” Melanie exclaimed, tapping him on the arm with her lorgnette. “It is not often one sees
you
at such events.”

He turned, his eyebrows arching upward, his eyes meeting Christine’s before they moved on to Melanie. He inclined his head stiffly.

“Lady Renable,” he said. “Mrs. Derrick.”

Christine had forgotten just how arctic those silver eyes could look—and how they could penetrate one’s own eyes to the back of one’s skull.

“Your grace,” she murmured.

He did not deign, Christine noticed, to justify his appearance at this particular entertainment to Melanie. Why should he? He fingered the handle of his quizzing glass while Lady Falconbridge tapped one impatient foot on the floor.

“We have stayed in town for an extra week,” Melanie announced, “because London is full of superior and agreeable company despite the earliness of the season. And Lilian’s soirees are always worth attending.”

His grace inclined his head again.

“Melanie,” Christine said, “I see Justin in the next room. Shall we move on?”

The ducal eyes rested on her for a moment, and the ducal quizzing glass was raised to the level of the ducal chest. Christine silently dared him to raise it all the way to his eye.

“I will not keep you, then,” he said, turning back toward Lady Falconbridge.

The next room was a music room, and someone was playing the pianoforte—it was Lady Sarah Buchan, Christine could see. She smiled happily at Justin, who came and took her arm while Melanie swept onward toward a group of ladies who opened ranks to admit her and swallow her up into their midst.

“I saw you and Mel paying homage to Bewcastle,” Justin said with a grin.

“I never would have come here,” Christine assured him, “if I had suspected that he would be here too.”

He chuckled. “For someone who protested last year that he had been merely polite and gallant,” he said, “you are reacting rather strongly, are you not? But you have nothing to fear from him this year. He is in determined pursuit of Lady Falconbridge, and since she is also in determined pursuit of him, no one expects many more days to pass before they have come to a satisfactory and discreet arrangement. I do believe there are wagers on the exact number of days in some of the betting books at the clubs.”

“Dear Justin,” she said, smiling brightly at him. “You are always willing to fill a lady’s ears with everything she ought not to hear.” And everything she really did not want to know.

“But I know you are not missish, Chrissie.” Justin laughed and drew her closer to the pianoforte.

She was not allowed to relax there with him for long, though. The Earl of Kitredge soon joined them, and, having applauded his daughter on her musical performance and then ascertained that Christine had never seen the famous Rembrandt that hung in the salon beyond the refreshment room, he offered his arm and informed her that he would be delighted to show it to her.

There was no one else in the salon, which was poorly lit and had probably not even been intended to be used during the soiree. After gazing obligingly at the painting for all of five minutes, Christine would have maneuvered her way back to the other rooms, but the earl took her firmly by the arm and led her toward a bench at the far side of the salon. He stood before her as she seated herself, his hands behind him. She suspected that his stays prevented him from joining her there and was thankful for it.

“Mrs. Derrick,” he began after clearing his throat, “you must have suspected even last summer the depth of my admiration for you.”

“I am honored, my lord,” she said, instantly alarmed. “Shall we—”

“And this year,” he said, “I feel constrained to tell you openly of the violence of my attachment to you.”

Was she a flirt? Christine wondered.
Was
she? Oscar had come to believe that she was, and Basil and Hermione had finally been convinced of it too. But if she was, then it was really quite unconscious. She had never said or done anything to encourage the earl to conceive a violent attachment to her—or even a mild one, for that matter. She had never done anything to encourage
anyone
—except Oscar, almost ten years ago.

“My lord,” she said, “much as I am gratified, I must—”

But he had seized one of her hands in both his own. One of his rings dug painfully into her little finger.