Slightly Dangerous (24 page)

“I beg you, ma’am,” he said, “to tease me no longer. I am too old for you, the world will say. But my family is grown, and I am free to pursue my heart’s desire again. And you, ma’am, are my heart’s desire. I flatter myself that—”

“My lord.” She tried to snatch her hand away and failed. He had too strong a grip on it.

“—you must have a regard for my person,” he continued. “I lay it and my title and fortune at your feet, ma’am.”

“My lord.” She tried again. “This is a very public setting. Please release—”

“Tell me,” he said, “that you will make me the happiest of—”

“My lord,”
she said firmly, embarrassment turning to annoyance, “I find this insistence that I listen to you discourteous, even offensive. I—”

“—men,” he said. “I beg that you will allow me to make you the happiest of—”

“One wonders,” a haughty, rather languid voice said to no one in particular since there was no one with the owner of the voice, “if daylight does more justice to the canvas in its present setting than candlelight does. Rembrandts are notoriously dark canvases and need to be very carefully displayed. What do you think, Kitredge?”

So the Duke of Bewcastle was not talking to himself, was he?

Christine slid her hand free of the earl’s and smoothed her skirt over her knees. If she could have died of mortification at that moment, she probably would have counted herself fortunate.

“I never had much use for the man myself,” the earl said, looking ruefully and perhaps apologetically down at Christine before turning toward the duke and the picture. “Give me a Turner any day—or a Gainsborough.”

“Yes, quite so.” The duke had his quizzing glass to his eye and was examining the painting through it from a distance of two feet. “Nevertheless, I would like to see this one in the appropriate light.”

He lowered his glass then and turned to look at Christine.

“This is a quiet place to be sitting, ma’am,” he said, “when most of the guests are in the other rooms. May I take you for some refreshments?”

“I was about—” the Earl of Kitredge began.

“Yes.”
Christine jumped to her feet. “Thank you, your grace.”

He bowed stiffly and offered his arm. When her hand was safe upon his sleeve, she turned her head to smile at the earl.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said, “for showing me the Rembrandt. It is indeed impressive.”

He could do nothing but nod and allow her to leave.

Though, really, she thought, she had just been juggled between the proverbial devil and the deep blue sea, though she was not quite sure which man fit which role. And here she was with her hand upon the sleeve of the Duke of Bewcastle and suddenly feeling a little as if she had just grasped a lightning bolt.

“It appeared to me,” he said, “that perhaps you needed rescuing, Mrs. Derrick. Forgive me if I was wrong.”

“I daresay I would have rescued myself in a little while,” she said. “But for once in my life I was quite delighted to see you.”

“I am flattered, ma’am,” he said.

She laughed. “Of course,” she said, “there was no one to rescue me from you, was there?”

“I hope,” he said, looking sidelong at her, “you are referring either to the scene in the maze or to the one in the garden of your mother’s cottage.”

Ignominiously she felt herself flush hotly at the only other possible scene she might have been referring to.

“Yes, to those,” she said. “Both of them.”

“And both times,” he said, “you did admirably well in convincing me that my addresses were
not
welcome to you. May I fill a plate for you?”

They were in the refreshment room, where food had been set out on a long table and footmen waited to help guests with their selections. A few tables and chairs had been set out, though most guests had carried their plates into the music room or the drawing room.

“I am not hungry,” she said.

“May I fetch you a drink, then?” he asked.

It would have been churlish to refuse that too.

“A glass of wine, perhaps,” she said.

He went to get it for her and came back with a glass of something for himself as well. He indicated one of the tables, a vacant one in the corner.

“Shall we sit?” he asked her. “Or are you plotting your escape from me too? If so, you may simply leave and rejoin your relatives. I shall not attempt to detain you against your will.”

She sat.

“If I had known you were to attend that wedding,” she said, looking directly at him, since the temptation was to fix her gaze on her glass, “I would not have come to London.”

“Indeed?” he said. “Is the world not large enough for the two of us, then, Mrs. Derrick?”

“Sometimes,” she said, “I wonder. And I do not suppose you have many kindly thoughts of me. It cannot be every day that a lowly commoner refuses two very different but equally flattering offers from a duke.”

“You assume, then,” he said, “that I have
had
thoughts of you, ma’am?”

Her terrible discomfort fled, and she leaned a little toward him and laughed aloud.

“I love it,” she said, “when you can be provoked into spite. Or perhaps I insult you by accusing you of that. A more genteel word would be
setdown
. It was a rather magnificent one and certainly put me in my place.”

He gazed haughtily at her.

“And I love it, Mrs. Derrick,” he said softly, “when you can be provoked to laughter—even when you do it with just your eyes.”

That silenced her. She sat back in her chair feeling as if a lightning bolt had shot through her even though she was no longer touching him. She could not think of a thing to say, and he did not jump in to fill the silence.

“Are you saying,” she asked him at last, “that I am a flirt?”

“A flirt.” He set down his glass with some deliberation and sat back in his chair. He regarded her with those penetrating silver eyes. “That is a word that seems to be used with tedious frequency about you, Mrs. Derrick—usually in denial. I would not use it at all.”

“Ah, thank you,” she said, and another silence ensued while he looked steadily at her and she dared not lift her glass lest her hand shake and she be horribly mortified.

“You do not need to flirt,” he told her. “You are extraordinarily attractive and need to use no wiles.”

“Me?”
She spread a hand over her bosom and looked at him in astonishment. “Have you taken a good look at me, your grace? I have none of the beauty or elegance of any of the other ladies here tonight. Even with my new gown I am well aware that I look like—and
am
—someone’s country cousin.”

“Ah, but I did not call you either beautiful or elegant,” he said. “The word I used was
attractive. Extraordinarily
attractive,
to be more precise. It is something your glass would not reveal to you because it is something that is most apparent when you are animated. It is difficult for any man who looks at you once not to look again. And again.”

From any other man the words might have sounded ardent. The Duke of Bewcastle spoke them matter-of-factly, as if they were discussing—well, the Rembrandt in the next room. She was suddenly acutely aware that she had once lain with this man. And yet it seemed impossible to believe, just as it was that he had just said what he had. They were not the sort of words one expected of the Duke of Bewcastle.

She was saved from having to make some sort of reply when someone stopped beside their table. Christine looked up to see that it was Anthony Culver, grinning broadly.

“Bewcastle?” he said. “
Mrs. Derrick?
Are you still in town? I thought you were returning to Gloucestershire right after Wiseman’s wedding. Ronald and I were talking about you just yesterday and remembering what a good sport you were and how you were the life and soul of the party at Schofield last summer. Come and see him—he is in the music room. And come and meet some other fellows. They will be delighted to know you.”

Christine offered him her hand and a bright smile.

The Duke of Bewcastle’s quizzing glass was in his hand.

“I beg your pardon, Bewcastle,” Anthony Culver said with a grin. “Will you release her? Have I interrupted something?”

“I claim no ownership over Mrs. Derrick’s time,” the duke said.

“His grace was kind enough to procure me a glass of wine,” Christine said, getting to her feet. “But, you see? I have already drunk it. I will be delighted to see your brother again and to meet some of your friends.”

But she turned back to smile at the duke before moving off on the arm of the younger man.

“Thank you, your grace,” she said.

She was actually feeling severely shaken.

He considered her
extraordinarily attractive
.

She had refused to be his mistress.

She had refused to be his wife.

But he still thought her
extraordinarily attractive.
She despised herself for feeling flattered. How could she after some of the things he had said to her while offering her marriage last year? He considered her his inferior in every way. He had believed he was conferring an irresistible honor on her.

After tonight it was very unlikely she would ever see him again.

How was she going to forget him—again? It had been hard enough last year. Indeed, if she were quite honest with herself—and she had been remarkably
dis
honest where he was concerned—she had not succeeded then either.

There was nothing about him she could either like or admire—except his looks. Though it was more than just those that disturbed her peace during the last six months, she knew.

She was horribly in love with him.

Horribly,
she supposed, being the operative word.

Ignominiously
might be even better.

13

W
ULFRIC HAD JUST COME FROM
P
ICKFORD
H
OUSE
, where Morgan, the younger of his two sisters, and Rosthorn were in residence. They had brought the children up from Kent with them, hoping that the London air would agree more with the older boy this year and that the baby would not know any different.

Jacques, brought from the nursery to greet his uncle, had gazed solemnly from a distance until Morgan had placed the sleeping Jules along Wulfric’s free arm. Then the child had come closer in order to examine the tassels hanging from his uncle’s Hessians and had finally grown bold enough to pat his knee.

“I wish you could see yourself now, Wulf,” Morgan had said, laughing.

He had sat very still, afraid of dropping the baby, afraid of frightening away the boy. He was very aware that they were his nephews, children of his beloved Morgan, to whom motherhood had added a glow of maturity to enhance her lithe, youthful beauty—she was still not quite twenty-one.

“I wish the
ton
could see you,” Gervase had added dryly. “But I daresay they would not believe the evidence of their own eyes.”

Wulfric had gone there to invite them to come to Lindsey Hall for the Easter holiday. Freyja and Joshua, who had also recently arrived in town, had already agreed to come, and letters had been sent to Aidan and Rannulf and Alleyne. The last time they had all been together in one place was for Alleyne and Rachel’s wedding two and a half years ago. It was time they were together again. Although Wulfric had seen them all since then, he had found himself recently longing to have all his family about him at home. It was a considerably expanded family now, of course, with all the children and babies, but Lindsey Hall was a large place.

Morgan and Gervase had accepted the invitation and Wulfric rode away from Pickford House satisfied that he would have at least some of his family with him for the holiday. He would invite his aunt and uncle, the Marquess and Marchioness of Rochester, too, he had decided, but not today. Today—this afternoon—he had another destination in mind.

He was riding through Hyde Park, along the Serpentine. There were a surprising number of people out, either riding or walking. It was early in the year after all, though it was a lovely spring day. The sun was shining and there was warmth in the air.

He was riding to Renable’s house, though there was no assurance, of course, that the ladies would be at home. He was not expected. They were to stay for one week after the wedding of her sister, Lady Renable had said at the soiree. Five days of that week had passed and Wulfric had made a decision.

Part of the decision involved Lady Falconbridge, who had been his reason for attending the soiree. He had gone in a determined effort to put out of his mind a certain ineligible country schoolmistress—whom he had assumed was back in the country—and to press forward with the consummation of an affair with a lady of the world who would expect nothing of him except sensual pleasure.

He had been celibate for too long—for more than a year with one memorable exception.

But as soon as he had seen Lady Falconbridge, as soon as she had beckoned him to her in the Gosselin drawing room and sent him to fetch her wine and then engaged him in conversation, he had known that he could not after all choose a mistress with his head. The lady was everything he could possibly want in a mistress except for one thing.

She was not—damn it!—Christine Derrick.

And then, just as he was realizing it with some annoyance at the illogic of his own will, he had heard Lady Renable’s voice and felt her lorgnette tap his arm, and he had turned and seen the very woman who had brought disorder into his life again since that infernal wedding.

He had felt deeply resentful toward her even as he had pursued her and rescued her from Kitredge’s clutches and then spoken to her with unaccustomed unguardedness.

And now, three days later, he was riding toward a deliberate meeting with her—
if
she was at home, that was. If she was not—well, he would have to come back at another time, unless in the meanwhile he returned to his senses.

A couple of little boys were sailing wooden boats on the Serpentine under the eagle eye of their nurse. Wulfric nodded to several acquaintances as they rode by and touched his whip to his hat when he passed ladies he knew. Mrs. Beavis—a courtesy title, since she was one of London’s more famed courtesans yet no one had ever known or known of any Mr. Beavis—was strolling close to the water with her abigail, looking like a particularly flamboyant bird of paradise. She was also preening herself at the approach of Lord Powell, who was reputed to be in hot pursuit of her.