Slightly Dangerous (2 page)

But she had a weakness where people in trouble were concerned. And Melanie really did seem to be in a bit of a bind. She set such great store by her reputation as a hostess who did everything with meticulous correctness. And, when all was said and done, they
were
friends.

“Perhaps,” she suggested hopefully, “I can remain here and come over to Schofield a few times to join the party.”

“But Bertie would have to call out the carriage to take you home every night and send it to bring you every morning,” Melanie said. “It would be just too inconvenient, Christine.”

“I could walk over,” Christine suggested.

Melanie set one hand to her bosom as if to still her palpitating heart.

“And arrive each day with a dusty or muddy hem and rosy cheeks and windblown hair?” she said. “That would be quite as bad as not having you at all. You must come to stay. That is all there is to it. All our guests will be arriving the day after tomorrow. I will have the carriage sent during the morning so that you may settle in early.”

Christine realized that the moment for a firm refusal had passed. She was doomed to attend one of Melanie’s house parties, it seemed. But gracious heaven, she had
nothing
to wear and no money with which to rush out to buy a new wardrobe—not that there was anywhere to rush
to,
within fifty miles anyway. Melanie had recently returned from a Season in London, where she had gone to help sponsor her sister’s come-out and presentation to the queen. All her guests—except Christine!—were probably coming from there too, bringing their London finery and their London manners with them. This was the stuff of nightmares.

“Very well,” she said. “I will come.”

Melanie forgot her dignity sufficiently to beam at her before tapping her sharply on the arm with her lorgnette.

“I knew you would,” she said. “But I do wish you had not forced me to use a whole hour in coming here. There is
so
much to be done. I could absolutely throttle Hector. Of all the gentlemen he could have invited to come here with him, he had to choose the one most likely to put any hostess into a flutter. And yet he has given me only a few days in which to prepare to entertain him.”

“The Prince of Wales?” Christine suggested with a chuckle.

“I cannot say anyone would covet
his
presence,” Melanie said, “though I suppose it would be an enormous coup to have him. This is hardly less so, though. No, my unexpected guest is to be
the Duke of Bewcastle
.”

Christine raised her eyebrows. She had heard of the duke, though she had never met him. He was enormously powerful and toplofty—and as cold as ice, or so it was said. She could understand Melanie’s consternation. And
she
had been chosen to balance numbers with the Duke of Bewcastle? The idea was enormously tickling until she realized that it was one more reason why she should remain at home. But it was too late now.

“Oh, my,” her mother said, looking vastly impressed.

“Yes,” Melanie agreed with pursed lips and nodding plumes. “But you must not worry, Christine. There are a number of other gentlemen whom you will find personable and who are bound to delight in dancing attendance upon you. You do have that happy effect upon gentlemen, you know—even at your age. I would be mortally jealous if I were not still so attached to Bertie, though he can be horridly provoking when I decide to organize one of my entertainments. He huffs and rumbles and gives me to understand that he is less than enamored with the prospect of enjoying himself. Anyway, I daresay you will not need to exchange a single word with his grace if you do not choose to do so. He is a man famed for his arrogance and reticence and will probably not even notice you if left to himself.”

“I promise,” Christine said, “not to trip over his feet but to keep a decent distance.”

Eleanor’s lips curved into another smirk as she caught her sister’s eye.

But the trouble was, Christine thought, that she was likely to do just that if she was not careful—trip over his feet, that was, or more likely over her own as she passed in full view of him, a tray of jellies or lemonade balanced on her hands. She would be
far
happier remaining at home, but that was no longer an option. She had agreed to go to Schofield for two weeks.

“Now that I have even numbers again,” Melanie said, “I can begin to forgive Hector. This really will be the most famous house party. I daresay it will be the talk of London drawing rooms all next Season. I will be the envy of every hostess in England, and those who were not invited will clamor for an invitation next year. The Duke of Bewcastle never goes anywhere beyond London and his own estates. I cannot imagine how Hector persuaded him to come here. Perhaps he has heard of the superiority of my entertainments. Perhaps . . .”

But Christine had stopped listening for the moment. The next two weeks were bound to be anything but pleasant. And now there was going to be the added aggravation of having the Duke of Bewcastle as a fellow guest and of feeling self-conscious—quite unnecessarily, since, as Melanie had just remarked, he was unlikely to notice her any more than he would a worm beneath his feet. She
hated
feeling self-conscious. It was something she had never felt until she was a few years into her marriage and had suddenly become the persistent object of unsavory gossip no matter how hard she tried to avoid it. After she was widowed, she had vowed that she would never put herself in such a position again, that she would never again step out of her familiar world.

Of course, she was a great deal older now. She was twenty-nine—almost ancient. No one could expect her to frolic with the young people any longer. She could be a dignified elder. She could sit back and enjoy all the proceedings as a spectator rather than as a participant. It might be highly diverting to do just that, in fact.

“May we offer you a cup of tea and some cakes, Lady Renable?” her mother was asking.

“I have not a moment to spare, Mrs. Thompson,” Melanie replied. “I have a houseful of guests arriving the day after tomorrow, and a thousand and one details to attend to before they come. Being a baroness is not all glamour, I do assure you. I must be on my way.”

She inclined her head regally, kissed Christine’s cheek and squeezed her arm warmly, and swept from the room, all nodding plumes and waving lorgnette and rustling skirts.

“It might be worth remembering for future reference, Christine,” Eleanor said, “that it is altogether easier to say yes to Lady Renable the first time she asks a question, whether in writing or in person.”

Their mother was on her feet.

“We must go up to your room right
now,
Christine,” she said, “and see which of your clothes need mending or trimming or cleaning. Goodness me—the Duke of Bewcastle, not to mention Viscount Mowbury and his mother and Viscount Elrick and his wife! And Lord and Lady Renable, of course.”

Christine fled upstairs ahead of her to see if perhaps a dozen or so really ravishing and fashionable garments had suddenly materialized in her wardrobe since she had dressed that morning.

W
ULFRIC
B
EDWYN,
D
UKE
of Bewcastle, was sitting behind the large oak desk in the magnificently appointed and well-stocked library of Bedwyn House in London. He was dressed for the evening with exquisite taste and elegance, though he had entertained no guests for dinner and none were with him now. The leather-inlaid desktop was bare except for the blotter, several freshly mended quill pens, and a silver-topped ink bottle. There was nothing to do, since he was always meticulous about dealing with business matters during the daytime and this was evening.

He might have gone out to some entertainment—he still could, in fact. There were several to choose among even though the Season was now over and most of his peers had left London to spend the summer in Brighton or at their country estates. But he had never been one for social entertainments, unless his presence was particularly called for.

He might have gone to spend the evening at White’s. Even though the club would be sparsely populated at this time of the year, there was always some congenial companionship and conversation to be found there. But he had spent altogether too much time at his clubs in the last week or so since the parliamentary session ended.

None of his family was in town. Lord Aidan Bedwyn, the brother next in age to himself and his heir presumptive, had not come at all this spring. He had remained at home in Oxfordshire with his wife, Eve, for the birth of their first child, a daughter. It was a happy event they had awaited for almost three years after their marriage. Wulfric had gone there for the christening in May but had stayed only a few days. Lord Rannulf Bedwyn, his next brother, was in Leicestershire with Judith and their son and daughter. He was taking his responsibilities as a landowner more seriously than ever now that their grandmother had died and the property was officially his. Freyja, their sister, was in Cornwall. So was the Marquess of Hallmere, her husband, who had neglected his duties in the House this year and not come up to town at all. Freyja was pregnant again. They had had a son early last year and were apparently hoping for a daughter this time.

Lord Alleyne Bedwyn was in the country with his wife, Rachel, and their twin girls, who had been born last summer. They were concerned about the health of Baron Weston, Rachel’s uncle, with whom they lived, and wouldn’t leave him. His heart had taken a turn for the worse again. Morgan, his youngest sister, was in Kent. She had come up to town for a few weeks with the Earl of Rosthorn, her husband, but the London air had not agreed with their young son, and so she had returned home with him. Rosthorn had gone home whenever he could after that until the House closed and then had wasted no time in going back to stay. Never again, he had told Bewcastle before he left. In future, if his wife and children could not accompany him, he would simply remain at home and the House could go hang.
Children,
he had said. Plural. That probably meant that Morgan too was with child again.

It was gratifying, Wulfric decided, picking up one of the quill pens and drawing the smooth feather between his fingers and thumb, that his brothers and sisters were all married and settled in life. His duties to them had been satisfactorily discharged.

But Bedwyn House felt empty without them. Even when Morgan had been in town, she had not stayed here, of course.

Lindsey Hall, his principal seat in Hampshire, was going to seem even emptier.

It was that realization, perhaps, that had led him into making an uncharacteristically impulsive decision just a few days earlier. He had accepted a verbal invitation from Lady Renable—conveyed by Viscount Mowbury, her brother—to a house party at Schofield Park in Gloucestershire. He
never
attended house parties. He could not imagine a more insipid way of passing two weeks. Of course, Mowbury
had
assured him that there would be superior company and intelligent conversation there as well as some fishing. But even so, two weeks in the same company, no matter how congenial, might well prove wearing on the nerves.

Wulfric sat back in his chair, rested his elbows on the arms, and steepled his fingers. He stared off sightlessly across the room. He missed Rose far more than he cared to admit. She had been his mistress for well over ten years, but she had died in February. She had taken a chill that had seemed relatively harmless at first, though he had insisted upon summoning his physician to her. It had developed into a severe inflammation of the lungs anyway, and all the doctor had been able to do for her was make her as comfortable as possible. Her death had come as a severe shock. Wulfric had been with her at the end—and almost constantly throughout her illness.

It had felt every bit as bad as being widowed must feel.

They had had a comfortable arrangement, he and Rose. He had kept her in considerable luxury in London during the months of each year when he had to be here, and during the summers he had returned to Lindsey Hall while she had gone to her father’s home at a country smithy, where she had enjoyed some fame and commanded universal respect as the wealthy mistress of a duke. He had spent most of his nights with her whenever he was in town. Theirs had not been a passionate relationship—he doubted he was capable of passion—and they had not enjoyed a particularly deep friendship, since their education and interests were quite dissimilar. But there had been a comfortable companionship between them nevertheless. He was quite sure she had shared his contentment with their liaison. After more than ten years he would have known if she had not. He had always been glad that she had never had children by him. He would have provided handsomely for them, but it would have made him uncomfortable to have bastard children.

Her death, though, had left a vast emptiness in his life.

He missed her. He had been celibate since February but did not know how he was to replace her. He was not even sure he wanted to—not yet, at least. She had known how to please and satisfy him. He had known how to please and satisfy her. He was not certain he wanted to adjust to someone else. He felt too old at thirty-five.

And then he rested his chin against the tips of his fingers.

He was thirty-five.

He had fulfilled every one of his duties as Duke of Bewcastle, a position he had never wanted but had inherited anyway at the age of seventeen. Every duty except that to marry and beget sons and heirs. He had been about to fulfill that obligation too, years ago, when he was young and still a little bit hopeful that personal happiness might be combined with duty. But on the very night when his betrothal was to be announced, his chosen bride had put on an elaborate charade in order to avoid a marriage that was repugnant to her, too afraid of him and her father simply to tell the truth.

How could a duke choose any woman to be his duchess and expect personal contentment out of the arrangement? Who would ever marry a duke for himself? A mistress could be dismissed. A wife could not.