Slightly Dangerous (22 page)

Besides, she was to have some new clothes and would be able to purchase them in London from plates of the latest fashions. She surely would not have been human if that prospect had not cheered her.

I
T WAS STRANGE
, Wulfric thought as he took his place in the church pew and concentrated his attention upon Sir Lewis Wiseman, who was waiting at the front for the arrival of his bride and looking as if his valet must have tied his neckcloth too tightly—it was strange that he had expected all of Miss Magnus’s family to attend and had even hesitated about coming himself because he did not want to be reminded of those two weeks at Schofield Park. But it had not once occurred to him that perhaps Christine Derrick—
who was a member of that family by marriage
—might also be here.

But she was.

He had almost not recognized her as he passed the pew she was occupying with the Elricks. She was dressed neatly and smartly in dove gray and pale blue. She had glanced up at him as he passed, and for one ghastly moment until she dipped her head hastily and he averted his head just as sharply, their eyes had met.

If he had known, he most certainly would not have come.

He really had not wanted to set eyes upon Christine Derrick again this side of eternity. He had no kind thoughts for her. And it embarrassed him to remember that he had traveled all the way from Hampshire to Gloucestershire in order to offer marriage after all to a widow, daughter of a schoolmaster and a teacher herself, who half the time did not know how to behave and who found her embarrassing scrapes
funny
. A woman less eligible to be his duchess he could scarcely have chosen.

Yet she had refused him!

Only belatedly did it strike him that both of them had behaved uncharacteristically this morning. He almost never looked away from another person merely because that person was looking back at him. And at Schofield she had always engaged him in staring matches rather than have him believe she was being meekly obedient to his silent and arrogant command that she lower her gaze in his august presence.

The old irritation against her returned just as if he had not forgotten about her in the intervening months.

He would sit through the service, Wulfric decided, and then make some excuse to Mowbury for missing the wedding breakfast. He would wait in his pew until everyone behind him had left and then slip out unnoticed.

Perhaps he was behaving like a coward—
certainly
he was behaving out of character—but then he would be doing her a kindness too. She was doubtless as dismayed to find him here as he was to find her—and she had had less reason to expect that he might be a fellow guest.

A husband with a warm personality and human kindness and a sense of humor.

He could hear her voice speaking the words, almost as if she had spoken them out loud now, in St. George’s, for all to hear. There was scorn in her voice and trembling passion.

He had no warmth of personality, no compassion or kindness, no laughter inside himself. That was what she had accused him of. That was part of her reason for rejecting him.

No warmth.

No kindness.

No humor.

Why was it that that little speech of hers had imprinted itself indelibly upon his memory? And the image of her as she delivered it, dusty, even grubby, from that remarkable lesson she had been giving the village schoolchildren, her floppy-brimmed straw bonnet doing little to hide the dampness and unruliness of her hair, her face flushed and even glistening with perspiration, her eyes flashing.

What the devil was it about her that had made him decide that he must have her as his bride? Even after what had happened between them down at the lake he might have considered carte blanche a sufficient price to pay—and she could have expected no more. Her very reaction to his uncompleted words proved that. Why matrimony, then? What was it that had discomposed him for weeks, even months, after her unexpected refusal?

Wounded pride?

Fortunately, he had made a full recovery and was now very thankful indeed for her refusal.

Someone who loves people and children and frolicking and absurdity.

Of course he was not such a person. The very idea—
frolicking
and
absurdity
! But there were people he loved—even children.

Someone who is not obsessed with himself and his own consequence. Someone who is not ice to the very core. Someone with a heart.

His mind shied from the memory. He had never been able to cope with that particular part of her rejection. But it was the part that had caused most pain—in the days before he had recovered from such foolishness.

Fortunately, Miss Magnus arrived at the church only a minute or two late, and Wulfric was able to concentrate his attention upon the nuptial service. He could identify with Mowbury’s rather sheepish pride as he gave his sister away to her new husband. It was two and a half years since Morgan’s wedding and more than three since Freyja’s. On both occasions he had been startled by the pain of loss, especially with Morgan, the baby of the family, the one they had all most adored. Even he . . .

Someone with a heart.

He could
feel
Christine Derrick several pews behind his own, almost as if she held a long feather and was brushing it up and down his spine. Soon it would touch his neck and he would shrug his shoulders defensively.

He gazed sternly at the bride and groom and at the clergyman and listened carefully to everything that was said without hearing a word.

Unfortunately he delayed too long after the nuptials were over. By the time he left the church, Sir Lewis and the new Lady Wiseman had already driven away in the wedding carriage, but Mowbury and his mother had gone too, as had most members of the two families, Mrs. Derrick included. Her disappearance was a vast relief, of course, but how could he now avoid going to the breakfast, Wulfric thought, when he had not had a chance of a word with either Mowbury or his mother? It would be ill-mannered, and he was never discourteous if he could help it.

A hand grasped his shoulder.

“Bewcastle,” the Earl of Kitredge said, “I will ride with you if I may and leave my own carriage to the young people.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Wulfric assured him.

He would, he decided, sit at his appointed place for the breakfast, pay his compliments to the newly married couple afterward, express his thanks to Lady Mowbury, and slip away at the earliest opportunity. He would confine his movements for the next few days to the House and White’s when he must leave Bedwyn House. It occurred to him that such a decision might be cowardly, but he convinced himself that he would merely be doing what he usually did. At this time of year there were not a great many social events to be avoided anyway.

Although most of the guests to Magnus House on Berkeley Square had not yet taken their places in the ballroom, which had been converted into a dining hall for the occasion, but were milling about there, greeting and conversing with one another, Wulfric was not tempted to join any of them. He was adept at distancing himself from such social intercourse. He would have found his place, taken it, and looked about him with cool ease had it not been for the fact that he had entered the house and the ballroom with Kitredge.

“Ah,” the earl said, setting a hand on Wulfric’s sleeve, “there is the very person I want to have a word with, and you have an acquaintance with her too, Bewcastle. Come.”

Too late, Wulfric realized that he was being drawn in the direction of Christine Derrick, who was standing with the Elricks and the Renables and Justin Magnus.

She had removed her bonnet. Her hair looked newly cut. It framed her round, pretty, wide-eyed face in short, soft, shining curls. The dove gray dress with its blue trimmings and ribbons suited her. Many ladies would sink into insignificance behind such muted colors, but her vitality shone past them and dominated them. She was laughing at something Magnus was saying and looking animated and quite incredibly lovely.

And then she saw them coming—and her animation vanished, though her smile remained fixed in place.

“Mrs. Derrick,” Kitredge said after greeting the others with hearty good humor. He took her hand in his, bowed over it with a slight creaking of his stays, and raised it to his lips. “You are looking lovelier than ever, if that can be possible. Is she not, Bewcastle?”

Wulfric ignored the question. He bowed to the others and to her.

“Ma’am,” he said stiffly.

“Your grace.” She looked very directly into his eyes when he had expected that she might fix them on his chin or cravat. But how foolish of him—she had clearly recovered from her surprise in the church, and would not give him the satisfaction of showing embarrassment, if she felt any.

“I trust,” he said, “that you left your mother well?”

“I did, thank you.” She held his gaze.

“And your sisters too?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Ah.” The fingers of his right hand found the handle of his quizzing glass and closed about it. “I am gratified to hear it.”

Her glance did drop then—to his hand and his glass—before coming back to meet his own. But now there was a change. Now her eyes
laughed
at him, though she was no longer actually smiling. He had forgotten that extraordinary look.

“Mowbury’s ballroom has been done up quite splendidly for the occasion,” Kitredge said. “Perhaps you would care to take a turn about the room with me, Mrs. Derrick, so that we may admire all the floral decorations.”

She moved her gaze to Kitredge, and this time she did smile—quite dazzlingly.

“Thank you.” She took his offered arm and moved off with him.

She sat with her family during the breakfast. Wulfric sat some distance away, making polite conversation with Lady Hemmings to his left and Mrs. Chesney to his right. As soon as the meal was over and he had offered his congratulations and expressed his thanks, he took his leave and walked home, having waved away his carriage, which was drawn up in the square with many others.

He was feeling irritated. It was not a feeling he allowed himself with any frequency, and when he
did
feel it, he went instantly about relieving himself of its cause with the appropriate action.

But how did one deal with one’s irritation over a woman who stubbornly refused to leave either one’s thoughts or one’s blood—even when one had believed one had purged her memory and influence long ago? And a woman, moreover, who smiled far too brightly and talked with far too much animation, even to people who sat
across
the table from her?

She simply did not know how to behave.

How did one deal with a woman who insisted upon holding one’s glance every time she caught one watching her and outmaneuvered one by raising her eyebrows—and then laughing at one?

He was still infatuated with her, Wulfric thought in some amazement as he strode out of the square and a couple of coachmen who had been lounging on the corner jumped out of the way of his stern glance and pulled at their forelocks.

And
infatuated
be damned. He was near to being blinded by his attraction to her. He was
in love,
damn it all. He disliked her, he resented her, he disapproved of almost everything about her, yet he was head over ears in love with her, like a foolish schoolboy.

He wondered grimly what he was going to do about it.

He was
not
amused.

Or in any way pleased.

12

C
HRISTINE HAD ARRIVED IN
L
ONDON ONE WEEK BEFORE
Audrey’s wedding and had taken up residence with Melanie and Bertie. She had enjoyed the week. It had included numerous shopping trips to Oxford Street and even the more exclusive Bond Street, since she needed new clothes, and for once in her life had money to spend on them—and since shopping was one of Melanie’s passions. Soon Christine had a new wardrobe of spring and summer clothes, all chosen with an eye to color and fashion and practicality—and economy. She did, after all, want to have some money left with which to purchase gifts to take home to her family. And she was not extravagant by nature.

She had enjoyed visiting Lady Mowbury with Melanie and seeing Hector and sharing some of the excitement of the approaching wedding with Audrey. She had taken a drive in the park with Justin.

She had even gone with Melanie and Bertie to dine with Hermione and Basil two days before the wedding, an occasion she had not looked forward to with any eagerness at all. But they had been civil, if not exactly affectionate, and Basil had taken her aside during the evening to explain to her that he intended to make her a quarterly allowance, since she was Oscar’s widow and therefore his financial responsibility. When she had tried arguing with him, he had insisted. He and Hermione had talked about it, he had told her, and come to the decision that it was what Oscar would have wanted. Christine had seen that it was important to him that she accept, and so she had argued no more.

Hermione had kissed the air near her cheek as they were leaving and submitted to Christine’s hug.

Some sort of peace had been made, Christine supposed. It was more than she had expected after last year. Their two sons, Oscar’s nephews and therefore Christine’s too, had greeted their aunt with enthusiasm and she had remembered that she had always been a great favorite with them.

She had done the right thing to come to town for the family wedding, she had decided. She had still thought so even when she arrived at St. George’s on Hanover Square and discovered that there were obviously going to be far more guests than just family. At least by then she had been clad in the smartest of her new clothes and was with Hermione and Basil and the boys.

She had thought it right up to the moment when she had looked up to see who the gentleman was who was important enough to be seated in front of Viscount and Viscountess Elrick, cousins of the bride, and had realized that he was the Duke of Bewcastle.