Slightly Dangerous (28 page)

I
T WAS A
cold and windy day even though it was almost April. Gray clouds hung low over the land and occasionally drizzled rain down onto a bleak world below. But fortunately the heavens held back the bulk of their load, and the highway remained passable throughout the long journey.

Christine almost wished for a prolonged deluge of rain that would strand them at a country inn somewhere until the holiday was over. But it was far too late for that now. They must be nearing Lindsey Hall. In fact, even as she thought it the carriage slowed and turned between two towering gateposts onto a straight driveway lined with elm trees.

“Gracious!” Melanie exclaimed, waking with a start from a lengthy doze and pulling her hands from beneath her lap robe in order to adjust her bonnet. “Are we here? Bertie, do wake up. I have suffered your snores for long enough. How anyone can fall asleep in a carriage I do not know. I am shaken and bounced to shreds. Are you not, Christine?”

“I have found the journey quite comfortable,” Christine said.

When she set her head closer to the window beside her, she could see a vast mansion up ahead. It was not medieval or Elizabethan or Georgian or Palladian, though it seemed to have elements of them all. It was magnificent. It was awe-inspiring.

She had never noticed before that she suffered from motion sickness. But her stomach was feeling decidedly queasy. It was a good thing their journey was at its end. But
that
thought caused her stomach to turn a complete somersault inside her.

The carriage turned and she could see that it was moving about a huge circular garden, bright with tulips and late-blooming daffodils, with a great stone fountain at its center, shooting water at least thirty feet into the air. It made for a magnificent approach to the house, she decided.

She could also see that once the carriage had made the half-circle about it, they would be on the terrace before the great front doors. She watched them both swing open before the carriage made its final turn and cut off her view of the house.

Melanie had been chattering away ever since she awoke, but Christine had heard scarcely a word. If only she could go back, she thought, and say no instead of yes in Hyde Park—so simple really! She could be quiet and content at home now, this day like any other, looking forward to Easter with her family.

But she had not said no, and so here she was. Her heart thumped loudly in her ears as the carriage door was opened by a servant wearing gorgeous livery and the steps were set down. There was no going back now.

She despised her nervousness. She absolutely
despised
it. She had told him that all this was pointless, that nothing was going to change, that nothing
could
change. She had told him they would both be doomed to a miserable holiday if he insisted that she come here.

He had insisted anyway and she had come.

So why be nervous? What was there to be nervous
about
? And why should she expect misery and therefore draw it down upon herself? Why not simply enjoy herself? She could sit in a corner again and laugh at the foibles of humanity, could she not? It was a tactic that had not worked particularly well at Schofield, but that was no reason for it not to work here.

Only servants met them outside the house, though a butler she might have mistaken for the duke himself if she had not already known that gentleman bowed to them with dignified formality and invited them to follow him inside, where his grace awaited them.

Melanie and Bertie followed him decently inside.

Christine did not.

The carriage bearing Melanie’s children and their nurse had drawn up behind the baron’s, and it was instantly apparent that all was not well inside it. Pamela, aged six, had probably been sick again, as she had been almost from the moment of their departure, and had therefore taken all of the nurse’s time and attention and patience. The sound of her scolding voice—clearly at the end of its tether or perhaps even a little beyond the end—emerged into the outdoors as soon as the carriage door was opened. Phillip, aged eight, was laughing in the sort of jeering, hyena-like way that little boys have when they wish to be particularly obnoxious to their elders, and Pauline, aged three, was alternately bawling and screeching complaints against her brother. It did not take a genius to understand that he had been teasing her—always a favorite sport with big brothers. It was also apparent to Christine that the nurse was going to be quite unable to cope with the situation unless someone came to her assistance quickly.

Christine strode off in the direction of the second carriage.

“Phillip,” she said, smiling brightly at him and preparing to lie through her teeth, “the funniest thing just happened! Do you see that very grand butler?” She pointed at his retreating back. “He asked me who the elegant gentleman in this carriage was. I suppose he mistook you for an adult. How do you like that!”

Phillip seemed to like it very well indeed. He stepped down onto the terrace with all the airs of a jaded town dandy, and Christine leaned into the carriage and swept Pauline up into her arms.

“We have arrived, my pet,” she said, flashing a grin at the nurse, who was cuddling a green-faced Pamela on her lap and looking harried and grateful. “And very soon now you are going to have a whole new nursery to explore. Will that not be exciting? I am almost certain there are going to be other children there too—new friends for you.”

Melanie and Bertie and the butler, she noticed with an inward grimace, had disappeared inside the house. But someone else had appeared from the opposite direction—a woman of bustling middle age who was obviously coming to take the children and their nurse inside by another door. Phillip inclined his head regally to her and informed her that the older of his two sisters was travel-sick and the younger was tired and their nurse would be obliged for her assistance.

“What a perfect gentleman you are,” the woman said with an approving smile. “And so concerned for your sisters too.”

Christine almost expected a halo to sprout out about his head.

“I’ll take her, ma’am,” the woman said, reaching out her arms for Pauline while the children’s nurse descended slowly from the carriage with Pamela.

But Pauline would not go. She clung tightly to Christine’s neck, pushing her bonnet slightly askew, buried her face in the hollow of Christine’s shoulder, and showed distinct signs of gathering up her flagging energies for a full-blown tantrum.

“She is tired and feeling very strange,” Christine said. “I’ll bring her up to the nursery myself in a short while.”

And she turned and hurried back to the front doors, which she half expected to find already shut and bolted against her. They were not. But as she stepped inside, she felt suddenly and horribly conspicuous and disheveled.

She only half noticed her surroundings, but even half her attention was sufficient to make her aware that the entrance hall was vast and magnificent and medieval. There was a huge fireplace opposite the front doors, and in front of it and stretching almost the whole length of the hall was a great oak table surrounded by chairs. The ceiling was oak-beamed. The walls were whitewashed and hung with banners and coats of arms and weapons. To one side was an intricately carved wooden screen with a minstrel gallery above. At the other end was a wide staircase leading upward.

Perhaps she would have noticed with far more attention if it had not been for the fact that a large number of people were drawn up in a receiving line between the front doors and the table. And they were all—ghastly realization!—waiting for her, since Melanie and Bertie were already being ushered away in the direction of the staircase.

It took a few moments for Christine’s eyes to adjust fully to the light of indoors. But when they did so, she could see that the Duke of Bewcastle himself was at one end of the line. Actually, he was stepping forward from it and welcoming her with a formal bow and a quite unfathomable look on his face—not that she had often seen any look there that was
not
unfathomable, it was true. He opened his mouth to speak, but she forestalled him.

“I am so sorry,” she said, her voice sounding horribly loud and breathless. “Pamela had been sick, and Phillip was being obnoxious, and Pauline was well on the way to having a fit of hysteria. I left Pamela to her nurse, persuaded Phillip to act the part of gentleman for at least five minutes, and lifted Pauline from the carriage to comfort her. But she is feeling tired and strange, poor lamb, and insisted upon staying with me. And so . . .” She felt suddenly tangled in words. She laughed. “And so here I am.”

Pauline burrowed closer, twisted her head to peep at the duke, and knocked Christine’s bonnet slightly more off center as she did so.

“Welcome to Lindsey Hall, Mrs. Derrick,” the Duke of Bewcastle said, and for a moment it seemed to her that his pale silver eyes burned with a curious light. “Allow me to present my family.”

He turned and indicated the first in line, a haughty, elderly lady whom Christine instantly recognized as one of society’s most formidable dragons even though she had never before been presented to her.

“The Marchioness of Rochester, my aunt,” the duke said. “And the marquess.”

Christine curtsied as best she could with a three-year-old in her arms. The marchioness inclined her head and swept Christine from head to foot with one glance that suggested she had been seen and firmly dismissed as of no account whatsoever. The marquess, who appeared to be about half the size of his wife, bowed and murmured something unintelligible.

“Lord and Lady Aidan Bedwyn,” the duke said, indicating a grim-looking, dark-haired gentleman of military bearing, who looked very much like him except that he was broader in build, and a pretty, brown-haired lady who smiled at her while her husband bowed.

“Mrs. Derrick,” she said. “That child is going to be asleep in a few more minutes.”

“Lord and Lady Rannulf Bedwyn,” the duke said.

Lord Rannulf looked quite different from his brothers except for some similarity of facial features, especially the nose. He was something of a giant of a man with thick, wavy fair hair worn rather long. He brought Saxon warriors to mind. His wife was sheer, luscious, feminine beauty with vibrant, flame-colored hair. She smiled kindly while Lord Rannulf bowed.

“Mrs. Derrick,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “Lady Renable thought you had run away.”

“Oh, no.” Christine laughed. “But the children’s nurse might well not have survived the day if I had not hurried to her rescue. Travel and children—especially
three
children shut up together for hours on end two days in a row—are not a good mix.”

“The Marquess and Marchioness of Hallmere,” the Duke of Bewcastle said.

It was clearly the marchioness who was the Bedwyn. She was small and looked like her brother, Lord Rannulf. She also had the family nose—and the family hauteur.

“Mrs. Derrick,” she said, inclining her head formally while her husband, a tall blond god, bowed and smiled and asked if she had had a comfortable journey.

“Yes, I thank you, my lord,” she said.

“Lord and Lady Alleyne Bedwyn,” the duke said.

Lord Alleyne, Christine concluded immediately, was the handsome brother. Dark and slender and with perfect features even though he had the family nose, he also had eyes that laughed—perhaps with mockery, perhaps with simple pleasure in life. They were roguish eyes. He bowed elegantly to her and asked her how she did. Lady Alleyne too was lovely—she was all golden beauty.

“My uncle believes that he had an acquaintance with your late husband, Mrs. Derrick,” she said. “I will present you to him later if I may—after you have taken that poor child to the nursery and settled in.”

“The Earl and Countess of Rosthorn,” the duke said, indicating the couple at the end of the line.

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, madame,” the earl said with a faint and attractive French accent as he made her a bow.

“Mrs. Derrick,” the countess said, “how kind of you to pick up this little one, who looks very, very tired indeed.”

She touched one of Pauline’s cheeks with the backs of two fingers and smiled at her when the child peeped.

Lord Alleyne might be the handsome brother, Christine thought, but the very young Countess of Rosthorn was clearly the beauty of the family. Dark and youthfully slender, she was perfect in every feature.

The Duke of Bewcastle must have given an unobtrusive command—a raised eyebrow, perhaps?—and a female servant came into the hall and waited silently a few feet away.

“You will be escorted to the nursery and then to your room, ma’am,” the Duke of Bewcastle said. “And someone will come to escort you to the drawing room for tea in half an hour’s time.”

“Thank you,” Christine said, turning to look at him.

“And when Wulf says half an hour,” Lord Alleyne said with a low chuckle, “he means thirty minutes.”

The duke was looking stern and impassive. Was it possible he could have pressed her so hard to come here? Or that he had invited all of Oscar’s family simply as an excuse to invite her too? There was no glimmering of anything in his eyes now except cool courtesy.

Oh, how she
despised
herself for being glad to see him again. She had felt starved for a sight of him, if the truth were known. Was she so determined, then, to set herself up for misery? Seeing the outside of his home and this great hall, seeing his very aristocratic family, seeing him in his proper milieu, she was more than ever aware that even if they suited in every personal way—which they most certainly did not—they could never make a match of it anyway.

The idea of her becoming a duchess was ludicrous, to say the least.

She followed the silent servant in the direction of the staircase—and felt suddenly very vexed. She had pictured herself arriving at Lindsey Hall, smart and aloof and dignified in some of her new clothes, very much the gracious lady, greeting the Duke of Bewcastle in company with Melanie and Bertie, smiling distantly at him, very much in control of the situation.