Slightly Dangerous (40 page)

He was afraid to ask.

He was afraid the answer would be no. And, if it was, he could never ask again.

So the question must wait.

He wanted her love.

T
HE CLOUDS HAD
moved off and the sun was shining by the time they left the dovecote. The wind was still blowing, though, and it was still a chilly day.

They walked back in the direction of the house as they had walked back from the lake at Schofield—not touching and not talking. But it felt different this time. This time their silence and proximity felt companionable. Though perhaps that was not quite it either. There was a
knowledge
between them. They had shared far more than they had at Schofield. They had shared bodies there. Here they had shared themselves.

Christine still felt weak-kneed and vulnerable. She was deeply in love. At the same time, she was trying to convince herself that since being in love and loving were two quite different things, she must be sensible. She was relieved that he had not asked the question. She hoped he would not ask it—ever. For if he asked, she would have to answer and she honestly did not know what she would say.

She knew what she
ought
to say, but not what she
would
say.

But what if he never did ask? How could she bear it?

He had asked once and she had said no. Surely he would not humiliate himself by asking again.

Then what was this visit to Lindsey Hall all about? What was this afternoon all about?

He had called her
Christine
. It was absurd to remember that as perhaps the most tender and precious moment of all. But it
had
been precious—
Christine,
spoken in his very cultured, very aristocratic voice. Though he had whispered it the first time. And when she had called him
Wulfric,
he had growled at her.

She turned her head to look at him and discovered that he had his head turned too and was looking at her. She looked sharply away.

“What?” he said. “I have won the game so easily today?”

But she could feel herself blushing.

“There are too many trees,” she said. “If I do not look where I am going, I will no doubt walk slap into one and embarrass myself.”

She had initiated their second lovemaking in the dovecote, she thought and felt the heat deepening in her cheeks. She had woken up, feeling warm and snug and delicious and turned her head on the pillow to find him looking at her. And she had lifted herself up onto one elbow, leaned over him, and kissed him open-mouthed. And then, when he had turned onto his back, she had followed him and climbed right on top of his warm, naked, splendidly muscled male body and rubbed herself against him in a blatant invitation he had not been slow in accepting.

She had never done anything like it before.

Making love with the Duke of Bewcastle—with Wulfric—was by far the most exciting, most exhilarating experience of her life.

But she must
not
equate being in love or even making love with love itself.

He took her back by a different route. They came out of the trees at the far end of the lake, the wilder end, where the trees grew to the water’s edge. And there, just ahead of them, was the party from the house, adults and children, obviously engaged in a game of hide-and-seek among the trees.

Pamela spotted Christine and came skipping toward her, Becky at her side.

“Cousin Christine!” she screeched. “We went in a boat and I trailed my hand in the water and Phillip wanted to try rowing but Becky’s papa said no, not today because the water was choppy and Laura was sick over the side and we stopped at the island and then Laura was not willing to get in again but Becky’s papa told her that if she kept her eyes on the horizon she would not be sick again and she was not and I was not sick at all even though Phillip said I would be because I always am when I am in the carriage.”

Christine laughed. “What an exciting afternoon you have had,” she said. Becky, she noticed, had taken the duke’s hand and was swinging his arm with her own.

“Uncle Wulf,” she said, “Pamela and I want to play school, but we cannot with so many children in the nursery. May we borrow your library when we get home?”

“If you promise not to take it too far away,” he said.

Both little girls burst into delighted laughter.

“Silly!” Becky said. “We are not going to
take
it anywhere, Uncle Wulf, only
use
it.”

“Ah,” he said. “Then you may.”

The game of hide-and-seek must have run its course. Adults and children were gathered on the bank, and the girls drew Christine and the duke in that direction too.

“We have just been telling the children,” Lord Rannulf explained, “that though swimming was always allowed farther along, it was forbidden here.”

“That was because the temptation to dive off a tree branch would have been too strong,” Lord Alleyne said.

“But it would be great fun,” young Davy cried, pointing. “Look at that branch, Uncle Aidan. I could dive off that, I bet.”

“It looks very dangerous, Davy,” Lady Aidan said.

“Strictly forbidden, lad!” Lord Aidan said at the same time.

“It always was, Davy,” Lord Rannulf said. “More is the pity.”

“That never stopped you doing it, though,” the Duke of Bewcastle said. “All of you. Even Freyja—
especially
Freyja, in fact. And even Morgan.”

Melanie laughed and all the Bedwyns turned to look at their eldest brother in some surprise.

“Uh-oh,” Lord Alleyne said. “You
knew,
Wulf? And we thought we were being so sly.”

“Kit trod water under the branch the first time I tried it and offered to catch me,” Lady Rosthorn said. “I was eight, if I remember correctly, and would have died rather than have him think me a coward. I was desperately in love with him.”

They all laughed with her. Lord Rosthorn draped an arm about her shoulders.

“That is
my
age,” Becky cried. “Papa, I want to try it when it is a warmer day.”

“Now see what you have all started by talking in front of the children,” Lady Aidan said, exasperated.

“It was Wulf who started it,” Lady Hallmere pointed out. “How did you know we used to dive here, Wulf?”

“Because I used to do it myself as a child,” he said. “Aidan and I did. We never brought Rannulf with us because we were afraid he would knock his head on a stone or a tree root and we would have our bottoms whipped.”

The children all whooped with delight.

“Uncle Wulf said
bottom,
” William cried, and they all shrieked with laughter again.

“Wulfric
diving
?” Lord Hallmere said, grinning. “And
against the rules
? I don’t think I believe it.”

“Neither do I,” Lord Rannulf said derisively. “I would never have agreed to be left behind.”

The Duke of Bewcastle raised a quizzing glass to his eye. “Do I understand that I am being called a
liar
?” he asked.

But his question seemed only to provoke more derision and hilarity.

Becky, Christine could see, was pulling at his hand, which she still held.

“Show them, Uncle Wulf,” she whispered. “Show them!”

He looked down at the child and Christine heard him sigh.

“There is no other way, is there?” he said.

And to Christine’s stunned amazement—and everyone else’s—he took off his hat, his gloves, and his greatcoat and handed them to Becky.

“Oh, I say,” Lady Hallmere said. “Wulf is going diving. Stand behind me, Josh. I am about to swoon.”

“Wulfric,” Lady Aidan warned, “the water will be icy cold.”

“It is icy cold even
out
of the water,” Melanie said.

Bertie rumbled.

“Oh, this is splendid of him,” Lady Alleyne said.

The duke had removed his coat and waistcoat and quizzing glass and cravat and handed them to Christine. He dragged his shirt off over his head and set it on the pile.

“Wulfric,” Lady Rannulf said, “don’t let yourself be goaded into this. It is dangerous. You will hurt yourself.”

The children were prancing about in irrepressible high spirits.

“This,” Lady Rosthorn said, patting her husband’s hand on her shoulder, “I have to see.”

Lord Rannulf and Lord Alleyne stood side by side, almost identical grins on their faces.

The duke managed to remove his boots without sitting down. He set them side by side on the grass.

He must be half frozen, Christine thought. But she was watching him with wonder.

His stockings came off and were stuffed inside his boots.

All that was left to him were his pantaloons and the drawers she knew he wore beneath them.

He strode away from them all in his bare feet and went up the oak tree as if he climbed one every day of his life. Of course, he
had
had some practice a few days before when he had gone to the rescue of his quizzing glass.

He walked out along the branch that extended over the water, holding onto another branch for balance as long as he could and then doing it on his own. He went to the very end of the branch, tested it for strength, bent his knees a few times, flexed his arms. He was, Christine realized, playing up to his audience, which was loving it.

And then he dived in headfirst, his arms stretched above his head, his legs straight and together, his feet pointed. There was hardly a splash as he went in.

There
was,
however, a collective gasp from the bank, followed by a cheer. Christine clapped her free hand over her mouth until his head broke above the surface and he shook the water out of his eyes.

“Someone,” he shouted, “should have warned me that the water is cold.”

It was the moment at which Christine slid all the way—irretrievably—in love.

And then something extraordinary happened—something
else
extraordinary, that was. Lady Hallmere stepped up in front of her, frowning ferociously, and hugged her hard, the duke’s clothes squashed between them.

“If
this
is what you have done for him,” she said, “I will love you all my life.”

And then she was off to watch the show with everyone else as the Duke of Bewcastle swam the few strokes to the bank, hoisted himself out, and stood dripping like a sleek seal on the grass.

“And diving into
this
lake from
these
trees,” he said to all the children with something of his usual sternness though his teeth were chattering, “is
still
strictly forbidden.”

“That was a bit extreme, was it not, Wulf?” Lord Aidan asked him. “If they all wanted to know whether you spoke the truth, all they had to do was ask me.” He smiled one of his rare smiles and looked very handsome indeed.

Christine hurried toward the duke with his clothes, but she handed them to Lord Aidan rather than fuss around him herself.

The duke’s eyes, very silver beneath his wet, sleek hair, met hers.

“I am happy to remember, ma’am,” he said, “that I did not laugh at you that day beside the Serpentine. I now understand the discomfort you were suffering.”

But
she
laughed at
him
. Not out loud. She laughed with her eyes.

He had done it for her, she was sure.

To prove to her that he was Wulfric Bedwyn as well as the Duke of Bewcastle.

22

T
HE BALL AT
L
INDSEY
H
ALL WAS WELL ATTENDED
, most of the neighboring families still being in the country for the Easter break. And grand balls hosted by the Duke of Bewcastle were rare events. Everyone came from miles around.

Wulfric had certainly not organized the event himself. He had a secretary to see to all the mundane details and sisters and sisters-in-law to fuss over others, like the floral arrangements in the ballroom and the choice of particular foods for the supper and the refreshment room. However, he took a more than usual interest in proceedings on the day of the event, wandering from the library to the great hall to the ballroom, unable to settle to any particular activity.

His guests were to leave the day after tomorrow. Even his family was leaving, some for town, some for their own homes in the country. And he was going to let them all leave. He was going to let
her
leave. He had decided that.

But he wanted this evening to be special.

And so he wandered restlessly and stayed away from the drawing room and refused to participate in any of the activities anyone had planned.

The ballroom, he thought when the evening came and he stood in the receiving line with his aunt and uncle dressed in his customary black and white, really did look rather magnificent, with baskets of spring flowers hanging from the walls and above doorways, and great pots of fern and Easter lilies surrounding the three central pillars.

And
she
looked lovely too—Christine Derrick, who was smiling and brimming over with light and joy as she passed the receiving line and had her first sight of the room. Her gown was white. The delicately scalloped hem and short, puffed sleeves were embroidered with buttercups and daisies and greenery. She looked like a piece of the springtime.

Wulfric’s heart lifted at the sight of her.

He had asked her as they left the dining room after luncheon if she would reserve the first waltz for him. They were almost the first words he had spoken to her since the day before yesterday after he had dived into the lake.

He was feeling absurdly shy.

Or perhaps it was terror. He wanted to believe that all was now well between them, that she felt as he felt, and that—most important of all—she could now see the possibility of a future with him. But he was not certain. And since his adult life had not held many uncertainties, he did not know quite how to cope with this one.

He opened the dancing with Viscountess Ravensberg, who had cleverly discovered a violet gown to match exactly the color of her lovely eyes. Then he danced with the blond and pretty Lady Muir, sister of the Earl of Kilbourne, and wondered as he had before why she had not remarried though she had been widowed for a number of years and was extremely eligible. Strangely, perhaps, he had never considered courting her himself. He danced the third set with Amy Hutchinson by his aunt’s maneuvering. Aunt Rochester had swept into his library unannounced the day before and lectured him on duty and what he owed the family name. He did
not
owe it, according to her, a schoolmaster’s daughter who smiled too much and did not always know how to behave. He had listened to her without comment, raised his glass almost to his eye, thanked her for her concern, and really had given her little choice but to turn tail and leave him master of his domain, taking her ruffled feathers with her. But she had still not given up hope of pushing her niece on him, it seemed.