Slightly Dangerous (10 page)

C
HRISTINE WALKED BACK
to Schofield with Justin on the day of the disaster in the churchyard.

“You had to wait an awfully long time at the inn,” she said. “But I am
so
thankful that you did, Justin. Was it your idea? If you had not waited, I would have had to walk all the way back with the Duke of Bewcastle.”

“I thought perhaps you would be looking on him as a kind of knight in shining armor,” he said with an amused grin.

“I have never been more mortified,” she told him. “If only he had stayed at the house and not been a witness to that horrible display, it would not have seemed nearly as bad. He did not crack a single smile, Justin, or utter one sympathetic word. I do not mind being laughed at under such circumstances—I would laugh if it were someone else, and indeed I cannot help but laugh at myself. But though he did all that was correct and gentlemanly, and I was and am extremely grateful for the speed with which he acted, he looked downright morose and made me feel three inches high. It is a pity I did not actually shrink to that size. I might have wrapped my tattered dress about me and slunk off to the vicarage in good order, most of my dignity intact.”

“If you could just have seen yourself, Chrissie.” He snorted with suppressed mirth.

“I have a lamentably vivid imagination, thank you very much,” she said, and dissolved into laughter again herself.

But, goodness, she thought—oh, gracious goodness, when he had stood against her and gazed grimly into her eyes while shielding her half-naked form from the goggling eyes of their fellow guests, she had fairly sizzled with awareness even though fortunately she had been able to cover up her reactions with embarrassment over her appearance and futile attempts to make herself decent. She had been able to
smell
him. He wore some musky and doubtless expensive cologne. And she had felt his body heat like a raging furnace.

It was a good thing Justin had not guessed
those
feelings. Some things were best kept from even one’s closest friends. It was not rational—it certainly was not admirable—to pant with awareness over a man whom one disliked really quite intensely.

She would have liked to escape to her little box room for a while after they returned to the house. Indeed, she would have been perfectly content to be swallowed whole and permanently into an abyss there if only the room had sported such a convenience. But the young ladies who had participated in the walk and witnessed her humiliation were not going to allow her to escape so easily.

“
I
would not have made such a spectacle of
myself
for all the wagers in the world,” Lady Sarah said disdainfully after summoning Christine into the primrose sitting room with all the others.

“And if you think you have now
won,
Mrs. Derrick,” Miriam Dunstan-Lutt said resentfully, “then I beg to disagree. Only fifty minutes passed between our arrival at the inn and yours with the Duke of Bewcastle—I was particularly watching the clock over the doorway. Besides, you were with the vicar and his wife and children for most of that time and not alone with the duke at all.”

That wretched wager again!

“I am glad I do not have to award you the prize today, Cousin Christine,” Audrey added dryly. “No one has yet paid me her guinea.”

“One must
sympathize
with Mrs. Derrick, though,” Harriet King said, sounding anything but sympathetic. “I suppose the vicar’s wife had to pull that dress out of the rag bag.”

“But the patch at the hem has been neatly done, Harriet,” Lady Sarah observed with honeyed kindness, “and is
almost
unnoticeable.”

“One must confess, though,” Rowena Siddings said, “that that scene in the churchyard was
priceless
. I have never laughed so hard in my life. If you could just have seen your face when you landed, Mrs. Derrick.” She went off into peals of laughter, and all the others, with the noticeable exception of Miss King and Lady Sarah, joined in.

Christine, for lack of anything else to do since she certainly did not choose to engage in any catfight, laughed—yet again. Laughing at one’s own expense did begin to pall after a while.

The conversation turned to an animated discussion of how the wager was to be won.

And then the older ladies, none of whom had participated in the walk to the village, learned about the incident—it would have been a miracle of epic proportions if they had not, of course. Lady Mowbury was no problem. She simply invited Christine to sit beside her in the drawing room before dinner and tell her own version of the story—which Christine did with considerable embellishment.

Lady Chisholm and Mrs. King both avoided the subject and stayed away from Christine, as if fearful that what ailed her might be infectious and before they knew it
they
would be leaping from trees and almost leaving their dresses behind.

Hermione sat down on Christine’s other side when Lady Mowbury finally turned her attention to someone else, and Basil came to stand in front of her. It was the first time since their arrival at Schofield that they had sought her out or spoken directly to her.

“I suppose,” Hermione said in a low, bitter voice, “it was too much to expect that you would behave with proper decorum for two whole weeks, Christine.”

“And the first week is not even at an end yet,” Basil pointed out dryly.

“Have you
no
respect for my brother-in-law’s memory?” Hermione asked, her voice shaking. “Or for
us
?”

“And you forced Bewcastle of all people to come to your rescue,” Basil said. “But I do not know why I was surprised when I heard of the incident.”

“Whatever must he
think
of us?” Hermione raised a handkerchief to her lips and looked genuinely distressed.

“I daresay,” Christine said, feeling heat flood her cheeks, “he thinks the same of both of you as he thought yesterday and the day before. And I daresay I have sunk lower in his estimation. But since I was undoubtedly very low in it to start with, I do not suppose there was much farther to sink. I will not allow the matter to interfere with my sleep.”

Which was about the most ridiculous thing she had said or done all day, of course. She was, in fact, extremely upset. The incident to which they referred had been bad enough, but not sufficient in itself to rob her of appetite or sleep. Her brother- and sister-in-law’s continued hostility toward her was another matter, though. They had been kind to her once upon a time. They had liked her. Hermione had even perhaps loved her. She had been fond of them. She had tried very hard to fit into their world, and she had succeeded during the first few years. She had tried to be a good wife to Oscar—she had
loved
him. But then everything had fallen apart, and now they were her bitter and unhappy enemies. They had refused to listen to her after Oscar’s death. Or rather, they had listened but refused to believe her.

“I suppose,” Hermione said, “you were
flirting
with the Duke of Bewcastle, Christine. It would be hardly surprising. You are flirting with everyone else.”

Christine jumped to her feet and moved away without another word. It was the old accusation! And it hurt as much now as it had ever done. Why was it that other ladies could talk with gentlemen, laugh with them, and dance with them, and be admired for having the correct social accomplishments, while
she
must always be believed to be flirting? She did not even know how to flirt—unless she did it unconsciously. And it would not have occurred to her to flirt during her marriage even if she
had
known how. She had married for love. And even if she had not, she firmly believed that a wife owed her husband total fidelity. It would not occur to her to flirt now that she was free again either. Why should she? If she wished to marry again, there were several eligible prospects among her acquaintances. But she had never wanted to remarry.

How could anyone—even Hermione—think that she would
flirt
with a man like the Duke of Bewcastle?

But before she could hurry from the room and avoid facing everyone at dinner, Melanie linked an arm through hers and smiled fondly at her.

“I know, Christine,” she said, “that if there is a child to be entertained, you must entertain it and if there is someone to be rescued, you must do the rescuing even if it means climbing a tree. I was inclined to feel a migraine coming on, I must confess, when I first heard what had happened. But Bertie chose to rumble and then laugh outright when Justin told the tale. Even Hector found it funny, bless his heart, and laughed merrily. And so I followed suit. I could not stop laughing, in fact, and you must not look sideways at me now or I will start again. Only Hermione and Basil refused to see any humor in the situation, the silly things, even though Justin assured us all that you were acting out of the kindness of your heart and were not trying to draw attention to yourself, least of all Bewcastle’s. I just wish I could have
seen
it.”

“I will crawl off home and lie low for what remains of the two weeks if you wish,” Christine offered. “I really
do
beg your pardon, Melanie.”

But Melanie squeezed her arm and told her not to be such an idiot.

“Dear Christine,” she said, “you must simply relax and
enjoy
yourself. It is why I invited you—so that you would not have to be so busy for a couple of weeks. It was too bad that it had to be the Duke of Bewcastle who was forced to rush to your rescue, but we must not worry about that. He will forget you before the day is out and as like as not will not address another word to you before the party ends.”

“That would be a relief at least,” Christine said.

“In the meantime,” Melanie said, “a number of the other gentlemen are clearly smitten with you, as gentlemen always are, the earl among them.”

“The Earl of
Kitredge
?” Christine asked, all amazement.

“Who else?” Melanie said, patting her hand before wafting off on some other hostessing duty. “His children are grown and he is looking about him for a new wife. I daresay you could make another brilliant marriage if you chose. Just promise me that you will climb no more trees before the party is over.”

Another brilliant marriage.
The very thought was enough to give Christine nightmares.

But it seemed that Melanie was right about one thing. For the rest of that day and the next few the Duke of Bewcastle avoided all contact with her—not that she made any concerted effort to put herself in his way, of course. The very idea that he or other members of the party might think that she had been
flirting
with him . . .

Whenever she looked at him—and annoyingly she could not keep her eyes off him for more than five minutes at a time when they were in the same room—he looked haughty and coldly dignified. If ever she caught his eye—and it happened altogether too frequently—he lofted one eyebrow or both and grasped the handle of his quizzing glass as if he were about to verify the amazing fact that such a lowly mortal really had dared lift her eyes to his.

She had come to hate that quizzing glass. She amused herself with mental images of what she would do with it if given the chance. Once she visualized herself ramming it down his throat and watching it swelling the sides of his neck on its way down. She was sitting in a corner of the drawing room at the time in an attempt to resurrect her short-lived role as satirical spectator, and he caught her eye just as her imagination had reached the most graphic part. Suddenly she found herself being viewed for a brief moment through the lens of his glass.

She really was terribly attracted to him, she was forced to admit to herself on occasion.

She felt a dreadful curiosity to know what it would be like to go to bed with him.

The very thought filled her with horror. But in parts of her person over which thought held no sway—the lower portion of her insides, for example—there were unmistakable stirrings of unbridled lust.

She disliked the Duke of Bewcastle quite intensely. More, she despised him and all he stood for. She was also a little—a very little—afraid of him, if the truth were known, though she would endure being stretched to twice her height on the rack before admitting such a lowering fact to any other mortal.

And yet she wondered what it would be like to go to bed with him, and sometimes went even a little beyond just wondering.

Sometimes, it seemed to her, she needed very badly to have her head examined.

6

I
T DID NOT TAKE
W
ULFRIC MANY DAYS TO REALIZE THAT
the young lady guests must have some sort of contest in progress that concerned him. He was not the sort of man who attracted young girls, despite the fact that he was one of England’s most eligible bachelors. Yet they all fawned over him almost every weary, mortal minute of the day and used every ruse imaginable to draw him apart from the crowd.

He was not amused.

He resisted by adopting a frostier than usual manner when in the ladies’ company and by associating as much as he could with the gentlemen and the older guests. Since there was nothing he could do now about avoiding this particular party, he decided that he would use it as an object lesson. For a few foolish days at the end of the session and the Season he had allowed himself to feel a touch of loneliness and self-pity, and this was the consequence. He would not let it happen again.

He had always been alone in all essential ways—since the age of twelve, anyway, when he had been virtually separated from his brothers and put directly under the care of two tutors and closely supervised by his father, who had known that his death was imminent and who had consequently wanted his eldest son and heir to be properly prepared to succeed him. He had been alone since the age of seventeen, when his father had died and he had become the Duke of Bewcastle. He had been alone since the age of twenty-four, when Marianne Bonner had rejected him in a particularly humiliating manner. He had been alone since his brothers and sisters had married, all within a two-year span. He had been alone since Rose’s death in February.