by Mary Balogh
“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 th
ought 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
IT DID NOT TAKE WULFRIC 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.
Aloneness did not equate with loneliness. It did not call for self-pity. It certainly did not call for scrambling to attend every house party that presented itself. Being in company could often be a great deal less tolerable than being alone.
He was feeling more than usually irritated after a lengthy afternoon ride, during which he had twice been lured away from the group, first by Miss King and then by Miss Dunstan-Lutt, on slight, ridiculous pretexts and would—both times—have become hopelessly lost along winding country lanes if he had not possessed a strong sense of direction and an even stronger instinct for self-preservation.
Were they trying to lure him into marriage?
The very idea was preposterous. Even if he was not literally old enough to be their father, he felt as if he were.
Rather than follow everyone else into the house after their return, he made his escape and headed off through the rose arbor and onto the long grassy alley beyond. It was picturesque and secluded, with its knee-high stone walls on either side and behind them long rows of laburnum trees, whose branches had been trained to grow over trellises into a high arch overhead. It was rather like a living, open-air Gothic cathedral.
It was also, on this occasion, occupied. Mrs. Derrick was sitting on the wall on one side, reading what he supposed was a letter.
She had not seen him. He might have withdrawn back through the rose arbor in good order and found somewhere else to walk—unlike that other time out at the lake, when she had collided into him. But he did not withdraw. She might have an unfortunate tendency not to know how to behave on occasion, but at least she was not silly, and she did not simper or flirt.
After he had taken a few steps in her direction, she looked up and saw him.
“Oh,” she said.
She was wearing the floppy-brimmed straw bonnet again. Indeed, he had not seen her in any other all week. It was quite unadorned apart from the ribbons that tied beneath her chin. It was inexplicably fetching. She was also wearing a dress of striped green-and-white poplin with lace-trimmed square neck and short sleeves that she had worn several times before—unlike her fellow guests, who changed several times a day and rarely wore the same thing twice. The dress was neither new nor in the first stare of fashion. He wondered if it was her best or the newly promoted second best.
She looked remarkably pretty.
“I will not disturb you, Mrs. Derrick.” He inclined his head to her, his hands clasped at his back. “Unless you care to walk with me, that is.”
She had looked startled at first. Now she regarded him with that look that always intrigued him as much as it occasionally annoyed him. How could she smile—or rather laugh—when her face remained in repose?
“Have you just returned from the ride?” she asked him. “And were you now attempting to escape the press of humanity? And then found me disturbing your solitude as I did once before? Except that this time I was here before you.”
At least, he thought, here was someone who was not forever throwing herself in his path trying to win whatever contest the very young ladies had concocted among themselves.
“Will you walk with me?” he asked her.
For a few moments he thought she would refuse and was glad of it. Why the devil would he want the company of a woman who, in his opinion, ought not even to have been invited to this house party? But then she looked down at her letter, folded it and put it away in a side pocket of her dress, and got to her feet.
“Yes,” she said.
And then he was glad of that.
It seemed like an eternity since any woman had stirred his blood. Rose had been gone for all of six months. It constantly surprised him to realize how much he mourned her loss. He had always thought theirs more a satisfactory business arrangement than a personal attachment.
Christine Derrick undoubtedly—and quite inexplicably—stirred his blood. He became instantly more aware of the leafy branches overhead, the blue sky visible beyond, the sunlight making patterns of light and shade on the long grassy alley ahead. He became aware of the heat of the summer day, of the light breeze on his face, of the heavy, verdant fragrances of grass and leaves. The alley was loud with birdsong, though none of the songsters were visible.
She fell into step beside him, the brim of her bonnet hiding her face from his view. She had not worn a bonnet during their lake walk, he remembered.
“Was the ride pleasant?” she asked him. “I suppose you were born in the saddle.”
“That might have been a little uncomfortable for my mother,” he said, and won for himself a glimpse of her face when she turned her head to smile rather impishly at him. “But, yes, thank you, the ride was pleasant.”
He had never, actually, seen the point in riding about the countryside purely for pleasure, though his brothers and sisters had done it often—if riding was the appropriate word for what they had done. More often they had galloped neck or nothing, jumping any obstacle that happened to be in their path.
“It is your turn now,” she said after a few moments.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked her.
“I asked a question,” she told him, “and you answered it. You might have elaborated for a few minutes, describing the ride and your destination and the stimulating conversation you enjoyed with the others. But you chose to answer with great brevity and no real information at all. Now it is your turn to attempt to make agreeable conversation between us.”
She was laughing at him again. Nobody ever laughed at him. He found himself curiously intrigued that she would dare.
“Was your letter pleasant?” he asked.
She laughed out loud, a light, cheerful sound of genuine amusement.
“Touché!” she said. “It was from Eleanor, my eldest sister. She has written to me eve
n though she is only two miles away at Hyacinth Cottage. She is a compulsive and amusing letter-writer. She taught my geography class at the village school two days after I came here and wonders how I can ever teach the children anything when they are so full of questions about any topic under the sun except anything related to the subject of the lesson. It was their little trick, of course. Children are very clever and will take full advantage of the novice who does not know any better. I shall scold them roundly when I return, but of course they will all look at me with blank, innocent faces, and I will end up laughing. And then they will laugh and poor Eleanor will never be avenged.”
“You teach school.” It was a comment, not a question, but she turned her head to look up at him again.
“I help out,” she said. “I have to do something, after all. Women do, you know, if they are not to expire of boredom.”
“I wonder,” he said, “that you did not remain with Elrick and his wife after your husband died. You would have remained in the social milieu to which you must have grown accustomed and have been offered more in the way of activity and amusement than you can expect here.” And as a dependent of Elrick’s she would have had some new clothes in the past two years.
“I would, would I not?” she said, but she did not pursue the topic.
It was not the first time she had avoided talking abut her marriage or anything connected with it. And he had noticed that the Elricks stayed away from her and she from them. They had not liked her, perhaps. It was probable that they had disapproved of Derrick’s marrying her and had not accepted her gladly into the family fold. It would not be surprising.
“I could tell you more about my letter,” she continued after a short pause, “but I must not dominate the conversation. Do you spend your summers going from one house party to another? It is the way of the ton, I know. Oscar and I did it all the time.”
“This is the first I have attended in years,” he said. “I usually spend the summers at Lindsey Hall. Sometimes I travel about the country, inspecting some of my other estates.”