Slightly Dangerous

by Mary Balogh

  “You offended me,” she said.

  He looked at her with what appeared to be cold disdain. “And an apology will not suffice to soothe your wounded pride, ma’am?” he asked. “You are resolved to reject my marriage offer because you cannot forgive me for the other? I do apologize. I did not mean to offend.”

  “No,” she said, moving around the seat to sit on it before her legs gave way under her and she sank to the ground in an ignominious heap from which he would have to rescue her again. “No, I suppose you did not. It is a marked distinction to be offered the position of mistress to the Duke of Bewcastle.”

  His eyes pierced through her own to the back of her skull.

  “I have already begged your pardon,” he said.

  “I could do another woman a great favor,” she said. “I could be your wife and leave the position of mistress vacant for someone else.”

  She was being worse than ill-mannered. She was being vulgar. But she was only just getting launched.

  . . . a virgin . . . my social equal . . . your childless state . . . an inability to conceive. I choose to have you.

  His eyes hardened, if that were possible.

  “I believe in fidelity within marriage, Mrs. Derrick,” he said. “If I ever take a wife, she will be the only woman to occupy my bed for as long as we both live.”

  She was glad she was sitting then. Her knees became boneless.

  “Perhaps,” she said. “But she will not be me.”

  She had nothing but ancient, faded, and patched clothes to wear, she had scarcely two ha’pennies to rub together, she was almost totally dependent upon her mother, she lived a rather tedious life, she had no dreams left to dream—and yet here she sat refusing the chance to be a duchess. Did she have a whole arsenal of windmills in her head?

  He turned as if to leave. But then he paused and looked back at her over his shoulder.

  “I did not think you indifferent to me,” he said. “And contrary to popular belief, one coupling does not kill physical attraction. Your prospects of living a fulfilled life here seem slender. Life as my duchess would offer you infinitely more. Do you say no, Mrs. Derrick, only to punish me? Will you perhaps punish yourself too in the process? I can offer you everything you can ever have dreamed of.”

  The fact that she was tempted—drat her, she was tempted—fanned the flames of her anger.

  “Can you?” she asked sharply. “A husband with a warm personality and human kindness and a sense of humor? Someone who loves people and children and frolicking and absurdity? Someone who is not obsessed with himself and his own consequence? Someone who is not ice to the very core? Someone with a heart? Someone to be a companion and friend and lover? This is everything I have ever dreamed of, your grace. Can you offer it all to me? Or any of it? Any one thing?”

  He pierced her with those eyes of his for so long that she had to exert great control over herself to stop from squirming.

  “Someone with a heart,” he said very softly then. “No, perhaps you are right, Mrs. Derrick. Perhaps I do not possess one. And, if I do not, then I lack everything of which you dream, do I not? I beg your pardon for taking your time and for offending you yet again.”

  And this time when he turned away he kept going—beneath the trellis, down the steps, out through the garden gate, which he closed quietly and precisely behind him, and down the street, presumably to the inn, where he had probably left his carriage. She doubted he would stay somewhere so humble.

  Christine gazed after him until he was out of sight. And then she looked down at her hands, which were clasped very tightly in her lap, the knuckles white.

  “Bother,” she said aloud. “Bother, bother, bother, bother, bother.”

  And then she burst into noisy tears, which she could not seem to control even though she feared they might be audible from the sitting room or from the street.

  She wept until her nasal passages were swollen and her throat and chest were sore and her face, no doubt, was puffy and blotchy and ugly. She wept until she could weep no more.

  Bother, bother, bother.

  She hated him!

  Someone with a heart.

  No, perhaps you are right, Mrs. Derrick. Perhaps I do not possess one.

  There had been a look in his eyes when he spoke those words.

  What did she mean by that? A look?

  It had broken her heart, that was what she meant.

  It had broken her heart.

  She hated him, she hated him, she hated him.

  11

  WULFRIC WAS NOT REALLY SURPRISED BY HIS INVITATION to the wedding of Miss Audrey Magnus to Sir Lewis Wiseman at the end of February. The nuptials were to take place in London, at St. George’s on Hanover Square, at a time of year when not every member of the ton was back in town. The Season would not begin in earnest until after the Easter holiday. It was understandable, then, that Lady Mowbury and her son would invite everyone of any distinction who was there. Besides, Wulfric was a friend of Mowbury’s and would probably have merited an invitation under any circumstances.

  With the exception of ten days spent in Oxfordshire with Aidan and Eve and their family over Christmas, he had been back in town since late autumn, though there had been no good reason for returning even before the House began its session. He had spent a few months traveling about the country, visiting and inspecting a number of his estates, consulting with his stewards, receiving petitioners, and being feted by families of distinction in the various neighborhoods. He would normally have been so thankful to be back at Lindsey Hall that he would have stayed there until the last possible moment before the new session began.

  But as soon as he was back there, he had been assailed again by that dual reaction of love for the place and an unbearable restlessness. It had seemed so alarmingly empty—a strange thought when it was its very emptiness that he yearned for when he was away from it. But even Morgan, the youngest of his family, and her governess had been gone for more than two years. She was married, with two children—the second one, another son, born early in February. She had been a mere infant of two years when he inherited his title. She had always seemed more like his daughter than his sister, though he had not realized that until after she was gone—or, more accurately, until her wedding day.

  He had come to town, where at least there were his clubs and a few other carefully chosen diversions to distract his mind.

  Besides, he had needed to set up a new mistress. Not that he had had a great deal of heart for the task, but he did have needs that demanded satisfying, and he was too fastidious to relieve them in any casual encounter with a whore. His sexual preferences had always leaned toward regularity and monogamy.

  But by the end of February he had still not acquired a mistress, though he had taken a certain much-sought-after actress to dinner one night after admiring her performance at the theater and making an unexpected appearance in the green room afterward. He had fully intended discussing terms of a contract with her, and she had indicated quite clearly that she would welcome such a discussion and even a consummation of their arrangement before the final details had been worked out. But he had talked about acting and drama with her instead and then escorted her home and paid her handsomely for her time. And though the beautiful, accomplished, very discreet Lady Falconbridge had signaled her availability to him and he had spent some time with her socially, he had not broached the topic that they both knew he might broach at any moment.

  He had procrastinated—something he rarely did.

  He was not surprised when the wedding invitation came, but he did hesitate before answering it. Mowbury’s family included the Elricks and the Renables, and it was highly likely that they would be in attendance too. They were people he had known for years. He would not normally scruple to meet them again, since he had never particularly disliked any of them. But most recently—though it was in fact more than six months ago—he had spent two weeks with them at Schofield Park. And of course the bride and groom had been
there too as well as the bride’s mother and brothers.

  He would really prefer to have no reminder of the unfortunate lapse from his usual habits that he had allowed to happen there. He had chosen to forget, and he believed he had been quite successful. Why would he not, after all? It had all been sheer madness, that business with Mrs. Derrick, and he was quite happy that he had escaped with his familiar way of life still intact. But he wanted no reminder.

  It was his habit, however, to be polite and to do as he ought in any given situation. He wrote a brief acceptance and directed his secretary to send it off to Lady Mowbury.

  MUCH AS SHE was fond of Melanie and Hector and Justin and Audrey as well as Lady Mowbury, Christine would certainly not have accepted her invitation to Audrey’s wedding in February if something quite extraordinary had not happened. How could she, after all? The wedding was to be in London. Not that the distance would be any great impediment, she realized. Melanie and Bertie would of course be going and they would surely agree to take her along with them in their carriage. They would probably even invite her to stay with them, though Lady Mowbury had added a note to the bottom of her invitation assuring her that she would be quite welcome to stay with them.

  But how could she go when she had nothing decent to wear—and, more important, when Hermione and Basil would be there too? In the months since the house party her heart had been heavy over their hostile, even spiteful treatment of her. Their bitterness and hatred had not abated in two years—now closer to three. Neither had their resentment at having to claim her as kin. She would not wittingly put herself in their way ever again.

  But then, just an hour after she had written an affectionately worded refusal to Lady Mowbury and propped it beside the clock on the mantel in the sitting room, ready to be sent on its way, something extraordinary really did happen. A letter from Basil was delivered to Hyacinth Cottage, and with it a draft on his bank for a rather large sum of money—indeed, it seemed like a vast fortune to Christine, whose only source of personal income was her teaching, and to call that income pin money was somewhat to exaggerate its significance.

  The money was to be spent on new clothes and other personal items, Basil explained in the brief, rather terse note that accompanied the bank draft. Christine would doubtless wish to attend the wedding of their cousin and must be decently clothed, but even besides that she was his sister-in-law and therefore his responsibility. Hermione had brought it to his attention that her summer wardrobe had been on the shabby side last year.

  There were no expressions of affection or forgiveness, no apology, no greetings to her family or from Hermione, no news of their doings or of their sons, no questions about her life or situation—just the brief explanation of what he wished to say and the money.

  Christine’s first instinct was to return it with a note that was even terser and more dispassionate than Basil’s. But Eleanor came into her room while she held the letter in one hand and the bank draft lay in her lap. Eleanor was looking for embroidery silk of a color she did not have in her own workbox.

  “You are looking as if you had seen a ghost,” she said after making her request.

  “Look at this.” Christine held out the letter to her and then the bank draft.

  Eleanor read the former and glanced at the latter before raising her eyebrows.

  “At Schofield last summer,” Christine said, “they both treated me as if they would dearly like to rid the universe of my presence in it if only they could find a legal way of doing so.”

  “And so you intend to return the money, I suppose,” Eleanor said, “with all the injured pride you can drag about yourself. They were very polite to Mama and me during the ball at the end of that fortnight. They sat with us at supper, I remember, and made themselves very agreeable.”

  Christine had not even known that.

  “I cannot accept money from them,” she said.

  “Why not?” Eleanor asked. “You are the widow of Viscount Elrick’s only brother, and you do need new clothes. You have been most stubborn in your refusal to allow Mama to pay for new ones for you.”

  It was true. Oscar had left her nothing, and yet it did not seem right to be dependent upon her mother, whose income from Papa’s estate was adequate for her needs and Eleanor’s but only barely.

  “There is enough money here to clothe all three of us in some luxury for the summer,” she said. “But I cannot accept it, Eleanor. They do not even like me.”

  “The money is for you,” her sister told her, tapping the letter with one finger. “Viscount Elrick has made that very clear here. And if they do not like you, why have they sent this? It looks to me like some sort of peace offering.”

  “They still blame me for Oscar’s death,” Christine said. “Basil adored him, and because Hermione adores Basil, then she loved Oscar too.”

  “But how could they blame you?” Eleanor asked, exasperated. “I have never understood that, Christine. He was out hunting and you were not. Were you supposed to have stopped his going?”

  Christine shrugged. She had never been able to tell the truth about Oscar’s death, and the inability to confide in even her favorite sister and her mother had always weighed heavily on her.

  “Is that what it is?” She frowned. “A peace offering?”

  “Why else would he have sent it?” Eleanor asked.

  Why indeed? Perhaps they regretted certain things they had said to her and of her during those two weeks at Schofield and wanted to extend some sort of an olive branch. If she sent the money back, she would offend them and thus keep alive an enmity that had never been of her choosing. In some way Christine felt they deserved it. But she had never been one to hate or hold grudges. She did not want to hate them any longer. And she certainly did not want to hurt them any more. Perhaps Basil had suddenly realized that she was his only remaining link with his brother.

  She swallowed against a lump in her throat.

  Or perhaps Hermione feared that she would turn up at the wedding in rags to shame them. Perhaps that was all this bank draft was about.

  But why always think the worst of people? What would she be doing to herself if she adopted that attitude to life? It was better to think the best and be wrong than to think the worst and be wrong.

  She sighed. “If I am to keep it,” she said, “I must also go to Audrey’s wedding—if Melanie will agree to take me with her and Bertie.”

  “If!” Eleanor clucked her tongue and tossed a glance at the ceiling. “You know very well that within the next day or two Lady Renable is going to be bearing down upon you here anyway, Christine, to talk you into accepting your invitation. Even if you had already decided against going, even if you had actually sent a refusal, you would end up going anyway.”

  “Am I really so weak-willed?” Christine frowned.

  “No, but she is the most stubborn woman it has ever been my misfortune to know,” Eleanor said, “in addition to being the most frivolous and the most pretentious.” She chuckled. “I cannot help but like the woman, though—especially as she has chosen you as a friend rather than me. Do you have any embroidery silk in this particular shade of green, Christine? If not, I will have to walk all the way to the shop to purchase some and the rain is still tipping down.”

  And so Christine decided to keep the money and to spend it on herself—though that latter point she decided only after both Eleanor and her mother had flatly refused to take even a single penny from her. She also decided that she must attend the wedding, since the money had surely been sent primarily to buy her clothes suitable for that grand occasion. She would, she decided, bring back gifts for her mother and Eleanor—as well as for Hazel and the children.

  Ah, the wonderful luxury of being able to think about purchasing gifts!

  She tore up her letter of refusal to Lady Mowbury and replaced it with an acceptance. And she labored for upward of an hour over a suitable reply to Basil.

  Less than an hour after she had finished it, the unmistakable sounds
of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels approaching along the village street heralded the arrival of Melanie, despite the rain, girded for battle. But no battle was required. Christine was able to inform her that she had already accepted her invitation to the wedding and had been planning to walk to Schofield as soon as the rain stopped in order to beg a ride to London.

  “You would have walked, Christine, all the way to Schofield after a rain?” Melanie said, her lorgnette suspended in the air, her free hand pressed to her heart. “Just in order to beg a ride with Bertie and me? Beg? I would have had my brawniest footman carry you bodily out to the carriage on the day of our departure to London if you had shown any resistance to coming voluntarily. But you would have walked through mud to beg?”

  Christine chuckled and Eleanor dipped her head behind her book.

  She was going to London, then, it seemed, and to Audrey’s wedding at St. George’s. She did not know whether to feel excited or dismayed, but decided upon the former. It was not even quite spring, after all, and not the most fashionable time to be in London. There were not likely to be any social entertainments except the wedding, and Lady Mowbury in her invitation had called it a family wedding.

  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.

  IT 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.