by Mary Balogh
But she was.
He had almost not recognized her as he passed the pew she was occupying with the Elricks. She was dressed neatly and smartly in dove gray and pale blue. She had glanced up at him as he passed, and for one ghastly moment until she dipped her head hastily and he averted his head just as sharply, their eyes had met.
If he had known, he most certainly would not have come.
He really had not wanted to set eyes upon Christine Derrick again this side of eternity. He had no kind thoughts for her. And it embarrassed him to remember that he had traveled all the way from Hampshire to Gloucestershire in order to offer marriage after all to a widow, daughter of a schoolmaster and a teacher herself, who half the time did not know how to behave and who found her embarrassing scrapes funny. A woman less eligible to be his duchess he could scarcely have chosen.
Yet she had refused him!
Only belatedly did it strike him that both of them had behaved uncharacteristically this morning. He almost never looked away from another person merely because that person was looking back at him. And at Schofield she had always engaged him in staring matches rather than have him believe she was being meekly obedient to his silent and arrogant command that she lower her gaze in his august presence.
The old irritation against her returned just as if he had not forgotten about her in the intervening months.
He would sit through the service, Wulfric decided, and then make some excuse to Mowbury for missing the wedding breakfast. He would wait in his pew until everyone behind him had left and then slip out unnoticed.
Perhaps he was behaving like a coward—certainly he was behaving out of character—but then he would be doing her a kindness too. She was doubtless as dismayed to find him here as he was to find her—and she had had less reason to expect that he might be a fellow guest.
A husband with a warm personality and human kindness and a sense of humor.
He could hear her voice speaking the words, almost as if she had spoken them out loud now, in St. George’s, for all to hear. There was scorn in her voice and trembling passion.
He had no warmth of personality, no compassion or kindness, no laughter inside himself. That was what she had accused him of. That was part of her reason for rejecting him.
No warmth.
No kindness.
No humor.
Why was it that that little speech of hers had imprinted itself indelibly upon his memory? And the image of her as she delivered it, dusty, even grubby, from that remarkable lesson she had been giving the village schoolchildren, her floppy-brimmed straw bonnet doing little to hide the dampness and unruliness of her hair, her face flushed and even glistening with perspiration, her eyes flashing.
What the devil was it about her that had made him decide that he must have her as his bride? Even after what had happened between them down at the lake he might have considered carte blanche a sufficient price to pay—and she could have expected no more. Her very reaction to his uncompleted words proved that. Why matrimony, then? What was it that had discomposed him for weeks, even months, after her unexpected refusal?
Wounded pride?
Fortunately, he had made a full recovery and was now very thankful indeed for her refusal.
Someone who loves people and children and frolicking and absurdity.
Of course he was not such a person. The very idea—frolicking and absurdity! But there were people he loved—even children.
Someone who is not obsessed with himself and his own consequence. Someone who is not ice to the very core. Someone with a heart.
His mind shied from the memory. He had never been able to cope with that particular part of her rejection. But it was the part that had caused most pain—in the days before he had recovered from such foolishness.
Fortunately, Miss Magnus arrived at the church only a minute or two late, and Wulfric was able to concentrate his attention upon the nuptial service. He could identify with Mowbury’s rather sheepish pride as he gave his sister away to her new husband. It was two and a half years since Morgan’s wedding and more than three since Freyja’s. On both occasions he had been startled by the pain of loss, especially with Morgan, the baby of the family, the one they had all most adored. Even he . . .
Someone with a heart.
He could feel Christine Derrick several pews behind his own, almost as if she held a long feather and was brushing it up and down his spine. Soon it would touch his neck and he would shrug his shoulders defensively.
He gazed sternly at the bride and groom and at the clergyman and listened carefully to everything that was said without hearing a word.
Unfortunately he delayed too long after the nuptials were over. By the time he left the church, Sir Lewis and the new Lady Wiseman had already driven away in the wedding carriage, but Mowbury and his mother had gone too, as had most members of the two families, Mrs. Derrick included. Her disappearance was a vast relief, of course, but how could he now avoid going to the breakfast, Wulfric thought, when he had not had a chance of a word with either Mowbury or his mother? It would be ill-mannered, and he was never discourteous if he could help it.
A hand grasped his shoulder.
“Bewcastle,” the Earl of Kitredge said, “I will ride with you if I may and leave my own carriage to the young people.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Wulfric assured him.
He would, he decided, sit at his appointed place for the breakfast, pay his compliments to the newly married couple afterward, express his thanks to Lady Mowbury, and slip away at the earliest opportunity. He would confine his movements for the next few days to the House and White’s when he must leave Bedwyn House. It occurred to him that such a decision might be cowardly, but he convinced himself that he would merely be doing what he usually did. At this time of year there were not a great many social events to be avoided anyway.
Although most of the guests to Magnus House on Berkeley Square had not yet taken their places in the ballroom, which had been converted into a dining hall for the occasion, but were milling about there, greeting and conversing with one another, Wulfric was not tempted to join any of them. He was adept at distancing himself from such social intercourse. He would have found his place, taken it, and looked about him with cool ease had it not been for the fact that he had entered the house and the ballroom with Kitredge.
“Ah,” the earl said, setting a hand on Wulfric’s sleeve, “there is the very person I want to have a word with, and you have an acquaintance with her too, Bewcastle. Come.”
Too late, Wulfric realized that he was being drawn in the direction of Christine Derrick, who was standing with the Elricks and the Renables and Justin Magnus.
She had removed her bonnet. Her hair looked newly cut. It framed her round, pretty, wide-eyed face in short, soft, shining curls. The dove gray dress with its blue trimmings and ribbons suited her. Many ladies would sink into insignificance behind such muted colors, but her vitality shone past them and dominated them. She was laughing at something Magnus was saying and looking animated and quite incredibly lovely.
And then she saw them coming—and her animation vanished, though her smile remained fixed in place.
“Mrs. Derrick,” Kitredge said after greeting the others with hearty good humor. He took her hand in his, bowed over it with a slight creaking of his stays, and raised it to his lips. “You are looking lovelier than ever, if that can be possible. Is she not, Bewcastle?”
Wulfric ignored the question. He bowed to the others and to her.
“Ma’am,” he said stiffly.
“Your grace.” She looked very directly into his eyes when he had expected that she might fix them on his chin or cravat. But how foolish of him—she had clearly recovered from her surprise in the church, and would not give him the satisfaction of showing embarrassment, if she felt any.
“I trust,” he said, “that you left your mother well?”
“I did, thank you.” She held his gaze.
“And your sist
ers too?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Ah.” The fingers of his right hand found the handle of his quizzing glass and closed about it. “I am gratified to hear it.”
Her glance did drop then—to his hand and his glass—before coming back to meet his own. But now there was a change. Now her eyes laughed at him, though she was no longer actually smiling. He had forgotten that extraordinary look.
“Mowbury’s ballroom has been done up quite splendidly for the occasion,” Kitredge said. “Perhaps you would care to take a turn about the room with me, Mrs. Derrick, so that we may admire all the floral decorations.”
She moved her gaze to Kitredge, and this time she did smile—quite dazzlingly.
“Thank you.” She took his offered arm and moved off with him.
She sat with her family during the breakfast. Wulfric sat some distance away, making polite conversation with Lady Hemmings to his left and Mrs. Chesney to his right. As soon as the meal was over and he had offered his congratulations and expressed his thanks, he took his leave and walked home, having waved away his carriage, which was drawn up in the square with many others.
He was feeling irritated. It was not a feeling he allowed himself with any frequency, and when he did feel it, he went instantly about relieving himself of its cause with the appropriate action.
But how did one deal with one’s irritation over a woman who stubbornly refused to leave either one’s thoughts or one’s blood—even when one had believed one had purged her memory and influence long ago? And a woman, moreover, who smiled far too brightly and talked with far too much animation, even to people who sat across the table from her?
She simply did not know how to behave.
How did one deal with a woman who insisted upon holding one’s glance every time she caught one watching her and outmaneuvered one by raising her eyebrows—and then laughing at one?
He was still infatuated with her, Wulfric thought in some amazement as he strode out of the square and a couple of coachmen who had been lounging on the corner jumped out of the way of his stern glance and pulled at their forelocks.
And infatuated be damned. He was near to being blinded by his attraction to her. He was in love, damn it all. He disliked her, he resented her, he disapproved of almost everything about her, yet he was head over ears in love with her, like a foolish schoolboy.
He wondered grimly what he was going to do about it.
He was not amused.
Or in any way pleased.
12
CHRISTINE HAD ARRIVED IN LONDON ONE WEEK BEFORE Audrey’s wedding and had taken up residence with Melanie and Bertie. She had enjoyed the week. It had included numerous shopping trips to Oxford Street and even the more exclusive Bond Street, since she needed new clothes, and for once in her life had money to spend on them—and since shopping was one of Melanie’s passions. Soon Christine had a new wardrobe of spring and summer clothes, all chosen with an eye to color and fashion and practicality—and economy. She did, after all, want to have some money left with which to purchase gifts to take home to her family. And she was not extravagant by nature.
She had enjoyed visiting Lady Mowbury with Melanie and seeing Hector and sharing some of the excitement of the approaching wedding with Audrey. She had taken a drive in the park with Justin.
She had even gone with Melanie and Bertie to dine with Hermione and Basil two days before the wedding, an occasion she had not looked forward to with any eagerness at all. But they had been civil, if not exactly affectionate, and Basil had taken her aside during the evening to explain to her that he intended to make her a quarterly allowance, since she was Oscar’s widow and therefore his financial responsibility. When she had tried arguing with him, he had insisted. He and Hermione had talked about it, he had told her, and come to the decision that it was what Oscar would have wanted. Christine had seen that it was important to him that she accept, and so she had argued no more.
Hermione had kissed the air near her cheek as they were leaving and submitted to Christine’s hug.
Some sort of peace had been made, Christine supposed. It was more than she had expected after last year. Their two sons, Oscar’s nephews and therefore Christine’s too, had greeted their aunt with enthusiasm and she had remembered that she had always been a great favorite with them.
She had done the right thing to come to town for the family wedding, she had decided. She had still thought so even when she arrived at St. George’s on Hanover Square and discovered that there were obviously going to be far more guests than just family. At least by then she had been clad in the smartest of her new clothes and was with Hermione and Basil and the boys.
She had thought it right up to the moment when she had looked up to see who the gentleman was who was important enough to be seated in front of Viscount and Viscountess Elrick, cousins of the bride, and had realized that he was the Duke of Bewcastle.
To say that she had felt seriously discomposed at that moment would be greatly to understate the case. She had almost panicked, if the truth were known, and jumped out of her pew and blundered back along the nave of the church to make her escape—and a public spectacle of herself. Instead, she had looked sharply away from him at just the moment when their eyes met and had completely missed the wedding of Audrey and Lewis, even though it had been solemnized right before her eyes.
She had been aware only of the proud, rigid, broad-shouldered, handsomely clad back of the Duke of Bewcastle. And memories of that dreadful fortnight at Schofield Park had come flooding back—as well as of the final evening by the lake. And of his return ten days later to call upon her at Hyacinth Cottage.
She had never for one single moment considered the possibility of his being at Audrey’s wedding. She had thought it was to be an intimate family affair. She would not in a million years have come within a million miles of London if she had known.
She might as well have been in an empty barn rather than a splendidly decorated ballroom and have eaten straw rather than sumptuous banquet fare during the wedding breakfast for all she had concentrated upon either after the wedding was over. She was aware that she had smiled rather too brightly at the Earl of Kitredge and conversed rather too animatedly with him. She was also aware that she had recovered some of her aplomb during the meal and had not looked meekly downward whenever her gaze and the duke’s had happened to lock, but even so it had been one of the most uncomfortable days of her life.
She had been enormously relieved when he left early.
And then she had been mortally depressed for the rest of the day even though she had chattered and laughed and sparkled until she had arrived back at Melanie and Bertie’s quite late in the evening and was safely shut up in her own room.
She believed she had quite effectively forgotten the Duke of Bewcastle in the six months or so since she last saw him. Her reaction to seeing him again, therefore, shook her considerably. How could she ever have believed that lying with him by the lake on that final night was something that could be casually done and easily forgotten? Would her reaction have been any less intense, though, if that had not happened? And if he had not come back after ten days to offer her marriage?
It was impossible to know. She had never understood any of her feelings of attraction to a man who was simply not attractive. Handsome, yes, but not attractive—not to her anyway.
It did not matter. She was to return home a day or two after the wedding and would simply have to work on forgetting again. If her emotions were far more involved than she had supposed, then she had no one but herself to blame. No one had forced her to walk in the laburnum alley with the duke. It had been her idea to go into the maze. And no one had forced her to go to the lake with him.
And then Melanie changed her mind. About returning home, that was. The original plan had been to come up to town for the wedding and then return to Schofield until after Easter when the Season would begin, bringing with it an endless round of entertainments. Christine would not be return
ing with them for the Season, of course.
“But the thing is, Christine,” Melanie said at breakfast the morning after the wedding, “that there are more families back in town than there usually are at this time of year, and each morning the post brings with it a number of invitations to events one would really hate to miss. And of course one feels it almost one’s civic duty to attend as many as possible, since no one can expect a great squeeze of a crowd this early in the year. And it does seem a shame to have come all this way only to go back before we have had a chance to enjoy ourselves. It seems a shame to deprive Bertie of his clubs so soon.”
Bertie, who was partaking of breakfast with them, cut into his juicy beefsteak and rumbled. He had perfected the art of making that sound to serve as a suitable answer to whatever Melanie asked or suggested, Christine had noticed, and had thereby released himself from the necessity of listening to everything she said.
“And you have all your new clothes,” Melanie said, “and are looking pretty enough for a girl half your age. You simply must have occasion to wear them. Mama and Justin will be disappointed if we leave so soon, and Hector would be too, the poor dear, if he had noticed that we had arrived. Besides all of which, the Earl of Kitredge is quite smitten with you, Christine, and is surely within an inch of declaring himself. And though I know you cannot possibly want a husband who is all of thirty years your senior and who is portly even with his stays, it is nevertheless vastly diverting to watch him pay you court—and it cannot hurt your consequence for the ton to watch it too, at least that portion of the ton that is in town.”
A few times Christine had opened her mouth to speak, but, as usual, it was impossible to get a word in edgewise when Melanie was launched upon an enthusiastic monologue—especially when she sensed that the answer at the end of it all might be no.
“We will stay for another week,” she continued, setting down her coffee cup and laying a hand over the back of Christine’s on the table. “We will be busy from noon until the early hours and have a thoroughly enjoyable time. I can have your company in town for a whole week, or a fortnight if you count the week we have already been here. It will be so marvelously diverting. What do you say? Do agree to stay. Do say yes.”