Slightly Dangerous

by Mary Balogh

  It was really not the time to be firm, Christine thought in some dismay. How could she say no? She had come here in the Renable carriage and she was staying in the Renable town home and eating the Renable food. How could she dictate when they were to return to the country? It did occur to her that she might return alone on the stagecoach, but she knew that if she even suggested such a thing Melanie would threaten a fit of the vapors—and she might well be genuinely offended. Even Bertie would probably exert himself enough to speak actual words.

  But a whole week? With the ton again? It was a horrible thought. But it was only a week—only seven days. And at Schofield it had been generally agreed that the Duke of Bewcastle did not attend many social events. Had not Lady Sarah Buchan said that she had not seen him at all last spring even though she had been making her come-out and must have gone everywhere where the ton was gathered in large numbers? And, indeed, Christine herself had not set eyes on him during the seven years of her marriage.

  “If you wish to stay, of course, Melanie,” she said, “then I must.”

  Melanie tapped her arm sharply before picking up her coffee cup again.

  “That is no answer,” she said. “There is no must about it. If you would prefer to go home, then we will deprive Bertie of his clubs and go. But we will miss Lady Gosselin’s soiree the evening after tomorrow, and she is a particular friend of mine and will be vexed if I go home instead of waiting and going there first. And we will miss—”

  “Melanie.” Christine leaned toward her across the table. “I would be delighted to accept your hospitality and stay one more week.”

  “I knew you would.” Melanie beamed at her and clasped her hands with delight. “Bertie, my love, you will be able to go to your clubs and to Tattersall’s. You will be able to play cards at Lady Gosselin’s, where the stakes are always high enough to be to your liking.”

  Bertie, more than halfway through his beefsteak, rumbled.

  And so she was stuck, Christine thought with glum resignation, not only in London, but also with the obligation to attend any social event that Melanie chose for their amusement. It soon became apparent that there was a formidable number of such events despite the earliness of the season. There were teas to attend and a private concert and a dinner—and of course the soiree at Lady Gosselin’s.

  CHRISTINE WORE ONE of her new gowns to the soiree—a midnight blue lace on velvet that she particularly loved because its design was flowing and elegant yet not fussy. She felt that it suited her age as well as her coloring. She borrowed a pearl necklace at Melanie’s insistence but wore no other adornment, only her white evening gloves and an ivory fan Hermione and Basil had once given her for a birthday gift.

  She smiled brightly as she entered Lady Gosselin’s drawing room, the first of several adjoining chambers that had been thrown open for the convenience of guests. And the very first person she saw—of course!—was the Duke of Bewcastle, looking dark and elegant and toplofty as he stood at the opposite side of the room conversing with a handsome raven-haired lady who was seated and sipping from a glass of wine. She was Lady Falconbridge, a marquess’s widow, whom Christine remembered from past years.

  If she could have retreated in good order and returned to the Renable house—or all the way to Hyacinth Cottage—she would have done so. But Melanie had linked an arm through hers, and the only way to go was forward.

  Bother, bother, bother, Christine thought, noticing irrelevantly the elegance of Lady Falconbridge’s upswept curls and the fineness of the plumes with which they were adorned.

  She felt like a country cousin again.

  There must surely have been a dozen people in the room whom Melanie knew. Better yet, there must have been a dozen people in the next room. But she brightened noticeably at sight of just the one person, lifted both her chin and her lorgnette, and swept across the room with Christine in tow in a manner that would have had Eleanor in stitches of mirth if she could just have witnessed it. Bertie had already disappeared, presumably in the direction of the card room.

  “Bewcastle!” Melanie exclaimed, tapping him on the arm with her lorgnette. “It is not often one sees you at such events.”

  He turned, his eyebrows arching upward, his eyes meeting Christine’s before they moved on to Melanie. He inclined his head stiffly.

  “Lady Renable,” he said. “Mrs. Derrick.”

  Christine had forgotten just how arctic those silver eyes could look—and how they could penetrate one’s own eyes to the back of one’s skull.

  “Your grace,” she murmured.

  He did not deign, Christine noticed, to justify his appearance at this particular entertainment to Melanie. Why should he? He fingered the handle of his quizzing glass while Lady Falconbridge tapped one impatient foot on the floor.

  “We have stayed in town for an extra week,” Melanie announced, “because London is full of superior and agreeable company despite the earliness of the season. And Lilian’s soirees are always worth attending.”

  His grace inclined his head again.

  “Melanie,” Christine said, “I see Justin in the next room. Shall we move on?”

  The ducal eyes rested on her for a moment, and the ducal quizzing glass was raised to the level of the ducal chest. Christine silently dared him to raise it all the way to his eye.

  “I will not keep you, then,” he said, turning back toward Lady Falconbridge.

  The next room was a music room, and someone was playing the pianoforte—it was Lady Sarah Buchan, Christine could see. She smiled happily at Justin, who came and took her arm while Melanie swept onward toward a group of ladies who opened ranks to admit her and swallow her up into their midst.

  “I saw you and Mel paying homage to Bewcastle,” Justin said with a grin.

  “I never would have come here,” Christine assured him, “if I had suspected that he would be here too.”

  He chuckled. “For someone who protested last year that he had been merely polite and gallant,” he said, “you are reacting rather strongly, are you not? But you have nothing to fear from him this year. He is in determined pursuit of Lady Falconbridge, and since she is also in determined pursuit of him, no one expects many more days to pass before they have come to a satisfactory and discreet arrangement. I do believe there are wagers on the exact number of days in some of the betting books at the clubs.”

  “Dear Justin,” she said, smiling brightly at him. “You are always willing to fill a lady’s ears with everything she ought not to hear.” And everything she really did not want to know.

  “But I know you are not missish, Chrissie.” Justin laughed and drew her closer to the pianoforte.

  She was not allowed to relax there with him for long, though. The Earl of Kitredge soon joined them, and, having applauded his daughter on her musical performance and then ascertained that Christine had never seen the famous Rembrandt that hung in the salon beyond the refreshment room, he offered his arm and informed her that he would be delighted to show it to her.

  There was no one else in the salon, which was poorly lit and had probably not even been intended to be used during the soiree. After gazing obligingly at the painting for all of five minutes, Christine would have maneuvered her way back to the other rooms, but the earl took her firmly by the arm and led her toward a bench at the far side of the salon. He stood before her as she seated herself, his hands behind him. She suspected that his stays prevented him from joining her there and was thankful for it.

  “Mrs. Derrick,” he began after clearing his throat, “you must have suspected even last summer the depth of my admiration for you.”

  “I am honored, my lord,” she said, instantly alarmed. “Shall we—”

  “And this year,” he said, “I feel constrained to tell you openly of the violence of my attachment to you.”

  Was she a flirt? Christine wondered. Was she? Oscar had come to believe that she was, and Basil and Hermione had finally been convinced of it too. But if she was, then it was really quit
e unconscious. She had never said or done anything to encourage the earl to conceive a violent attachment to her—or even a mild one, for that matter. She had never done anything to encourage anyone—except Oscar, almost ten years ago.

  “My lord,” she said, “much as I am gratified, I must—”

  But he had seized one of her hands in both his own. One of his rings dug painfully into her little finger.

  “I beg you, ma’am,” he said, “to tease me no longer. I am too old for you, the world will say. But my family is grown, and I am free to pursue my heart’s desire again. And you, ma’am, are my heart’s desire. I flatter myself that—”

  “My lord.” She tried to snatch her hand away and failed. He had too strong a grip on it.

  “—you must have a regard for my person,” he continued. “I lay it and my title and fortune at your feet, ma’am.”

  “My lord.” She tried again. “This is a very public setting. Please release—”

  “Tell me,” he said, “that you will make me the happiest of—”

  “My lord,” she said firmly, embarrassment turning to annoyance, “I find this insistence that I listen to you discourteous, even offensive. I—”

  “—men,” he said. “I beg that you will allow me to make you the happiest of—”

  “One wonders,” a haughty, rather languid voice said to no one in particular since there was no one with the owner of the voice, “if daylight does more justice to the canvas in its present setting than candlelight does. Rembrandts are notoriously dark canvases and need to be very carefully displayed. What do you think, Kitredge?”

  So the Duke of Bewcastle was not talking to himself, was he?

  Christine slid her hand free of the earl’s and smoothed her skirt over her knees. If she could have died of mortification at that moment, she probably would have counted herself fortunate.

  “I never had much use for the man myself,” the earl said, looking ruefully and perhaps apologetically down at Christine before turning toward the duke and the picture. “Give me a Turner any day—or a Gainsborough.”

  “Yes, quite so.” The duke had his quizzing glass to his eye and was examining the painting through it from a distance of two feet. “Nevertheless, I would like to see this one in the appropriate light.”

  He lowered his glass then and turned to look at Christine.

  “This is a quiet place to be sitting, ma’am,” he said, “when most of the guests are in the other rooms. May I take you for some refreshments?”

  “I was about—” the Earl of Kitredge began.

  “Yes.” Christine jumped to her feet. “Thank you, your grace.”

  He bowed stiffly and offered his arm. When her hand was safe upon his sleeve, she turned her head to smile at the earl.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said, “for showing me the Rembrandt. It is indeed impressive.”

  He could do nothing but nod and allow her to leave.

  Though, really, she thought, she had just been juggled between the proverbial devil and the deep blue sea, though she was not quite sure which man fit which role. And here she was with her hand upon the sleeve of the Duke of Bewcastle and suddenly feeling a little as if she had just grasped a lightning bolt.

  “It appeared to me,” he said, “that perhaps you needed rescuing, Mrs. Derrick. Forgive me if I was wrong.”

  “I daresay I would have rescued myself in a little while,” she said. “But for once in my life I was quite delighted to see you.”

  “I am flattered, ma’am,” he said.

  She laughed. “Of course,” she said, “there was no one to rescue me from you, was there?”

  “I hope,” he said, looking sidelong at her, “you are referring either to the scene in the maze or to the one in the garden of your mother’s cottage.”

  Ignominiously she felt herself flush hotly at the only other possible scene she might have been referring to.

  “Yes, to those,” she said. “Both of them.”

  “And both times,” he said, “you did admirably well in convincing me that my addresses were not welcome to you. May I fill a plate for you?”

  They were in the refreshment room, where food had been set out on a long table and footmen waited to help guests with their selections. A few tables and chairs had been set out, though most guests had carried their plates into the music room or the drawing room.

  “I am not hungry,” she said.

  “May I fetch you a drink, then?” he asked.

  It would have been churlish to refuse that too.

  “A glass of wine, perhaps,” she said.

  He went to get it for her and came back with a glass of something for himself as well. He indicated one of the tables, a vacant one in the corner.

  “Shall we sit?” he asked her. “Or are you plotting your escape from me too? If so, you may simply leave and rejoin your relatives. I shall not attempt to detain you against your will.”

  She sat.

  “If I had known you were to attend that wedding,” she said, looking directly at him, since the temptation was to fix her gaze on her glass, “I would not have come to London.”

  “Indeed?” he said. “Is the world not large enough for the two of us, then, Mrs. Derrick?”

  “Sometimes,” she said, “I wonder. And I do not suppose you have many kindly thoughts of me. It cannot be every day that a lowly commoner refuses two very different but equally flattering offers from a duke.”

  “You assume, then,” he said, “that I have had thoughts of you, ma’am?”

  Her terrible discomfort fled, and she leaned a little toward him and laughed aloud.

  “I love it,” she said, “when you can be provoked into spite. Or perhaps I insult you by accusing you of that. A more genteel word would be setdown. It was a rather magnificent one and certainly put me in my place.”

  He gazed haughtily at her.

  “And I love it, Mrs. Derrick,” he said softly, “when you can be provoked to laughter—even when you do it with just your eyes.”

  That silenced her. She sat back in her chair feeling as if a lightning bolt had shot through her even though she was no longer touching him. She could not think of a thing to say, and he did not jump in to fill the silence.

  “Are you saying,” she asked him at last, “that I am a flirt?”

  “A flirt.” He set down his glass with some deliberation and sat back in his chair. He regarded her with those penetrating silver eyes. “That is a word that seems to be used with tedious frequency about you, Mrs. Derrick—usually in denial. I would not use it at all.”

  “Ah, thank you,” she said, and another silence ensued while he looked steadily at her and she dared not lift her glass lest her hand shake and she be horribly mortified.

  “You do not need to flirt,” he told her. “You are extraordinarily attractive and need to use no wiles.”

  “Me?” She spread a hand over her bosom and looked at him in astonishment. “Have you taken a good look at me, your grace? I have none of the beauty or elegance of any of the other ladies here tonight. Even with my new gown I am well aware that I look like—and am—someone’s country cousin.”

  “Ah, but I did not call you either beautiful or elegant,” he said. “The word I used was attractive. Extraordinarily attractive, to be more precise. It is something your glass would not reveal to you because it is something that is most apparent when you are animated. It is difficult for any man who looks at you once not to look again. And again.”

  From any other man the words might have sounded ardent. The Duke of Bewcastle spoke them matter-of-factly, as if they were discussing—well, the Rembrandt in the next room. She was suddenly acutely aware that she had once lain with this man. And yet it seemed impossible to believe, just as it was that he had just said what he had. They were not the sort of words one expected of the Duke of Bewcastle.

  She was saved from having to make some sort of reply when someone stopped beside their table. Christine looked up to see that it was
Anthony Culver, grinning broadly.

  “Bewcastle?” he said. “Mrs. Derrick? Are you still in town? I thought you were returning to Gloucestershire right after Wiseman’s wedding. Ronald and I were talking about you just yesterday and remembering what a good sport you were and how you were the life and soul of the party at Schofield last summer. Come and see him—he is in the music room. And come and meet some other fellows. They will be delighted to know you.”

  Christine offered him her hand and a bright smile.

  The Duke of Bewcastle’s quizzing glass was in his hand.

  “I beg your pardon, Bewcastle,” Anthony Culver said with a grin. “Will you release her? Have I interrupted something?”

  “I claim no ownership over Mrs. Derrick’s time,” the duke said.

  “His grace was kind enough to procure me a glass of wine,” Christine said, getting to her feet. “But, you see? I have already drunk it. I will be delighted to see your brother again and to meet some of your friends.”

  But she turned back to smile at the duke before moving off on the arm of the younger man.

  “Thank you, your grace,” she said.

  She was actually feeling severely shaken.

  He considered her extraordinarily attractive.

  She had refused to be his mistress.

  She had refused to be his wife.

  But he still thought her extraordinarily attractive. She despised herself for feeling flattered. How could she after some of the things he had said to her while offering her marriage last year? He considered her his inferior in every way. He had believed he was conferring an irresistible honor on her.

  After tonight it was very unlikely she would ever see him again.

  How was she going to forget him—again? It had been hard enough last year. Indeed, if she were quite honest with herself—and she had been remarkably dishonest where he was concerned—she had not succeeded then either.