by Mary Balogh
A few of the other guests had turned onto the wilderness walk too, but they soon fell behind as Christine and the duke strode briskly onward. She felt her spirits rise after the depression she had felt last night. It was true what she had just said. Easter began with mourning for a death and was gloomy for a while. But then came the glory of resurrection.
At the end of a gradual climb the path reached the top of a rise, on which a folly had been built—a picturesque ruined tower.
“Can one get to the top?” Christine asked.
“There is an unobstructed view for miles around from up there,” he told her. “But the stairs inside are steep and narrow and winding—and rather dark. Perhaps you would prefer to walk onward rather than stop.”
Christine gave him a sidelong glance.
“And then again,” he said, “perhaps you would not. You enjoy climbing to the battlements of old castles, I seem to remember.”
She laughed.
She climbed the staircase carefully, keeping to the outer wall, where the spiraling steps were at their widest, holding up the hem of her skirt so that she would not trip over it. But the view from the top was well worth the climb. From up here she could see just how vast and magnificent the park of Lindsey Hall was and how extensive the farmlands surrounding it. The house was huge and imposing.
And with a simple yes when she had said no, Christine thought, she might have been mistress of it all—and of those other properties he had told her about last summer. And he might have been hers too. Perhaps he still could. Was he courting her?
Could he not see the impossibility of it all?
He was standing at the top of the steps, looking at her more than at the view, she could see when she turned her attention to him. His eyes were narrowed against the sunlight.
“It is all quite magnificent,” she said, twirling slowly once about.
“Yes,” he said, “it is.” But it was at her he looked.
And he was magnificent too, she thought. He was dressed immaculately in brown and buff and white with shining black Hessians. His austere, handsome face perfected the picture he made of the refined and consummate aristocrat. He would surely be a portrait painter’s dream.
They were stuck then within a few feet of each other, staring at each other, he with narrowed gaze, she wide-eyed, with nothing to say.
He stepped forward after a few moments and pointed and she turned to look at what he indicated.
“Do you see the small building among the trees there to the north of the lake?” he asked her.
It took her a moment to find it, but then she could see a round, thatched roof. The stone building beneath it was round too.
“What is it?” she asked. “A dovecote?”
“Yes,” he said. “I would like to show it to you, but it is some distance away.”
“Am I incapable of walking so far?” she asked, laughing.
“Will you come?” He had turned his head to look at her, and their glances met and held again.
“Yes,” she said, and felt that she was somehow agreeing to something far more significant than was apparent to her.
The other group of walkers was approaching the tower as they came down—Mrs. Pritchard and Lord Weston, Lady Mowbury and Justin, Hermione and Basil. Audrey and Sir Lewis were lagging far behind.
“I will be taking Mrs. Derrick down off the walk,” the Duke of Bewcastle told them. “But do not let us disturb anyone else. This path eventually winds its way back to the house and there are several resting places along the way.”
They walked a short distance in silence and then turned sharply to their right onto a grassy slope that would take them down among the trees that surrounded the lake. The duke offered his arm again since it was a long, rather steep slope and would be difficult to descend without slipping and sliding. Indeed, Christine thought, ignoring the offered arm, there was only one sensible way to do it. She gathered her skirts above her ankles and ran.
The slope was longer and steeper than she had estimated. By the time she reached the bottom she was close to flying. The brim of her bonnet had blown back, her curls were bouncing about her face, and she was shrieking. But how wonderfully exhilarating it had been! She also realized as she arrived there that the families with children were approaching from among the trees—and most of them had witnessed her undignified descent of the hill. She laughed and turned to watch the Duke of Bewcastle descend with the utmost dignity, as if he were strolling on Bond Street.
“What a splendid hill this would be for rolling down,” she called up to him.
“If you cannot resist the temptation, Mrs. Derrick,” he said as he reached the bottom, “I will wait here while you trudge back up then roll down. I’ll be a spectator.”
And then he turned with raised eyebrows as exuberant children came running out into the open with adults behind them.
“Are we going up?” young William Bedwyn shrieked to Lord Rannulf. “I want to go up, Papa.”
“Up,” young Jacques demanded of his own papa.
Daniel did not even ask. He dashed upward, turned partway up the slope, and dashed down again, his little legs pumping just fast enough to land him safely in Lady Freyja’s arms before he toppled over. He wriggled free and went up again.
The hill was obviously going to be the chosen playground for some time to come. The Duke of Bewcastle looked at his nieces and nephews with his usual unreadable expression before turning to offer his arm to Christine, but he was forestalled by Pamela and Pauline, who grabbed one of her hands each, both speaking—or rather yelling—at once and demanding that she watch them despite the fact that Melanie and Bertie were not far off. Christine laughed and watched as they darted away to join the game of running down the hill before they fell down. Beatrice Bedwyn was the first to come to grief and set up a wailing until her father grabbed her up, set her astride his shoulders, and went galloping off among the trees with her. Miranda Bedwyn, who was little more than a toddler, persuaded Lord Rannulf to go up a little way with her and run her down. He swung her up into the air with a loud roar as they neared the bottom and had her shrieking with delight and demanding more. Hannah Bedwyn was toddling about in circles, clapping her hands and laughing up at Lord Aidan as she lost her balance and landed on her well-padded bottom.
The noise was deafening.
“Phillip and Davy are going to the very top,” Pamela screeched full volume as she came to grab Christine’s hand again, “and my friend Becky and I want to go too. Come with us, Cousin Christine.”
It did not occur to Christine as Becky caught hold of her other hand to say no even though she had just come down that long slope. She trudged up it with the two young girls, stopping halfway to watch the two older boys hurtle downward with bloodcurdling whoops of delight.
“You know,” she said as they neared the top, “it would be far more fun to roll down than to run.”
“Roll?” Becky giggled. “How?”
“You lie flat along the top of the hill with your legs together and your arms above your head,” Christine explained, “and let yourself roll over and over to the bottom. I have never seen a more splendid hill for rolling down.”
“Show us,” Pamela demanded.
“I will,” Christine promised. “I’ll show you how it is done, but I’ll not actually do it. It would be very undignified for a grown lady, would it not?”
The two girls giggled with glee and Christine joined them. But when they were at the very top she stretched out on the grass to demonstrate the ideal position for rolling.
“It is quite easy,” she assured them. “If you have trouble getting started, I will give you a little push. But once you have started, there will be no need for any more—”
The sentence ended on a shriek. Two little voices had giggled again, four mischievous little hands had given her a push, and she was rolling downward. For one moment she thought of trying to stop herself, but she knew from past experience that she might hurt herself if she
tried, especially on such a steep slope, and that even if she did not, she would look enormously undignified as arms and legs flailed for hand- and footholds to slow her progress. And then in the next moment trying to stop was no longer an option. She rolled over and over down the slope at an alarming speed, shrieking as she went.
By the time she reached the bottom her thoughts were no longer coherent at all, and her shrieks had turned to laughter. Two strong arms caught her and two grim silver eyes looked down at her. When her thoughts did become coherent, she realized whose arms and eyes they were and noticed that everyone else seemed to be laughing except him.
There were more shrieks as the two girls came rolling down the hill after her, and then the nature of the game changed as all the children demanded to roll rather than run. Phillip and Davy were taking the hill up at a run.
“And so you had your wish, Mrs. Derrick,” the Duke of Bewcastle said.
“Jolly good show!” Lord Rannulf said, grinning and looking ruggedly handsome.
“Now I am mortally jealous,” Lady Freyja said. “I have not done that in years. But today I will. Wait for me, Davy!”
Christine was hastily checking that her legs and head were decently covered and wondering if she had left any grass on the slope or if she had brought every blade of it down with her on her person. She brushed vigorously at herself as she got to her feet.
“Wulf,” Lord Alleyne said, “now that Mrs. Derrick has shown the children how to really enjoy themselves and set a challenge for Free, why do you not take her to show her the lake?”
“I will do that, thank you, Alleyne,” the duke said curtly, “if Mrs. Derrick wishes it. Ma’am?”
“I do indeed,” she said, laughing and taking his offered arm. “I have made enough of a cake of myself for one day.”
The Earl of Rosthorn, she noticed, winked at her.
The duke led her off through the trees, and soon they had left the noise and the frolicking behind them.
“I was merely showing the girls how to do it,” she explained after the silence had stretched between them. “They pushed me.”
He did not comment.
“It must have been a most undignified spectacle,” she said. “Your brothers and sisters must think me the most dreadful of creatures.”
Still he made no comment.
“And you must think it,” she added.
She was not quite sure what he did with her arm then. But whatever it was, she found herself the next moment with her back against a tree trunk and the Duke of Bewcastle standing in front of her, looking grim and very dangerous indeed. One of his hands was propped on the bark beside her head.
“And do you care, Mrs. Derrick?” he asked her. “Do you care what I think?”
It was obvious what he thought. He was furious with her. He thought her vulgar and unladylike. She had just put on a shocking display of both traits for his family. And she was his invited guest. Her behavior reflected badly upon him. She suddenly thought of Hermione’s warnings of last night.
“No,” she said, though she did, she realized. She did care.
“As I thought.” He looked arctic.
“You just do not like children, do you?” she said. “Or anything suggestive of childhood or exuberance or sheer enjoyment. Cold, sober dignity is everything to you—everything. Of course I do not care what you think of me.”
“I will tell you anyway,” he said, his eyes blazing with a curious cold light that she recognized as anger. “I believe you were put on this earth to bring light to your fellow mortals, Mrs. Derrick. And I believe you should stop assuming that you know me and understand me.”
“Oh.” She pressed the back of her bonnet against the tree. “I hate it when you do that. Just when I think we are launched on a satisfactory quarrel, you take the wind out of my sails. What on earth do you mean by it?”
“You do not know me at all,” he said.
“The other thing,” she said. “About my being here to bring light.”
He moved his head one inch closer, but his eyes were still like two blazing ice chips—a curious anomaly!
“You do things that are impulsive and unladylike and clumsy and even vulgar,” he said. “You chatter too much, you laugh too much, and you sparkle in a manner that is in no way refined. And yet you attract almost everyone within your aura as a flame does a moth. You think people despise you and scorn you and shun you, when the opposite is true. You have told me that you did not take well with the ton. I do not believe it. I believe you took very well indeed—or would have done if you had been allowed to. I do not know who put the idea into your head that you did not, but that person was wrong. Perhaps he could not bear the power of your light, or perhaps he could not bear to share it with his world. Perhaps he mistook the light for flirtation. That is what I think, Mrs. Derrick. I was digesting the wonder of the fact that Lindsey Hall was alive with the presence of children again, most of them the offspring of my own brothers and sisters—and then you came hurtling down the hill into my arms. You will not dare tell me now that I do not like children or exuberance or enjoyment.”
She felt considerably shaken. At the same time she felt a certain elation—she had made him angry! He was clearly furious with her. And his anger had spilled over. She had never, since her first acquaintance with him, heard him string together so many words at one time.
“And you will not dare tell me what I may or may not say,” she said. “You may have almost total power over your world, your grace, but I am not of it. You have no power over me. And, after hearing your description of me, we must both be glad of it. I would shame you every day of your life—as I did in Hyde Park, as I did this afternoon.”
“Unlike your late husband or his brother, or whoever it was that convinced you that you are nothing more than a flirt,” he said, “I believe I could stand the power of your light, Mrs. Derrick. My own identity would not be diminished by it. And yours would not be diminished by my power. You once told me I would sap your joy, but you belittle yourself if you truly believe it. Joy can be sapped only by weakness. I am not, I believe, a weak man.”
“What nonsense you speak!” she said as he finally leaned back away from her and removed his hand from the tree trunk. “No one else exists for you except as minions to run and fetch for you and obey your every command. And you command with the mere lifting of a finger or an eyebrow. Of course you would have to control me too if I were unwise enough to put myself into your power. You know no other way of relating to people.”
“And you, Mrs. Derrick,” he said, taking a few steps away from her and then turning to look back at her, “know no other way of fighting your attraction to me than to convince yourself that you know me through and through. Have you decided, then, that I wear no mask after all? Or that you were right last evening when you said that perhaps I was simply the Duke of Bewcastle to the core?”
“I am not attracted to you!” she cried.
“Are you not?” He raised one supercilious eyebrow and then his quizzing glass. “You have sexual relations, then, with every dancing partner who invites you to accompany him to a secluded spot?”
Fury blossomed in her. And it focused upon one object.
“That,” she said, striding toward him, “is the outside of enough!”
She snatched the quizzing glass out of his nerveless hand, yanked the black ribbon off over his head, and sent the glass flying with one furious flick of her wrist.
They both watched it twirl upward in an impressively high arc, reach its zenith between two trees, and then begin its downward arc—which was never completed. The ribbon caught on a high twig and held there. The glass swung back and forth like a pendulum a mile off the ground—or so it seemed to Christine.
She was the first to speak.
“And this time,” she said, “I am not going up for it.”
“I am relieved to hear it, ma’am,” he said, his voice sounding as frosty as she had ever heard it. “I would hate to have to carry y
ou all the way to the house in another ruined dress.”
She turned her head to glare at him.
“I am not attracted to you,” she said. “And I am not promiscuous.”
“I did not believe you were,” he assured her. “That, in fact, was my very point.”
“I daresay,” she said, looking ruefully up at the quizzing glass, which was now swaying gently in the breeze, “you will raise an eyebrow when we return and an army of gardeners will rush out here to rescue it. You will not be able to raise your quizzing glass, will you? Though I daresay you have an endless supply of them.”
“Eight,” he said curtly. “I have eight of them—or will have when that particular one is back in my keeping.” And he strode away from her.
For a moment Christine thought that she was being abandoned for her sins. But then she realized that he was headed for the old oak tree in pursuit of his quizzing glass. He went up the tree as he had come down the slope from the wilderness walk—with ease and elegance. Her heart was in her mouth by the time he was high enough to reach for his glass, but it was too far from the trunk, and he had to sit on a branch and edge his way out toward it.
“Oh, do be careful!” Christine cried, and set both hands over her mouth.
“I always am.” He unhooked the ribbon, dropped it and the glass for her to catch, and sat there looking down at her. “Always. Except, it would seem, where you are concerned. If I were careful, I would stay here, just where I am, until you had returned safely to Gloucestershire. If I had been careful, I would have avoided you at Schofield Park as I would avoid the plague. Earlier this year I would have shut myself up inside Bedwyn House after Miss Magnus’s wedding until I was sure you were at least fifty miles on your journey home. After one aborted plan to marry when I was twenty-four, I gave up all idea of marriage. I have not looked for a bride since then. If I had, she most certainly would not have been you. I would have been very careful to choose altogether more wisely. Indeed, you are the very antithesis of the woman I would have chosen.”