Slightly Dangerous
Page 33
There were hordes of other people out there too—the curious masses, who had come to view a society wedding. Someone set up a cheer, and the crowd picked it up.
“Oh, Wulfric,” Christine said, “this is so exciting.”
He laughed and took her hand and ran with her. Petals rained down on them. But inevitably she stopped halfway to the carriage and stooped down to scoop up a handful of the petals, which she threw back at Rannulf and Rachel and Gervase with a delighted laugh.
They were in the open carriage then and she settled her very smart cream, green-trimmed dress about her while he picked up bags of coins from the seat and tossed their contents by handfuls over the heads of the gathered crowd. One liveried footman joined the coachman on the box and two others jumped up behind, and the carriage drove off—making a huge clatter as it did so, since it had to drag an assortment of old boots and other clutter behind it as well as cascades of bright ribbons.
Wulfric looked across at his bride, his wife, his duchess, and took her hand in his.
“At last,” he said. “I would not believe in our happily-ever-after until now.”
“Oh, not happily-ever-after, Wulfric,” she said. “That is such a static thing. I don’t want happily-ever-after. I want happiness and life and quarreling and making up and adventure and—”
He leaned across and kissed her on the lips.
“Well, and that too,” she said with a laugh while the crowd about the church set up another cheer and the two footmen on the back of the carriage stared woodenly ahead.
EPILOGUE
IT WAS THE DUKE OF BEWCASTLE’S BIRTHDAY—HIS thirty-seventh. He had never, however, been in the habit of celebrating the occasion with a great show of guests at Lindsey Hall.
It was also his first wedding anniversary. But though he would undoubtedly have celebrated the occasion with his duchess, it was doubtful that he would have invited guests to share it with them.
It was far more probable, he thought as he sat patiently for his valet to tie a perfect knot in his neckcloth, that they would have gone to the dovecote, where they had spent much of the Christmas holiday.
Nevertheless, there was a crowd of guests staying at the house—even more than there had been over Easter last year. And more guests were expected back at the house after the church service that they were all about to attend.
The occasion was neither the birthday nor the anniversary. The duke and duchess did not even expect to be the focus of attention.
James Christian Anthony Bedwyn, Marquess of Lindsey, had that distinction.
But one hour after the Duke of Bewcastle’s neckcloth had been successfully tied and the rest of his attire donned, and after the Duchess of Bewcastle was properly clad in a new blue dress to match her eyes and a new bonnet to match both, the marquess seemed quite prepared to relinquish the center of attention to them.
He was sleeping.
He did awake with a start when water that was supposed to be tepid but which felt icy cold to him landed on his forehead and trickled back over his head. And for two or three minutes he gave lusty expression to his wrath.
But the water was soon wiped away, and he was soon handed into the keeping of someone whose arms told him quite firmly that while he was unconditionally loved, he nevertheless must learn not to disgrace himself by bawling over nothing.
Rather than argue the point, Lord Lindsey went back to sleep.
He had just been christened. He was wearing the gorgeous christening robe that all children of the Dukes of Bewcastle had worn for generations past.
He had aunts and uncles galore to fuss over him, as well as a grandmother and a great-aunt, the handle of whose lorgnette got tangled up in the lace of his skirt for one anxious moment. He also had cousins, most of whom demanded to be allowed to hold him after he had been carried back to the house in his papa’s arms—much to the surprise and chagrin of his nurse. Almost the only ones who did not make such a demand were the eldest, Davy, who considered such a thing beneath his male dignity, and the youngest, Robert, son of Uncle Alleyne and Aunt Rachel, who was asleep in a crib in the nursery. All the cousins were denied permission except for Becky and Marianne, who were made to sit down first and hold out their arms just so in order to hold the Marquess of Lindsey for one minute each.
There were neighbors to coo over him.
There was his mama to kiss his chubby little cheek and his papa to kiss the other after they had taken him up to the nursery so that he would not be bothered by the crowd.
He was not bothered. He was supremely indifferent, wrapped up in blankets and sleep as he was.
Nevertheless, he was beginning to distinguish the two voices that spoke over him as he settled into his crib. They were the two voices that he would have thought most dear to him if his mind had been capable of such reasoning at the tender age of six weeks and two days.
“Our little miracle,” his mama said foolishly and fondly.
“Our little ball of trouble,” his papa said more firmly but just as fondly. “He was not just cross at church, Christine. He was furious. We are going to have our hands full with him, I do believe.”
The Marquess of Lindsey would have felt the backs of two fingers rub gently against his cheek if he had not been too far sunk in sleep.
“I hope so, Wulfric,” his mama said even more foolishly than she had spoken before. “Oh, I do hope so. And I hope he has brothers and sisters to fill our hands even fuller.”
“Well,” the Duke of Bewcastle said, sounding haughty and even slightly bored, “if there is anything I can do to assist you in bringing your wish to fulfillment, my love, do let me know.”
The Duchess of Bewcastle laughed softly.
The marquess did not even know what brothers and sisters were.
But he would . . .
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Bestselling, multi-award–winning author Mary Balogh grew up in Wales, land of sea and mountains, song and legend. She brought music and a vivid imagination with her when she came to Canada to teach. Here she began a second career as a writer of books that always end happily and always celebrate the power of love. There are over four million copies of her Regency romances and historical romances in print. She is also the author of the Regency-era romantic novels No Man’s Mistress, More Than a Mistress, A Summer to Remember, Slightly Married, Slightly Wicked, Slightly Scandalous, Slightly Tempted, and Slightly Sinful, all available in paperback from Dell. Visit her website at www.marybalogh.com.
ALSO BY MARY BALOGH
Slightly Sinful
Slightly Tempted
Slightly Scandalous
Slightly Wicked
Slightly Married
A Summer to Remember
No Man’s Mistress
More Than a Mistress
One Night for Love
SLIGHTLY DANGEROUS
A Delacorte Book / June 2004
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2004 by Mary Balogh
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Visit our website at www.bantamdell.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Balogh, Mary.
Slightly dangerous / Mary Balogh.
p. cm.
I. Title.
PR6052.A46
5S55 2004
823'.914—dc22
2003070091
eISBN: 978-0-440-33499-6
v3.0