Slightly Dangerous (Bedwyn Saga, #6)

by Mary Balogh

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 feelin...

How was she going to forget him—again? It had been hard enough last year.

She was horribly in love with him. Horribly, she supposed, being the operative word. Ignominiously might be even better.

He had sat very still, afraid of dropping the baby, afraid of frightening away the boy.

Although Wulfric had seen them all since then, he had found himself recently longing to have all his family about him at home.

The lady was everything he could possibly want in a mistress except for one thing. She was not—damn it!—Christine Derrick.

He had felt deeply resentful toward her even as he had pursued her and rescued her from Kitredge’s clutches and then spoken to her with unaccustomed unguardedness.

if she was at home, that was. If she was not—well, he would have to come back at another time, unless in the meanwhile he returned to his senses.

her new bonnet with its pink and lavender plumes dead on her head, her pink walking dress and darker rose spencer clinging to her like the flimsy drapery of a Greek goddess.

And how he could have chosen this woman—though there had been no conscious choice in the matter—to fall in love with he would never understand even if he lived to be one hundred.

And—damn it!—swathed though she was in his drab coat and with squashed wet curls, she looked suddenly quite dazzlingly lovely.

But the strange thing was—the very strange thing—that annoyance was beginning to be displaced by something far different. He found himself wanting to laugh as she and the crowd had just done—to throw back his head and bellow with mirth, in fact.

“You will be very glad to be rid of me once and for all.” But for once, he noticed, her eyes were focused on his chin rather than on his own eyes—and they held none of their usual sparkle.

“Will I?” He bowed to her as she made her awkward way to the stairs,

Now, if he could just rid her from his mind too and his . . . heart?

Christine’s spirits, firmly lodged in the soles of her slippers, did an uncomfortable little flip-flop.

They had said good-bye yesterday. At least, she had. She had noticed that he had not. It had inexplicably saddened her that he had not said at least that much to her when they were parting for the rest of their lives.

But is this another of those games, your grace? Out-silencing each other? Each determined not to be the first to speak?”

“But I need you to help me decide,” he said. “Me?” She continued to stare at his stern, cold profile. “I will invite them,” he said, “if you will come too.”

“I cannot invite you alone,” he said. “It would be grossly improper, even though my own family will be with me. I cannot invite you with your mother and sisters and brother-in-law. We are not betrothed. And so I must invite you simply as a peripheral member of a family I wish to have join me and my family for the holiday.”

You presume to think to know me, Mrs. Derrick. If you can ask such a question, you know nothing about me at all.”

“Then why? You cannot still wish to marry me.” “I wonder,” he said, “if you presume to know the thoughts and intentions and wishes of all your acquaintance, Mrs. Derrick. It is an annoying character trait.”

She could scarcely remember what she had said to him that day. She could only remember the terrible longing to run after him down the street after he had left—and the tears that had left her limp with grief.

“I have them by heart,” he said. “Any man who hopes to marry you, you told me, must have a warm personality, human kindness, and a sense of humor. He must love people, particularly children, and frolicking and absurdity. He must be a man who is not obsessed with himself and his own consequence. He must be someone who is not ice to the core. He must be someone who has a heart. He must be capable of being your companion and friend and lover. You asked me if I could be all those things to you—or any of them. You implied, of course, that I could be none.”

But he had remembered. And in great detail.

“I want to prove to you,” he said, “that I have at least some of those attributes you dream of finding in a man.”

“I do not believe,” he said, “I am so lacking in all humanity as you believe I am.” “I did not say—” “Human kindness was your exact phrase,”

“I am a man as well as a duke, Mrs. Derrick,” he said.

She wished he had not said that. She felt as if a giant fist had caught her a blow in her abdomen, robbing her of all breath and strength in her legs. “I know.” She was whispering. She cleared her throat. “I know.”

Much more of this and she would be bawling—or casting herself into his arms and begging him to propose marriage to her again so that she could have the pleasure of living unhappily ever after with him.

“Give me a chance,” he said. “Come to Lindsey Hall.”

“Nothing can change—not you, and not my feelings toward you. And I cannot change.” “Give me a chance,” he said again.

“I would be consumed by you,” she said, and blinked her eyes furiously when she felt them fill with tears. “You would sap all the energy and all the joy from me. You would put out all the fire of my vitality.”

“Give me a chance to fan the flames of that fire,” he said, “and to nurture your joy.”

“Thirty-five is both the perfect age and the dangerous age for a man. It is the perfect age to marry and a dangerous age at which to procrastinate. A man does not want to be crippled by gout before his son and heir is even in the nursery.”

So much for slipping her name unobtrusively into the list of guests he was expecting, Wulfric thought as Freyja, helped along by Joshua and Gervase, proceeded to give a more or less accurate but decidedly lurid account of what had happened that day in Hyde Park.

And he never begged. He never needed to.

Oh, how she despised herself for being glad to see him again. She had felt starved for a sight of him, if the truth were known.

It was enough to make one want to weep. It was enough to convince the Duke of Bewcastle without further ado that no man, least of all himself, would ever want to be her dream man. And then that thought made her want to weep even harder.

He did not want any of his family suspecting that she was, in fact, the guest of honor.

But at the same time he had had the curious feeling that if there were any sunshine outside at all on such a gloomy day she must have brought it all inside with her.

He had chosen that room specifically for Christine Derrick,

When had he begun to take delight from that way she had of laughing at him?

And they had all—even his brothers and sisters—been invited here because of this woman, because of his need to have her here and somehow woo her.

He could not think of a thing to say to her.

Many people spoke with their lips alone. Mrs. Derrick spoke with her lips, her eyes, her whole face, her hands, and her body—and with everything that was inside herself. She spoke as she appeared to live—with eagerness, even passion. He watched her and listened to her with fascination.

Her eyes were pure blue, he saw again. Like the sea on a summer’s day. He could easily drown in them.

“Now tell me,” she said, “that you do not see the difference.” “I see all the difference in the world,” he told her. “None of those other ladies is you.”

“Oh.” The color in her cheeks deepened. “You are very clever this evening, your grace.”