YOUR CHEEKS ARE LOOKING ALARMINGLY FLUSHED, Christine," her mother remarked, setting her embroidery down in her lap the better to observe her daughter. "And your eyes are very bright. I hope you are not coming down with a fever."

Christine laughed. "I have been at the vicarage, playing with the children," she explained. "Alexander wanted to play cricket, but after a few minutes it became clear that Marianne could not catch a ball and Robin could not hit one. We played hide-and-seek instead, though Alexander thought it was somewhat beneath his dignity now that he is nine years old until I asked him how his poor aunt must feel, then, at the age of twenty-nine. I was it all the time, of course. We had great fun until Charles poked his head out of the study window and asked us -- rhetorically, I suppose -- how he was ever to get his sermon finished with all the noise we were making. So Hazel gave us all a glass of lemonade and shooed the children off to the parlor to read quietly, poor things, and I came home."

"I suppose," her eldest sister, Eleanor, said, looking up from her book and observing Christine over the tops of her spectacles, "you did not wear your bonnet while you frolicked with our niece and nephews. That is not just a flush. It is a sunburn."

"How can one poke one's head into small hiding places if it is swollen to twice its size with a bonnet?" Christine asked reasonably. She began to arrange the flowers she had cut from the garden on her way inside, in a vase of water she had brought with her from the kitchen.

"And your hair looks like a bird's nest," Eleanor added.

"That is soon corrected." Christine rumpled her short curls with both hands and laughed. "There. Is that better?"

Eleanor shook her head before returning her attention to her book -- but not before smiling.

There was a comfortable hush in the room again while they all concentrated upon their chosen activities. But the silence -- tempered by the chirping of birds and the whirring of insects from beyond the open window -- was broken after a few minutes by the sound of horses' hooves clopping along the village street in the direction of Hyacinth Cottage, and the rumble of wheels. There was more than one horse, and the wheels were heavy ones. It must be the carriage from Schofield Park, Baron Renable's country seat, which was a mere two miles away, Christine thought absently.

None of them took any particular notice of the carriage's approach. Lady Renable often used it when she went visiting, even though a gig would have served her purpose just as well, or a horse -- or her feet. Eleanor often described Lady Renable as frivolous and ostentatious, and it was not an inaccurate description. She was also Christine's friend.

And then it became obvious that the horses were slowing. The carriage wheels squeaked in protest. All three ladies looked up.

"I do believe," Eleanor said, peering out the window over her spectacles again, "Lady Renable must be coming here. To what do we owe the honor, I wonder. Were you expecting her, Christine?"

"I knew I should have changed my cap after luncheon," their mother said. "Send Mrs. Skinner running upstairs for a clean one if you will, Christine."

"The one you are wearing is quite becoming enough, Mama," Christine assured her, finishing the flower arrangement quickly and crossing the room to kiss her mother's forehead. "It is only Melanie."

"Of course it is only Lady Renable. That is the whole point," her mother said, exasperated. But she did not renew her plea for a different cap to be sent for.

It did not take a genius to guess why Melanie was coming here either.

"I daresay she is coming to ask why you refused her invitation," Eleanor said, echoing her thought. "And I daresay she will not take no for an answer now that she has come in person. Poor Christine. Do you want to run up to your room and have me tell her that you seem to have come down with a touch of smallpox?"

Christine laughed while their mother threw up her hands in horror.

Indeed Melanie was not famed for taking no for an answer. Whatever Christine was doing, and she was almost always busy with something -- teaching at the village school several times a week, visiting and helping the elderly and infirm or a new mother or a sick child or a friend, calling at the vicarage to amuse and play with the children, since in her estimation Charles and her sister Hazel neglected them altogether too much with the excuse that children did not need adults to play with them when they had one another -- no matter what Christine was doing, Melanie always chose to believe that she must be simply languishing in the hope that someone would appear with a frivolous diversion.

Of course, Melanie was a friend, and Christine really did enjoy spending time with her -- and with her children. But there were limits. She surely was coming here to renew in person the invitation that a servant had brought in writing yesterday. Christine had written back with a tactfully worded but firm refusal. Indeed, she had refused just as firmly a whole month ago when first asked.

The carriage drew to a halt before the garden gate with a great deal of noise and fuss, doubtless drawing the attention of every villager to the fact that the baroness was condescending to call upon Mrs. Thompson and her daughters at Hyacinth Cottage. There were the sounds of opening doors and slamming doors, and then someone -- probably the coachman, since it certainly would not be Melanie herself -- knocked imperiously on the house door.

Christine sighed and seated herself at the table, her mother put away her embroidery and adjusted her cap, and Eleanor, with a smirk, looked down at her book.

A few moments later Melanie, Lady Renable, swept into the room past Mrs. Skinner, the housekeeper, who had opened the door to announce her. She was, as usual, dressed absurdly for the country. She looked as elaborately turned out as if she were planning a promenade in Hyde Park in London. Bright plumes waved high above the large, stiff poke of her bonnet, giving the illusion of height. A lorgnette was clutched in one of her gloved hands. She seemed to half fill the room.

Christine smiled at her with amused affection.

"Ah, there you are, Christine," she said grandly after inclining her head graciously to the other ladies and asking how they did.

"Here I am," Christine agreed. "How do you do, Melanie? Do take the chair across from Mama's."

But her ladyship waved away the invitation with her lorgnette.

"I have not a moment to spare," she said. "I do not doubt I will bring on one of my migraines before the day is over. I regret that you have made this visit necessary, Christine. My written invitation ought to have sufficed, you know. I cannot imagine why you wrote back with a refusal. Bertie believes you are being coy and declares that it would serve you right if I did not come in person to persuade you. He often says ridiculous things. I know why you refused, and I have come here to tell you that you are sometimes ridiculous too. It is because Basil and Hermione are coming, is it not, and for some reason you quarreled with them after Oscar died. But that was a long time ago, and you have as much right to come as they do. Oscar was, after all, Basil's brother, and though he is gone, poor man, you are still and always will be connected by marriage to our family. Christine, you must not be stubborn. Or modest. You must remember that you are the widow of a viscount's brother."

Christine was not likely to forget, though sometimes she wished she could. She had been married for seven years to Oscar Derrick, brother of Basil, Viscount Elrick, and cousin of Lady Renable. They had met at Schofield Park at the very first house party Melanie hosted there after her marriage to Bertie, Baron Renable. It had been a brilliant match for Christine, the daughter of a gentleman of such slender means that he had been obliged to augment his income by becoming the village schoolmaster.

Now Melanie wanted her friend to attend another of her house parties.

"It is truly kind of you to ask me," Christine said. "But I would really rather not come, you know."

"Nonsense!" Melanie raised the lorgnette to her eyes and looked about the room with it, an affectation that always amused both Christine and Eleanor, who dipped her head behind her book now to hide her smile. "Of course you want to come. Whoever would not? Mama will be there with Audrey and Sir Lewis Wiseman -- the party is in honor of their betrothal, though it has, of course, already been announced. Even Hector has been talked into coming, though you know he can never be persuaded to enjoy himself unless one of us forces him into it."

"And Justin too?" Christine asked. Audrey was Melanie's young sister, Hector and Justin, her brothers. Justin had been Christine's friend since their first acquaintance at that long-ago house party -- almost her only friend, it had seemed during the last few years of her marriage.

"Of course Justin is coming too," Melanie said. "Does he not go everywhere -- and does he not spend more time with me than with anyone else? You have always got along famously with my family. But even apart from them, we are expecting a large crowd of distinguished, agreeable guests, and we have any number of pleasurable activities planned for everyone's amusement, morning, noon, and night. You must come. I absolutely insist upon it."

"Oh, Melanie," Christine began, "I would really--"

"You ought to go, Christine," her mother urged her, "and enjoy yourself. You are always so busy on other people's behalf."

"You might as well say yes now," Eleanor added, peering over her spectacles again rather than removing them until their visitor had left and she could return her undivided attention to her book. "You know Lady Renable will not leave here until she has talked you into it."

Christine looked at her, exasperated, but her sister's eyes merely twinkled back into her own. Why did no one ever invite Eleanor to entertainments like this? But Christine knew the answer. At the age of thirty-four, her eldest sister had settled into middle age and a placid spinsterhood as their mother's prop and stay without any regretful glance back at her youth. It was a course she had chosen quite deliberately after the only beau she had ever had was killed in the Peninsular Wars years ago, and no man had changed her mind since then, though a few had tried.

"You are quite right, Miss Thompson," Melanie said, her bonnet plumes nodding approvingly in Eleanor's direction. "The most provoking thing has happened. Hector has been his usual impulsive self."

Hector Magnus, Viscount Mowbury, was a bookish semirecluse. Christine could not imagine him doing anything impulsive.

Melanie drummed her gloved fingers on the tabletop. "He has absolutely no idea how to go on, the poor dear," she said. "He has had the audacity to invite a friend of his to come here with him, assuring the man that the invitation came from me. And he very obligingly informed me of this turn of events only two days ago -- far too late for me to invite another willing lady to make numbers even again."

Ah! All was suddenly clear. Christine's written invitation had come yesterday morning, the day after social disaster had loomed on the horizon of Melanie's world.

"You must come," Melanie said again. "Dear Christine, you absolutely must. It would be an unthinkable disgrace to be forced to host a house party at which the numbers are not even. You could not possibly wish such a thing upon me -- especially when it is in your power to save me."

"It would be a dreadful shame," Christine's mother agreed, "when Christine is here with nothing particular to do for the next two weeks."

"Mama!" Christine protested. Eleanor's eyes were still twinkling at her over the tops of her spectacles.

She sighed -- aloud. She had been quite determined to resist. She had married into the ton nine years ago. At the time she had been thrilled beyond words. Even apart from the fact that she had been head over ears in love with Oscar, she had been elated at the prospect of moving upward into more exalted social circles. And all had been well for a few years -- with both her marriage and the ton. And then everything had started to go wrong -- everything. She still felt bewildered and hurt when she remembered. And when she remembered the end. . . Well, she had blocked it quite effectively as the only way to save her sanity and regain her spirits, and she needed no reminder now. She really did not want to see Hermione and Basil ever again.

But she had a weakness where people in trouble were concerned. And Melanie really did seem to be in a bit of a bind. She set such great store by her reputation as a hostess who did everything with meticulous correctness. And, when all was said and done, they were friends.

"Perhaps," she suggested hopefully, "I can remain here and come over to Schofield a few times to join the party."

"But Bertie would have to call out the carriage to take you home every night and send it to bring you every morning," Melanie said. "It would be just too inconvenient, Christine."

"I could walk over," Christine suggested.

Melanie set one hand to her bosom as if to still her palpitating heart.

"And arrive each day with a dusty or muddy hem and rosy cheeks and windblown hair?" she said. "That would be quite as bad as not having you at all. You must come to stay. That is all there is to it. All our guests will be arriving the day after tomorrow. I will have the carriage sent during the morning so that you may settle in early."

Christine realized that the moment for a firm refusal had passed. She was doomed to attend one of Melanie's house parties, it seemed. But gracious heaven, she had nothing to wear and no money with which to rush out to buy a new wardrobe -- not that there was anywhere to rush to, within fifty miles anyway. Melanie had recently returned from a Season in London, where she had gone to help sponsor her sister's come-out and presentation to the queen. All her guests -- except Christine! -- were probably coming from there too, bringing their London finery and their London manners with them. This was the stuff of nightmares.

"Very well," she said. "I will come."

Melanie forgot her dignity sufficiently to beam at her before tapping her sharply on the arm with her lorgnette.

"I knew you would," she said. "But I do wish you had not forced me to use a whole hour in coming here. There is so much to be done. I could absolutely throttle Hector. Of all the gentlemen he could have invited to come here with him, he had to choose the one most likely to put any hostess into a flutter. And yet he has given me only a few days in which to prepare to entertain him."

"The Prince of Wales?" Christine suggested with a chuckle.

"I cannot say anyone would covet his presence," Melanie said, "though I suppose it would be an enormous coup to have him. This is hardly less so, though. No, my unexpected guest is to be the Duke of Bewcastle."

Christine raised her eyebrows. She had heard of the duke, though she had never met him. He was enormously powerful and toplofty -- and as cold as ice, or so it was said. She could understand Melanie's consternation. And she had been chosen to balance numbers with the Duke of Bewcastle? The idea was enormously tickling until she realized that it was one more reason why she should remain at home. But it was too late now.

"Oh, my," her mother said, looking vastly impressed.

"Yes," Melanie agreed with pursed lips and nodding plumes. "But you must not worry, Christine. There are a number of other gentlemen whom you will find personable and who are bound to delight in dancing attendance upon you. You do have that happy effect upon gentlemen, you know -- even at your age. I would be mortally jealous if I were not still so attached to Bertie, though he can be horridly provoking when I decide to organize one of my entertainments. He huffs and rumbles and gives me to understand that he is less than enamored with the prospect of enjoying himself. Anyway, I daresay you will not need to exchange a single word with his grace if you do not choose to do so. He is a man famed for his arrogance and reticence and will probably not even notice you if left to himself."

"I promise," Christine said, "not to trip over his feet but to keep a decent distance."

Eleanor's lips curved into another smirk as she caught her sister's eye.

But the trouble was, Christine thought, that she was likely to do just that if she was not careful -- trip over his feet, that was, or more likely over her own as she passed in full view of him, a tray of jellies or lemonade balanced on her hands. She would be far happier remaining at home, but that was no longer an option. She had agreed to go to Schofield for two weeks.

"Now that I have even numbers again," Melanie said, "I can begin to forgive Hector. This really will be the most famous house party. I daresay it will be the talk of London drawing rooms all next Season. I will be the envy of every hostess in England, and those who were not invited will clamor for an invitation next year. The Duke of Bewcastle never goes anywhere beyond London and his own estates. I cannot imagine how Hector persuaded him to come here. Perhaps he has heard of the superiority of my entertainments. Perhaps. . ."

But Christine had stopped listening for the moment. The next two weeks were bound to be anything but pleasant. And now there was going to be the added aggravation of having the Duke of Bewcastle as a fellow guest and of feeling self-conscious -- quite unnecessarily, since, as Melanie had just remarked, he was unlikely to notice her any more than he would a worm beneath his feet. She hated feeling self-conscious. It was something she had never felt until she was a few years into her marriage and had suddenly become the persistent object of unsavory gossip no matter how hard she tried to avoid it. After she was widowed, she had vowed that she would never put herself in such a position again, that she would never again step out of her familiar world.

Of course, she was a great deal older now. She was twenty-nine -- almost ancient. No one could expect her to frolic with the young people any longer. She could be a dignified elder. She could sit back and enjoy all the proceedings as a spectator rather than as a participant. It might be highly diverting to do just that, in fact.

"May we offer you a cup of tea and some cakes, Lady Renable?" her mother was asking.

"I have not a moment to spare, Mrs. Thompson," Melanie replied. "I have a houseful of guests arriving the day after tomorrow, and a thousand and one details to attend to before they come. Being a baroness is not all glamour, I do assure you. I must be on my way."

She inclined her head regally, kissed Christine's cheek and squeezed her arm warmly, and swept from the room, all nodding plumes and waving lorgnette and rustling skirts.

"It might be worth remembering for future reference, Christine," Eleanor said, "that it is altogether easier to say yes to Lady Renable the first time she asks a question, whether in writing or in person."

Their mother was on her feet.

"We must go up to your room right now, Christine," she said, "and see which of your clothes need mending or trimming or cleaning. Goodness me -- the Duke of Bewcastle, not to mention Viscount Mowbury and his mother and Viscount Elrick and his wife! And Lord and Lady Renable, of course."

Christine fled upstairs ahead of her to see if perhaps a dozen or so really ravishing and fashionable garments had suddenly materialized in her wardrobe since she had dressed that morning.

WULFRIC BEDWYN, DUKE of Bewcastle, was sitting behind the large oak desk in the magnificently appointed and well-stocked library of Bedwyn House in London. He was dressed for the evening with exquisite taste and elegance, though he had entertained no guests for dinner and none were with him now. The leather-inlaid desktop was bare except for the blotter, several freshly mended quill pens, and a silver-topped ink bottle. There was nothing to do, since he was always meticulous about dealing with business matters during the daytime and this was evening.

He might have gone out to some entertainment -- he still could, in fact. There were several to choose among even though the Season was now over and most of his peers had left London to spend the summer in Brighton or at their country estates. But he had never been one for social entertainments, unless his presence was particularly called for.

He might have gone to spend the evening at White's. Even though the club would be sparsely populated at this time of the year, there was always some congenial companionship and conversation to be found there. But he had spent altogether too much time at his clubs in the last week or so since the parliamentary session ended.

None of his family was in town. Lord Aidan Bedwyn, the brother next in age to himself and his heir presumptive, had not come at all this spring. He had remained at home in Oxfordshire with his wife, Eve, for the birth of their first child, a daughter. It was a happy event they had awaited for almost three years after their marriage. Wulfric had gone there for the christening in May but had stayed only a few days. Lord Rannulf Bedwyn, his next brother, was in Leicestershire with Judith and their son and daughter. He was taking his responsibilities as a landowner more seriously than ever now that their grandmother had died and the property was officially his. Freyja, their sister, was in Cornwall. So was the Marquess of Hallmere, her husband, who had neglected his duties in the House this year and not come up to town at all. Freyja was pregnant again. They had had a son early last year and were apparently hoping for a daughter this time. Lord Alleyne Bedwyn was in the country with his wife, Rachel, and their twin girls, who had been born last summer. They were concerned about the health of Baron Weston, Rachel's uncle, with whom they lived, and wouldn't leave him. His heart had taken a turn for the worse again. Morgan, his youngest sister, was in Kent. She had come up to town for a few weeks with the Earl of Rosthorn, her husband, but the London air had not agreed with their young son, and so she had returned home with him. Rosthorn had gone home whenever he could after that until the House closed and then had wasted no time in going back to stay. Never again, he had told Bewcastle before he left. In future, if his wife and children could not accompany him, he would simply remain at home and the House could go hang. Children, he had said. Plural. That probably meant that Morgan too was with child again.

It was gratifying, Wulfric decided, picking up one of the quill pens and drawing the smooth feather between his fingers and thumb, that his brothers and sisters were all married and settled in life. His duties to them had been satisfactorily discharged.

But Bedwyn House felt empty without them. Even when Morgan had been in town, she had not stayed here, of course.

Lindsey Hall, his principal seat in Hampshire, was going to seem even emptier.

It was that realization, perhaps, that had led him into making an uncharacteristically impulsive decision just a few days earlier. He had accepted a verbal invitation from Lady Renable -- conveyed by Viscount Mowbury, her brother -- to a house party at Schofield Park in Gloucestershire. He never attended house parties. He could not imagine a more insipid way of passing two weeks. Of course, Mowbury had assured him that there would be superior company and intelligent conversation there as well as some fishing. But even so, two weeks in the same company, no matter how congenial, might well prove wearing on the nerves.

Wulfric sat back in his chair, rested his elbows on the arms, and steepled his fingers. He stared off sightlessly across the room. He missed Rose far more than he cared to admit. She had been his mistress for well over ten years, but she had died in February. She had taken a chill that had seemed relatively harmless at first, though he had insisted upon summoning his physician to her. It had developed into a severe inflammation of the lungs anyway, and all the doctor had been able to do for her was make her as comfortable as possible. Her death had come as a severe shock. Wulfric had been with her at the end -- and almost constantly throughout her illness.

It had felt every bit as bad as being widowed must feel.

They had had a comfortable arrangement, he and Rose. He had kept her in considerable luxury in London during the months of each year when he had to be here, and during the summers he had returned to Lindsey Hall while she had gone to her father's home at a country smithy, where she had enjoyed some fame and commanded universal respect as the wealthy mistress of a duke. He had spent most of his nights with her whenever he was in town. Theirs had not been a passionate relationship -- he doubted he was capable of passion -- and they had not enjoyed a particularly deep friendship, since their education and interests were quite dissimilar. But there had been a comfortable companionship between them nevertheless. He was quite sure she had shared his contentment with their liaison. After more than ten years he would have known if she had not. He had always been glad that she had never had children by him. He would have provided handsomely for them, but it would have made him uncomfortable to have bastard children.

Her death, though, had left a vast emptiness in his life.

He missed her. He had been celibate since February but did not know how he was to replace her. He was not even sure he wanted to -- not yet, at least. She had known how to please and satisfy him. He had known how to please and satisfy her. He was not certain he wanted to adjust to someone else. He felt too old at thirty-five.

And then he rested his chin against the tips of his fingers.

He was thirty-five.

He had fulfilled every one of his duties as Duke of Bewcastle, a position he had never wanted but had inherited anyway at the age of seventeen. Every duty except that to marry and beget sons and heirs. He had been about to fulfill that obligation too, years ago, when he was young and still a little bit hopeful that personal happiness might be combined with duty. But on the very night when his betrothal was to be announced, his chosen bride had put on an elaborate charade in order to avoid a marriage that was repugnant to her, too afraid of him and her father simply to tell the truth.

How could a duke choose any woman to be his duchess and expect personal contentment out of the arrangement? Who would ever marry a duke for himself? A mistress could be dismissed. A wife could not.

And so the one little rebellion he had allowed himself in the years since Lady Marianne Bonner was to remain single. And to satisfy his needs with Rose. He had found her and brought her under his protection less than two months after that disastrous evening.

But now Rose was dead -- and buried at his expense in a country churchyard close to the smithy. The Duke of Bewcastle had astonished the neighborhood for miles around by attending the funeral in person.

Why the devil had he agreed to go to Schofield Park with Mowbury? Had he done so only because he was not looking forward to returning alone to Lindsey Hall -- and yet could not bear the thought of staying in London either? It was a poor reason even if Mowbury did have a well-informed mind and lively conversation and there was every hope that the other guests would match him. Even so, it would have been better to spend the summer touring his various properties in England and Wales, and perhaps calling in on his brothers and sisters as he went. But no -- that latter was not a good idea. They all had their own lives now. They all had spouses and children. They were all happy. Yes, he believed they really were -- all of them.

He rejoiced for them.

The Duke of Bewcastle, very much alone in his power and the splendor of his person and the magnificence of the London mansion surrounding him, continued to stare off into space as he tapped his steepled fingertips against his chin.

Copyright © 2004 by Mary Balogh