“Give me a chance to fan the flames of that fire,” he said, “and to nurture your joy.”
She turned sharply away from him, one hand over her mouth.
“Take me back,” she said. “Take me to Melanie’s. I ought not to have agreed to this. I ought not to have come to London. I ought not to have gone to that house party.”
“It is precisely what I have been telling myself,” he said curtly. “But I did and you did. And there is this something between us that has not yet been resolved even though we intended to do just that on the night of the ball at Schofield. Come to Lindsey Hall. Promise me that you will accept your invitation and not leave me with other guests whom I will invite only for your sake.”
“You want me to come,” she said, rounding on him, “only that I may show you how very unsuited we are, how very much we do not belong together, how utterly miserable we would be if we committed our lives to each other?” But had not yesterday proved that to him once and for all?
“If necessary, yes,” he said. “If you can convince me of those things, ma’am, you would, perhaps, be doing me a great favor. Perhaps you would help me rid my blood of you.”
“It will not,” she said, “be a happy Easter. Not for either of us.”
“Come anyway,” he said.
She sighed aloud and thought of Eleanor. If ever she needed a will of iron, now was definitely the occasion.
“Oh, very well, then,” she said. “I will come.”
For a moment his silver eyes blazed with something that looked very like triumph.
“Take me back to Melanie’s now, if you please,” she said.
This time he did not ignore her request. They walked the whole distance in silence. He did not offer to come inside with her and she did not invite him. He took her gloved hand in his outside on the pavement, bowed over it, and raised it to his lips before fixing his eyes very intently on her own.
“You will remember that you have promised,” he said.
“Yes.” She withdrew her hand. “I will remember.”
14
N
O LONGER COULD
W
ULFRIC STEP INTO ANY ROOM OF
Lindsey Hall and enjoy emptiness and silence. The house was full of Bedwyns and their spouses and children, and other people connected with them. The Bedwyns had never been a quiet lot. But now that their numbers had multiplied and they had not seen one another for a while, they made their former selves seem like cloistered nuns and monks.
Freyja and Joshua, the Marchioness and Marquess of Hallmere, were the first to arrive from London, bringing their son, Daniel, now two years old, and three-month-old Emily with them. Freyja had recovered well from her latest confinement. Her favorite activity seemed to be wrestling with her giggling son on the floor—not necessarily in the nursery. When Daniel was not occupied thus, he was far more likely to be found galloping about the house on his father’s shoulders than decently shut up inside the nursery with his nurse.
Alleyne and Rachel, Lord and Lady Alleyne Bedwyn, and Morgan and Gervase, the Countess and Earl of Rosthorn, arrived on the same day, the former couple with their twin girls, Laura and Beatrice, now a year and a half old, and with Baron Weston, Rachel’s uncle, who had made a good recovery from the heart problems he had suffered last summer, and Morgan and Gervase with their sons—Jacques, who was almost two, and Jules, who was two months old. Rachel was apparently increasing again, though her condition was not noticeable yet.
Rannulf and Judith, Lord and Lady Rannulf Bedwyn, came the following day with their son, William, now almost three, and Miranda, one year old. Not many hours passed after their arrival before William demanded to be like his younger cousin and ride his father’s shoulders all about the house. The good-natured way in which Rannulf complied with this imperious demand spoke volumes about the sternness of his paternal rule over his household. And Jacques was not to be outdone, though he asked
his
papa more politely by tugging at the tassel on one of his Hessian boots until he was noticed and then stretching both arms over his head.
Stampeding human steeds and their squealing riders became a common sight and sound in the hallways and on the staircases of Lindsey Hall. Occasionally one of the latter was a twin girl, though Wulfric was having difficulty telling them apart.
Aidan and Eve, Lord and Lady Aidan Bedwyn, came with Mrs. Pritchard, Eve’s aunt, and their three children—Davy, aged ten, Becky, aged eight, and Hannah, almost one. Davy and Becky were actually their foster children, but neither Eve nor Aidan would tolerate hearing them referred to as such. Davy called them
Aunt
and
Uncle,
while Becky called them
Mama
and
Papa
. But as far as Eve and Aidan were concerned, both children were
theirs
as surely as Hannah was.
Davy became the new favorite with the boys, who callously abandoned their fathers for the marvel of an elder cousin who actually slid down banisters when no adult was looking. And Becky was adored by all, though it was mostly the girls who clustered about her like chicks with their mother.
It was all a little bewildering, not to say trying, for Wulfric. And the chatter among his siblings and their spouses only grew louder and more animated with each new arrival. He retreated to his library, his own personal domain, as much as he had done when they all lived there. He went to his private retreat in the park too, though only once.
Last to arrive of his own family were his uncle and aunt, the Marquess and Marchioness of Rochester. His aunt was a Bedwyn by birth and as formidable as any of them. She brought with her—somehow it seemed unlikely that the marquess had had any hand in the bringing—a niece of Rochester’s, who had been languishing somewhere in the north country until at the age of twenty-three she had been brought to the attention of her relatives in London and Aunt Rochester had decided to take the girl under her wing and introduce her to both the queen and polite society during the upcoming Season.
Aunt Rochester also made no secret of the fact that she intended to promote a match between Miss Amy Hutchinson and her eldest nephew.
“We will attach a husband for Amy before the Season is over,” she announced quite frankly to the whole table at dinner the evening of their arrival. “Or perhaps even before it begins. Twenty-three is too old for a girl to be unmarried.”
“I was twenty-five, Aunt,” Freyja reminded her.
Aunt Rochester picked up her jeweled lorgnette from beside her plate and waved it in Freyja’s direction.
“You waited dangerously long, Freyja,” she said before changing the direction of the lorgnette to indicate Joshua. “If that boy had not come along to tame you and charm you out of your stubbornness, you would have ended up a spinster. That is no desirable fate for a girl even if her brother
is
a duke.”
Joshua waggled his eyebrows at Freyja, and she glared haughtily back at him as if it were
he
who had just claimed superior charm and accused her of wildness and stubbornness.
Less than five minutes later Aunt Rochester broke into the general conversation with another observation.
“And it is high time
you
married, Bewcastle,” she said. “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.”
Five pairs of Bedwyn eyes—not to mention all the non-Bedwyn ones—focused upon Wulfric with unholy glee.
“She has you there, Wulf,” Alleyne said. “You are thirty-five now. You cannot afford another moment’s delay—it might prove fatal.”
“Take my word for it, Wulf,” Rannulf added, “gouty papas make inferior horses and sons will not appreciate them.”
“Thank you, Aunt,” Wulfric said, well aware that her implications concerning himself and Miss Hutchinson were as obvious to everyone else at the table as they were to him. “I do not begin to feel any symptoms of gout yet. And if and when I should select a bride to be my duchess, my family will certainly be informed of my choice and my intentions.”
The Bedwyns collectively grinned at him—joined by Joshua and Gervase. Eve smiled kindly. So did Rachel. Judith spoke up.
“Do you plan any special activities for the holiday, Wulfric?” she asked in an obvious attempt to turn a subject that was merely annoying to him but was probably quite distressing for Miss Hutchinson, who, though she was a pretty and elegantly turned- out young lady, was also shy and clearly in awe of the company in which she found herself. “May we organize some? There will be church over Easter itself, of course. But may we plan some sort of party for later? A concert, perhaps? Amateur theatrics? A picnic if the weather will cooperate? Even a ball?”
“Which of those questions would you like Wulf to answer first, my love?” Rannulf asked her.
“Amateur theatrics.” She laughed. “May we arrange some?”
“If we do,” Freyja said, eyeing her sister-in-law askance, “I am going to be quite out of sorts, Judith. You will out-act us all and make us look very amateurish indeed.”
“We must plan an entertainment at which Judith can act and you can warble a duet with me, then, sweetheart,” Joshua said. “None of us would willingly put you out of sorts.”
“I do not see any need for organized entertainment,” Morgan said. “We never failed to entertain ourselves without any organization, did we? I have my painting things with me and look forward to taking my easel outside. I was never allowed to paint the park here as I wished—Miss Cowper was forever hovering over my shoulder with suggestions of how I
ought
to paint. I do believe she feared Wulf would be angry with her if she did not teach me properly and would hang her in chains in the dungeons. Until the day she left here, I am convinced she believed there really
were
dungeons beneath Lindsey Hall.”
“There are not, Morg?” Alleyne asked, all shocked surprise. “You mean Ralf and I
lied
when we told her about the secret stairway leading down to them? Dear me.”
“The children will certainly be happy to play in this lovely park,” Mrs. Pritchard said in her thick Welsh accent. “And they all have so many cousins to play with.”
“But
may
we organize something special, Wulfric?” Judith asked.
“I am expecting more houseguests,” he said.
He instantly had everyone’s attention. Although he had always done his share of entertaining, as courtesy dictated, he had never been one for inviting guests to stay at the house.
“I have invited Mowbury to come down from London with the viscountess, his mother,” he said. “And his brother and his sisters will be coming too—Justin Magnus, Lady Renable with the baron and their children, and Lady Wiseman with Sir Lewis. And Elrick, Mowbury’s cousin, with the viscountess and their widowed sister-in-law, Mrs. Derrick.”
“Mowbury?” Aidan said. “Is he as bookish and absentminded as ever, Wulf?
And
his whole family? I did not realize you were so particularly acquainted with them.”
“And they are all coming
here
?” Rannulf added. “Why on earth, Wulf?”
Wulfric’s fingers curled about the handle of his quizzing glass as he set down his dessert spoon.
“I am unaware,” he said, “that I need to account to my brothers and sisters for the guests I choose to invite to my home.”
“Be fair, Wulf,” Freyja said haughtily. “Morgan and I did not utter a word. But is not Mrs. Derrick the woman you fished out of the Serpentine and took home dripping on your horse?”
“No!” Alleyne laughed heartily and then continued to grin. “Wulf did
that
? I say! Do tell more, Free.”
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.
“I’ll wager,” Rannulf said after they had all stopped laughing, “you were not amused, Wulf. And now you have felt obliged to invite the lady here with the rest of her family. Hard luck, old chap! But never fear—we will all protect you from her.”
“We will make a wall of bristling Bedwyns,” Alleyne promised, chuckling again. “She will never get past us, Wulf. You may recover your dignity at your leisure.”
Wulfric raised his quizzing glass halfway to his eye.
“All my guests,” he said, “will be treated with the proper courtesy. But to answer your question, Judith, there is to be a ball here. My secretary has already sent out the invitations and is seeing to the other arrangements. Doubtless other activities will suggest themselves as the days go by.”
He dropped his quizzing glass, picked up his spoon again, and addressed his attention to his custard.
What on earth had possessed him?
Give me a chance,
he had begged her. A chance for what? To prove he was something he was not? And he never begged. He never needed to.
Nothing can change,
she had told him. And, of course, she was right. How could he change his very nature? Did he even want to? She was
perfectly
right. There was nothing that could draw them together into a happily ever after.
I would be consumed by you,
she had said.
You would sap all the energy and all the joy from me. You would put out all the fire of my vitality.
He did not know what joy was. He did not know much about vitality either—at least, not the sort of vitality that gave her that inner glow he could never quite describe in words.
Did he have
anything
to offer her that she might want? And—to look at the other side of the coin—was there anything in her that could make her suitable to be his duchess? Not just his woman or his wife, but his
duchess
?
He set down his spoon, ascertained that everyone else had finished eating, and looked at his aunt with slightly raised eyebrows. She took her cue immediately and rose to lead the ladies from the dining room.