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dozen or so really ravishing and fashionable garments had suddenly materialized in her wardrobe since she had dressed that morning.
     
    W ULFRIC B EDWYN, D UKE 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