Slightly Dangerous Read Free Page B

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