Slightly Dangerous by Mary Balogh

must entertain it and if there is someone to be rescued, you must do the rescuing even if it means climbing a tree. I was inclined to feel a migraine coming on, I must confess, when I first heard what had happened. But Bertie chose to rumble and then laugh outright when Justin told the tale. Even Hector found it funny, bless his heart, and laughed merrily. And so I followed suit. I could not stop laughing, in fact, and you must not look sideways at me now or I will start again. Only Hermione and Basil refused to see any humor in the situation, the silly things, even though Justin assured us all that you were acting out of the kindness of your heart and were not trying to draw attention to yourself, least of all Bewcastle’s. I just wish I could have
seen
it.”
    “I will crawl off home and lie low for what remains of the two weeks if you wish,” Christine offered. “I really
do
beg your pardon, Melanie.”
    But Melanie squeezed her arm and told her not to be such an idiot.
    “Dear Christine,” she said, “you must simply relax and
enjoy
yourself. It is why I invited you—so that you would not have to be so busy for a couple of weeks. It was too bad that it had to be the Duke of Bewcastle who was forced to rush to your rescue, but we must not worry about that. He will forget you before the day is out and as like as not will not address another word to you before the party ends.”
    “That would be a relief at least,” Christine said.
    “In the meantime,” Melanie said, “a number of the other gentlemen are clearly smitten with you, as gentlemen always are, the earl among them.”
    “The Earl of
Kitredge
?” Christine asked, all amazement.
    “Who else?” Melanie said, patting her hand before wafting off on some other hostessing duty. “His children are grown and he is looking about him for a new wife. I daresay you could make another brilliant marriage if you chose. Just promise me that you will climb no more trees before the party is over.”
    Another brilliant marriage.
The very thought was enough to give Christine nightmares.
    But it seemed that Melanie was right about one thing. For the rest of that day and the next few the Duke of Bewcastle avoided all contact with her—not that she made any concerted effort to put herself in his way, of course. The very idea that he or other members of the party might think that she had been
flirting
with him . . .
    Whenever she looked at him—and annoyingly she could not keep her eyes off him for more than five minutes at a time when they were in the same room—he looked haughty and coldly dignified. If ever she caught his eye—and it happened altogether too frequently—he lofted one eyebrow or both and grasped the handle of his quizzing glass as if he were about to verify the amazing fact that such a lowly mortal really had dared lift her eyes to his.
    She had come to hate that quizzing glass. She amused herself with mental images of what she would do with it if given the chance. Once she visualized herself ramming it down his throat and watching it swelling the sides of his neck on its way down. She was sitting in a corner of the drawing room at the time in an attempt to resurrect her short-lived role as satirical spectator, and he caught her eye just as her imagination had reached the most graphic part. Suddenly she found herself being viewed for a brief moment through the lens of his glass.
    She really was terribly attracted to him, she was forced to admit to herself on occasion.
    She felt a dreadful curiosity to know what it would be like to go to bed with him.
    The very thought filled her with horror. But in parts of her person over which thought held no sway—the lower portion of her insides, for example—there were unmistakable stirrings of unbridled lust.
    She disliked the Duke of Bewcastle quite intensely. More, she despised him and all he stood for. She was also a little—a very little—afraid of him, if the truth were known, though she would endure