Page 11 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
“Tell me, why does that woman hate you so?”
Christine shook her head, eyes fixed on the firelight. “Lord Bingley once courted me. I think she is jealous.”
“That is all? Jealousy over Bingley the Buffoon?” His tone carried insolent disbelief.
“He is a very nice man,” Christine said after a moment.
“You don’t sound so certain.”
“He is or was perfectly courteous and…”
“Dull. When the best description a lady can give of a man is that he was very polite,” Tristan retorted.
“I would rather a polite man than a savage one,” Christine said,
“Meaning me?” Tristan asked with an insolent grin.
I do not believe she means what she says. No one could feel such an attachment to a man who is so banal.
“Meaning the Wolf of Duskwood.”
“Ah, so you indulge in petty gossip and name-calling.”
“Bingley the Buffoon?” Christine said with a raised eyebrow.
Tristan laughed. “Touché. You are a worthy opponent.”
“I didn’t know we were engaged in a duel,” Christine said.
“Wolves don’t duel. I would call this a hunt.”
“What is your prey?”
Tristan considered his response, holding Christine’s gaze. The moment stretched and became something more than consideration. There was fire in the exchange. He felt it, and from the color of her cheeks, so did she. Tristan licked his lips, mouth dry. He berated himself for the weakness of a wet-behind-the-ears youth.
You would think I had never kissed a girl or spoken to a woman before.
“My prey is your brother,” he said, flatly.
He watched the glow leave her face. The brows drew down, and she looked away. Tristan felt bereft to be deprived of her smile. Of her fierce gaze.
“I see. Well, I do not know where he is. So, you would be as well taking your leave of me.” Christine replied, tone empty.
Tristan’s eyes narrowed, and he pursed his lips. Then he pushed off the mantel and strode to the door. “Very well. Shall we go back to the ball and let everyone see that you were alone with me?”
“Don’t!” The word escaped her like a yelp. She sprang to her feet, crossing the room in a flutter of skirts, eyes wide. He halted with his hand on the doorknob, looking down at her. So near. Too near.
Her green eyes, so wide, so helpless, appealed to something primal. He did not want to look away. Before she could speak further, the doorknob jerked beneath his palm. He took his hand away, and Christine gasped, clutching at it instinctively. His larger hand closed over hers, easily pinning it.
On the other side came a querulous voice. “Is anyone within?”
Christine’s breath stuttered. He saw her lips part, saw the panic gathering. He pressed one finger to her mouth. Her lips were warm and moist against his skin. His heart tripped in his throat. His skin tingled where it came into contact with hers. He wanted to replace his finger with his lips, kiss her, taste her. The knock came sharper, followed by a huff, then retreating footsteps and muttered complaints. Silence returned.
“I do not think that was Lady Martha,” Christine sagged in relief.
But Tristan did not release her hand. He looked down at her, caught in the glow of the fire, and whispered.
“Where is your brother? Best for you that you give me what I want.”
