Page 124 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
Lady Martha made a sound, half-laugh, half-sob, but neither of them looked back. They found their horses at the edge of the wood and rode in silence toward home. The night stretched wide around them, the air cold and sweet. When Duskwood came into view at last, its windows burned low, the last of the guests gone, the grand house waiting like a cathedral after prayer.
Tristan dismounted first and turned to her.
“Come,” he said softly, “we should put one truth right before morning.”
They entered through the side door into the empty hall. The music had ended hours ago, the candles half-spent. The ballroom was deserted, the polished floor reflecting the faint gold of the sconces. Christine hesitated at the threshold.
“After all this,” she murmured, “there should be silence.”
He extended his hand. “Then let the silence dance.”
She stepped into his arms. No music, no witnesses, only the quiet rustle of her gown, the slow, measured beat of their hearts finding time. His chin rested against her hair, and her cheek against his chest.
“I have loved you,” he said, “since the moment you told me I was impossible.”
She smiled through her tears. “And you still are.”
He laughed softly, a sound like forgiveness. They moved together beneath the dying light, their shadows turning slowly on the marble floor, until the first pale hint of dawn crept through the windows. And for once, the world outside Duskwood held its peace.
Epilogue
The bells began before the carriage turned the corner into the square.
Their sound rolled over the thatched roofs and cobbled lanes of Duxworth like sunlight, bright, pealing, and insistent. Every note seemed to tumble against her chest and bounce back again, dizzy with joy. Christine could hardly breathe for it. She had been through this ceremony before, but now it would be done properly. Tristan would accept nothing less.
The morning mist was lifting, revealing the church spire newly gilded by spring. The air smelled of hawthorn and woodsmoke, of rain promised but not yet fallen. Children stood on the low wall by the lychgate tossing petals from their aprons, and old Mrs. Cleverley waved her handkerchief as if repelling an invading army.
Lord Ernald Thynne sat opposite her in the carriage, his genial face glowing red with pride and exertion.
“You’ve filled the whole county with commotion,” he said cheerfully, adjusting his cuffs, “even the vicar’s wife forgot her hat in her haste to ring the bells. I told Tristan he was marrying a legend.”
Christine smiled, nerves fluttering like captive wings in her chest. “Then I hope the legend behaves with dignity.”
“Dignity is overrated,” Ernald said, “happiness will do.”
She looked down at her gloved hands folded in her lap. A letter rested there, folded neatly but worn soft at the edges. The seal had been broken that morning at sunrise. She had read it three times before breakfast, twice since, and still the words seemed to echo through her like a hymn.
Dearest Sister,
By the time you read this, I will have torn up your husband’s note and placed myself before the magistrate in Edinburgh. I cannot spend another hour living on your mercy. You showed me courage, and I will not waste it. Whatever the law decides, I will make myself into something honest if life permits me that chance.You were right about everything.
Charles
Tears had welled, but they were different tears than before—no longer grief but a gentler kind of mourning, one that held the possibility of peace.
“Are you all right?” Ernald asked.
“Yes,” she refolded the letter carefully and slipped it into her reticule, “I am, at last.”
“I have not had the opportunity to ask. How on earth did you persuade that ghastly lady to agree to the marriage?” Thynne said, straightening his coat and preparing, in Charles’s absence, for his role in giving Christine away. Christine smiled; that had been her brother’s last gift and the appendix to his letter. It was a signed affidavit stating her date of birth and swearing it to be so. A year before she was actually born.
“It seems that at some point I have lost a year,” Christine said, “I am a year older than I thought.”
Thynne guffawed. “The Lord and Fortune move in mysterious ways their wonders to perform. Lady Gillray must be spitting nails.”
The carriage jolted to a stop. Outside, the churchyard gleamed with garlands of white blossom tied to every gatepost. Duxworth’s people had outdone themselves, and even the gravestones looked newly polished. When Ernald stepped down and offered his arm, she took it. The warmth of his hand was steady, fatherly.
“Come along, my dear,” he said softly, “you’ve a duke waiting.”
