Page 27 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
The dance was intended to allow an opportunity to deepen their connection for those who had been paired together for the first game. Christine lingered at the fringe of the crowd, her fingers wrapped too tightly around the stem of her wineglass. She told herself she was only catching her breath after the morning’s games, yet her eyes roved the room until they found him. Tristan.
He stood half-turned from the crowd, as though aware of the attention yet too indifferent to care. His hair, dark as a raven’s wing, caught the light when he moved. His broad shoulders looked carved from some harder substance than flesh, and though he wore the same cut of coat and cravat as every other man present, he made them look absurd by comparison. He belonged not to fashion but to legend, like some predator strayed into a flock of geese.
Christine’s breath caught when his gaze found hers. The corner of his mouth curved—mocking, knowing, devastating. He crossed the floor toward her, each step measured, as though he owned the very ground. Ladies tilted their fans; gentlemen whispered behind gloved hands. She wanted to turn, to flee the scrutiny. But she could not move.
Do they know of our intimacy in the arboretum? They cannot. If they did, surely the scandal would be too great. We would be asked to leave.
“Lady Christine,” he said when he reached her, bowing just low enough to honor convention while his eyes held hers without release, “may I have this dance?”
Her throat was dry. This was where all uncertainty would be stripped away. All would see them dance and know their pairing was blossoming. She would be linked in the minds of all to the Duke of Duskwood. There was a thrill in that, an excitement that set her heart racing.
“I believe that is why we are here,” she replied with a small smile.
He extended his hand and she placed hers delicately into it. Again, she felt that peculiar scar. Her eyes met his, asking the question and receiving no answer. His hands felt strong enough to crush, yet offered with courtly grace. The warmth of his skin spread through her as he drew her into the throng.
She told herself it was only courtesy, only necessity. Yet her pulse drummed traitorously as he led her onto the polished floor.
“Last night you did not dance at all. I have not forgotten. That is why I offered the first dance tonight.”
“You have put us in the center of attention,” Christine whispered.
“I have,” Tristan said as though he could not care less.
“I thought you despised such attention.”
“I despise the people who thrive on such attention. I don’t think you do.”
“I have had too much of it.”
She realized that she had been gazing into his eyes. Their conversation had obscured the closeness that the dance required. Now she became acutely aware of his physical presence. It seemed scandalous that all should see them all but pressed against each other.
Can they not see how his body being so near sets my pulse racing and quickens my breath? Can they not see how my cheeks heat?
The music shifted, signaling the new set. Couples arranged themselves. Christine found herself swept into Tristan’s arms, his hand firm at her waist, her other hand lifted in his. The world contracted to his nearness.
“You look frightened,” he murmured, leaning close as they began to move.
“I am not frightened.” Her chin lifted in defiance, though her heart galloped.
“No?” His thumb brushed against her side through the silk of her gown, subtle, invisible to onlookers. “Then why do you tremble?”
“It is the heat,” she said quickly. “The room is stifling.”
His eyes glinted, amused. “It is not the room.”
They turned with the music, step and counter-step, her skirts brushing against his boots. Christine’s body seemed to know the rhythm of his without her willing it. Every shift of his shoulders drew her in. Every glance bound her tighter. She tried to focus on the steps, on the chandeliers above, on anything but him. But Tristan leaned close again, his breath stirring the curls at her temple. “You are a lioness pretending to be a lamb,” he said.
“Better that,” she retorted, “than a wolf pretending to be a man.”
He laughed, low and dangerous, and she felt it reverberate through her bones. “Touché.”
Around them, the dance continued, dozens of couples twirling in perfect figures. Yet Christine felt as though the others blurred into shadow, leaving only Tristan. The violins swelled, the floor seemed to tilt, and she realized with a shiver that she was smiling. Against her will, against reason, she was enjoying herself.
“You see?” he murmured, as if reading her thoughts. “We move well together.”
“In dancing, perhaps. Nothing more.”
“And yet the dance reveals more than words ever could.” His hand pressed at her waist, guiding her through a turn so seamlessly she almost gasped. “You resist, but you yield. You argue, but you follow.”
