Page 33 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
“She has always been far too forward. I am relieved Providence spared me. Imagine the scandal had we married. She is ruined already, though she plays the innocent.”
Tristan’s jaw locked. He told himself to move on. These were gnats, buzzing in a candle flame. Christine needed no champion, least of all him. And yet, his feet turned of their own accord. He stepped into the doorway.
“If you must speak ill of a lady, have the courage to do it to her face.”
Martha gave a start, paling before she found her bluster.
“Your Grace! We meant no offense…”
“You meant every syllable,” Tristan said coldly, “but let me assure you that Christine Davidson is twice the worth of any who whisper against her.”
His gaze pinned Bingley until the man shifted, flushed, and looked away. Martha bristled, but no retort came. The silence stretched until Tristan inclined his head, a parody of courtesy, and strode off down the corridor. Only when the distance had swallowed him did he let out a bitter laugh under his breath.
Fool. To defend her so openly.
He had all but carved his feelings into the wall for the vultures to peck at.
I should have kept silent, let her stand or fall on her own merits.
Instead, he had revealed his own hand. And now Martha, sharp-tongued and spiteful, would spread his defense through the hall like wildfire. Very well. If he had shown his claws, he would use them.
By midday, the ballroom was alive with chatter once more, the Dowager marshalling her second game, Stitch the Lady’s Favor.
Ladies sat with linen and thread, gentlemen called forward to play the part of clumsy suitors as they were selected. Tristan’seyes roamed the gathering, searching for Christine. He found her just as Martha’s shrill voice cut through.
“Your Grace! I choose you! The Duke of Duskwood!”
Tristan’s head whipped to where Martha stood. His eyes went back to Christine. She was looking at him, her face unreadable. He crossed the floor to Martha’s side, wearing the faint smile that unsettled people most. Martha glowed with triumph. Across the room, Christine’s face was carefully composed, but he saw the slight flare of her nostrils, the stiffening of her hand on her lap.
I am being used. Lady Martha seeks to drive a knife into Christine by inciting jealousy. I will not be used so!
He glanced at Lady Martha, who batted her eyelashes. He looked away, face as stony and cold as he could make it. Lord Bingley loitered on the periphery, fuming impotently—as, Tristan assumed, he did frequently.
Chairs were arranged in neat rows, ladies in silks perched like rare birds, each holding a square of linen and a basket of colored thread. The gentlemen were summoned one by one to sit beside them and be guided in the delicate art of embroidery.
Martha patted the chair. “Sit, Your Grace. Do not look so fierce. It is only thread and cloth, not sword and pike.”
He lowered himself beside her, lips curving into the kind of smile that made people uncertain whether he was amused or preparing to bite.
“I yield to your superior command, Lady Martha. What would you have me do?”
She placed the square of linen in his hands and bent close, her perfume cloying.
“Stitch a heart. Here. I shall guide you.” Her fingers closed over his, soft and insistent, drawing his hand into the first motion with the needle.
Without thought, he snatched his hands away and began to move the needle on his own. Lady Martha looked around to see if anyone had noticed. Everyone else was intent on their own tasks. Except for three pairs of eyes.
Lord Bingley, the jealous fiancée; the Dowager Duchess, tapping her lip with a finger thoughtfully; Christine. The only pair of eyes that Tristan cared about. They met and she looked away, becoming intent on the gentleman that she had been partnered with.
Damn him!
Tristan found himself thinking angrily about her partner, a stranger to Tristan. He reigned in his own jealousy, examining it with as much detached, glacial intellect as he could muster.Why? He needed Christine, but he did not want her. Not wanted in the primitive, primal way of a man and a woman alone, clothed in nothing but night.
Don’t you?
“You are actually quite skilled, Your Grace.” Lady Martha whispered in a voice that said she thought she was being intimate.
Tristan had forgotten her presence entirely.
