Page 34 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
Thank you, Miss Hardcastle, the best governess I ever had. If I had to spend another minute in this woman’s company, I would walk out of this damnable house and to hell with the consequences.
The game unfolded. Martha made a show of guiding his fingers in the stitching of a heart. He did not need it and was only hampered by her pretense at teaching. The heart he stitched was small and perfectly formed. Christine guided the hands of a man with fiery hair and a long face who was pricking himself with the needle.
The Dowager Duchess declared Martha and Tristan the winners, and he folded the linen, putting it into his coat pocket. The gathering dispersed for refreshments ahead of luncheon. Tristan strode through them to Christine. She watched him approach and then turned away at the last minute. She smiled at her red-haired partner, curtsying to him and thanking him.
“Would you escort me to luncheon, Sir Nathaniel?” she said.
“I would be delighted,” he replied.
“Might I intercede?” Tristan growled, suddenly feeling an uncomfortable sensation at the sight of her about to accept the arm of another man.
Pull yourself together, you fool. This is how the game is played.
“We were about to go in for lunch. Would you not rather accompany Lady Martha?” Christine said, sweetly.
“Hang, Lady Martha,” Tristan said, brusquely.
“Well, I say!” Sir Nathaniel exclaimed.
“Come with me,” Tristan ordered, taking Christine’s hand and stepping away.
“You brute!” Sir Nathaniel protested, “That is no way to…”
Tristan stepped close, towering over the other man. “A wolf is a brutish animal. Take care lest you learn how brutal it can be.”
Sir Nathaniel retreated. A wave of looks and whispers spread out from the three of them like ripples from a rock tossed into a pond. Tristan could not help scowling both with jealousy and his own failing.
I am not a politician. I speak my mind, and I seek out what I want. I do not dance like these people do.
“Would you like to tell me what that display was all about?” Christine said as they walked through the ballroom and into the room beyond.
“I did not ask to be chosen by Lady Martha,” Tristan said.
“I was talking about you mauling of that nice young man.”
“He is a sniveling drip.”
“How interesting.”
“Why?”
“That you assumed I meant the game.”
Tristan glanced at her. She was watching him from the corner of her eye, and he knew he was losing in this particular round of their duel. He wanted to conjure a scowl, a glower, but he found that he was enjoying the crossing of verbal swords too much. Enjoying being in her company too much. Every time he looked at her, he could only see the outline of her body beneath her robe.
Christine plucked the embroidered heart from his coat pocket.
“You did a remarkable job with this.”
“It is not my first time at needlepoint. And I am good with my hands, Lady Christine.
She blushed so fiercely that Tristan’s self-control wavered. His mind filled with the image of her lips parted, her breath catching, her skin flushed beneath his touch—her voice trembling as she moaned his name.
“Really? What an onion you are. Always another layer revealed. Where did you learn needlepoint? I think you are better at it than I.”
That brought him back to reality.
He took back the linen and replaced it in his pocket.
