Page 55 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
A hush fell that was broken, eventually, by the Dowager Duchess clapping her hands together.
“Now, now, Your Grace. That is not how the game is played.”
Tristan raised a hand, and she actually stopped talking.
“It is how I play. Lady Christine, do you consent to play this final game with me?”
Christine stood. “I do.”
They stood for a moment, islands in a sea of faces. In between, the Dowager Duchess looked from one to the other in shock, which soon became delight.
“Well, this might be my greatest triumph, I do declare. Very well. Have their names removed from the bag,” she ordered, prompting a rapid search of the names within until both were removed.
“Well, I have finished my breakfast. I will take some exercise in the grounds while I wait for the start of our latest game. Good morning.”
Tristan strode from the room without a backward glance, riding a surge of murmuring voices.
“If my brother does not hear of our engagement, it will not be for lack of trying from you,” Christine said as she tightened the blindfold around Tristan’s eyes.
“I could not stomach another draw. Or risk being partnered by Lady Martha again.”
“Or Lady Helena,” Christine said, almost absently.
Almost. Tristan couldn’t see her, but he could hear her.
“There is something in those three words.”
“They are English and intended to convey that you seemed at risk of partnering her at dinner last night,” Christine said hurriedly.
“I was not. Merely cornered into speaking to her, as anyone in her husband’s vicinity was into speaking with him. As you were into speaking with the Velvet…Windermere.”
“You are sufficiently aware of the gossip to be aware of his nickname then,” Christine said, a tone of satisfaction in her voice.
“As are you.”
“Servants hear everything.”
That bit like a nettle. It was a stark reminder of the cruelty she had experienced at Gillray House. Not that living as a servant was cruel. It was the foundation of English society. But servants were paid. They had careers. Christine had been little more than a slave.
If I choose to believe her. Her brother was an inveterate liar. What if she shares his inclinations?
He could not believe that. He did not want to believe that of Christine. To believe her a liar. In Tristan’s mind, Christine was honorable and pure. His own suspicious nature was leading him astray. As she stood close enough to adjust the blindfold, ensuring he was truly blind, he breathed her in. A floral scent from her soap. Lavender from her clothes. Something with a hint of citrus accompanied the gentle drift of fragrance from her hair when she turned her head quickly.
She was a flowering meadow with the wind gently stirring bright blossoms, casting their scent for miles. Tristan wanted to be lying amidst those flowers, basking in the warm sun and breathing in their heady bouquet.
“How did it feel when I almost chose Windemere?” she asked suddenly.
“Who told you that you almost chose him?”
“Blanche,” Christine said.
“You mean, he did.”
“I am not in the habit of telling lies.”
“One is not a habit. It matters not. He stepped out of the circle of his own volition. I think he possesses more honor than his name suggests.”
Christine was silent for a moment. “You have not answered my question.”
