Page 63 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
They passed drawing rooms and the dining room, heard the soft murmur of guests, contained by the storm, talking and passing the time. Christine had no desire to go among them. It would be the final end of the heavenly couple of hours they had spent pleasuring each other. She did not want it to end.
This is a dream in which we ghost through the house, invisible to all, free to do as we please. Oh Lord, if only it were so.
The library door yielded with a sigh of hinges. Within, the air was warmer, perfumed with old vellum, cedar polish, and the faintest trace of wood-smoke from the dying fire. Dust motes swam in the slanted light from tall windows.
“Here,” Christine said softly, “this is where the Dowager hides her secrets, I am sure of it.”
“You think the Dowager Duchess reads?” Tristan said, sardonically.
“I think she reads romances,” Christine replies, “and uses them for inspiration for her next match-making event. You must admit she is good at it.”
“She is good at finding ingenious means of wasting time,” Tristan rumbled.
He was looking around the room as though wondering where to start. His back was to her, and she was close enough to touch him. Close enough to run her fingers through his mane of damp hair. To press as she traced the line of his back, making him draw in breath and arch himself like a cat. As he had done earlier. Some catch in her breath drew his attention, and he turned.
His eyes smoldered on hers, emanating more heat than the glowing coals in the fireplace. She bit her lip, wanting to collapse into his arms but knowing this was a dangerous place for such dalliance. Allowances would be made for a newly affianced couple, but there were limits.
“A scandal would surely draw unwanted attention,” Tristan said, closing the gap between them to tower over her.
Christine pressed a hand to his chest, pressing inward with her fingertips as though tasting his body with them. She slowly drew her hand down, feeling a nipple become erect through the material of the shirt. A slight movement of her hips, a shuffle of her feet, and her loins met his. Separated by garments, the trappings of civilization seemed but a thin veil at that moment.
There came a sound from outside. A crack of a floorboard. It was as loud in that quiet moment as a rifle shot. Christine jumped back, smoothing her dress. Tristan grinned wolfishly.
“Not a scandal then,” he said.
“Not in reality, no,” Christine replied.
For a delicious moment, she wondered, had she consented, whether he had been serious.
Would he use me like that? Is he using me now? Taking pleasure from my body but using me as bait.
The thought was a sobering one, making her look at him differently. He turned away and crossed to the hearth, examining the mantel, the brass clock, the carved griffins.
“If she has hidden something, she has done so cleverly.”
Christine watched him for a long moment, wanting to see into his mind, to divine his intentions. He looked back over his shoulder.
“If we both look, this interminable game will be over faster, and we can depart.”
“Depart?” Christine asked.
“For Duskwood. You don’t think we would remain guests at Greystone any longer than we need to, do you?”
Something about the word we sent a thrill from the heart of Christine’s womanhood to her toes and the tips of her fingers. She felt like she was glowing, her knees trembling in memory of the humming vibration he had set coursing through her not two hours before. The screaming eruption. She smiled and sawthe ghost of an echo on his face, a recognition that his mind had been exploring similar memories.
Christine wandered between the towering shelves. The ladder gleamed where countless hands had polished it smooth, despite Tristan’s insistence that the Dowager Duchess was not literary. She trailed her fingers along the spines: histories, sermons, romances, leather, and gilt. The hush wrapped round her like the eye of the storm.
“Aha, a clue,” Tristan said.
She turned. He held up a folded scrap of parchment that had been pinned to the underside of the fireplace.
“Ingenious. The draught was making it flutter, but the sound wasn’t loud enough to be audible until you are practically in the fireplace.”
“And standing quietly, too. As one should in a library.” Christine pointed out.
“Our host is more intelligent than I gave her credit for.”
Christine took the paper, her fingers briefly touching Tristan’s. It felt as though sparks had leaped from the contact. She read, cheeks flushing furiously. Tristan stood close enough to touch, reading over her shoulder.
