Page 66 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
“I will not tell anyone, don’t worry,” Christine said, kindly, “I too have suffered his unwanted attentions. It is nothing to be ashamed of.”
“He wasn’t even a guest, begging your pardon. He came to make mischief,” Constance said, fierceness breaking through in her voice and her eyes, “if my James had got hold of him…”
Her eyes went wide as dinner plates, her mouth fell open as she realized she had said too much. Tristan chuckled.
“Your husband, I presume? I would second him if he challenged that appalling Dreadford.”
Constance looked at the floor, swallowing.
“Not, my husband, Your Grace,” she whispered.
“No, he wants to be, though. But the Dowager Duchess doesn’t allow marriages between staff, does she?” Christine said.
Constance’s head came up, and there were tears in her eyes.
“Is it that obvious? Oh no! She will give one of us the sack if she knows. Or both!” Constance curtsied again, trembling, “Please, my lady, say nothing of what you heard. If the Duchess learns of it, she will dismiss us both.”
“You have my word,” Christine said. “Find me later, Constance. We shall speak privately. I may be able to help.”
The maid’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, my lady.” She fled.
When the door closed, silence reclaimed the room. Rain still dripped faintly from the gutters outside.
Tristan exhaled, long and slow. “How will you help?”
“If compassion is a fault, I confess it freely.”
“It will be your undoing one day. But you have not answered my question.”
“If it is to be my undoing, then you had better be there to catch me,” she said before thinking, and flushed scarlet.
His eyes darkened. “That, Christine, is precisely my intention.”
And I have not answered your question because I do not think you would like my answer. I will help her with the power a Duchess wields.
Tristan wanted to make her a Duchess, if only in name. Christine was determined to make full use of what time she had with that title and the power that went with it.
He intends to use me. I will use him.
She told herself it was a simple transaction, but knew, in her heart, there was nothing simple about it. Tristan stepped toward her, but she did not retreat. The air between them seemed to shimmer.
“The game is over,” she whispered.
“For you, perhaps,” his hand brushed her cheek, “for me, it has only just begun.”
Outside, a gust rattled the windows, and somewhere in the house a bell began to toll, summoning them to the Dowager’s drawing room. Christine drew a steadying breath.
“She will expect us to present the treasure.”
Tristan smiled wolfishly. “Then let us give her a spectacle.”
He offered his arm. She placed her hand upon it, the ring cold and light on her finger. Together they stepped into the corridor, leaving behind the hollow book and the old, dying fire. Prize and promise had already bound them tighter than any Dowager’s game could contrive.
Twenty
The storm had broken but seemed to linger inside Greystone’s walls, woven into the laughter and the bright chatter of guests who refused to accept that the Duke Hunt was over. By mid-afternoon, the drawing room was a hive of triumph, champagne glasses flashing, music tumbling from the pianoforte, and the Dowager Duchess glowing with satisfaction as though she had engineered a royal marriage rather than a game’s ending.
Not all shared the triumph. Lady Martha pleaded a headache and left the room, shadowed by her fiancée. Some of her court left with disapproving looks towards the victors and whispered words about the sad end that the Dowager’s games had reached. The hostess seemed blithely unaware of the disgruntlement which her winners had drawn.
