Page 67 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
Tristan endured it all with the distant civility of a man tolerating the end of a play whose conclusion he already knew. His arm had remained fixed at Christine’s back as the Dowager made herspeech, declaring themthe perfect pairing, proof that the heart knows its match.
The words had been met with laughter and toasts, and Christine’s cheeks had flushed a lovely shade of pink, though whether from pleasure or mortification he could not say.
It makes her glow. Makes her radiant. Like she was when I brought her to the peak of ecstasy in the woods. The same shining glow.
He fought to keep his thoughts focused and under control. This was no time to indulge his desire or pretend that everything that had happened was not happening in accordance with his plans.
I am not in search of a wife. And any excitement I feel at the conclusion of these ludicrous games is for the furthering of my objectives. That is all.
When he had finally excused himself, murmuring something about business to attend to, Christine had caught his hand. It was a brief, uncertain gesture.
“You will return?”
“Before supper. Do not worry. I am not going to abandon you.”
The unspoken word hung in the air between them.Yet.
It will be necessary. It is necessary, and I will shed no tears over it.
Tristan wished he did not feel that he had to convince himself.
“Where are you going?” Christine asked.
“To remove an obstruction from our path.”
Now, his carriage rattled towards his objective, and Tristan planned. Christine’s belongings, what could they be? A few dresses, a book or two, perhaps a trinket from her sister.
Lady Gillray had treated her as a servant; it was unlikely she had much to her name. Still, Tristan felt the need to recover every scrap, as though each item might testify to what she had endured. And to what she was owed.
He told himself the errand was practical. Necessary. Yet beneath that reasoning coiled a far less comfortable truth. He wanted to stand in the house where she had suffered and remind himself of what he had rescued her from and of what he had sworn never to become.
The carriage stopped at the door of Gillray House, its façade yellowed by age, its windows shut tight against the world. The knocker was tarnished brass, dull beneath his glove.
He rapped once. A full minute passed before a butler appeared, his face grey with apprehension.
“Yes?”
“The Duke of Duskwood requires an audience with Lady Gillray,” Tristan said, abruptly.
“Is Her Ladyship expecting you, Your Grace?”
“Damned if she is!” Tristan snapped, pushing the door wide and shouldering past the bewildered man.
“Your Grace, this is most…”
“Unexpected, yes,” Tristan said, “you may inform Lady Gillray that I shall not require her to stand. I only require her attention.”
A portrait of the late Viscount Gillray stared down in dusty disapproval as Tristan strode toward the morning room. Voices drifted through the door, one male, one female, one drawling and superior. He recognized the male voice. Dreadford. His jaw tightened, and he entered without announcement.
Lady Gillray was ensconced in a high-backed chair, lace cap quivering as she turned. Lord and Lady Dreadford were on the sofa opposite, the man red-faced with wine, his wife swathed in ruffles and moral indignation. All three stared as though he were an apparition risen from the carpet.
“Your Grace,” Lady Gillray gasped, one hand flying to her throat, “how very sudden.”
Tristan bowed, perfunctory. “You are not mistaken. Suddenness is sometimes necessary.”
He crossed to the hearth, refusing the wave of her hand, which was an invitation to sit. Rain had begun again, and it beat a faint percussion against the windows.
“I have come to arrange for Lady Christine’s possessions to be sent to Duskwood tomorrow. My servants will collect them in the morning.”
