Page 7 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
Blanche looked helpless and glanced across the room again. Christine followed her gaze, and her heart leaped. There, a few dozen yards away, was Lord Bingley.
Oh Lord, thank you! Now, if only Providence will grant me one more boon. That Lord Bingley will be willing to help me!
She disengaged from Blanche with promises to find her later and began making her way to Lord Bingley. It seemed to take an interminable amount of time, but finally, she stood before him. Bingley looked around, and his eyes widened. His chin lifted.
“Lady Christine, I did not expect to see you,” he said in a lofty tone.
Christine felt a frisson of disquiet at his aloofness.
“Lord Bingley. You look well. May I speak to you privately?”
“Privately? I hardly think that would be appropriate.”
Christine faltered, a sense of wrongness surging within her. This was not how she had expected the conversation to go.
“I really think that we have much to discuss,” she persisted, stepping closer.
“I think not!” came a female voice from behind Christine.
She turned to see a young lady with a round face and dark hair. She had a pouting, doll’s mouth, and her pretty features were twisted in anger.
“I thank God that a friend of mine came to me to tell me that Christine Davidson had been sniffing around my betrothed. Did you think to steal him the way your brother stole from everyone he met?”
Christine was rocked by both the young lady’s vicious anger and the revelation that Lord Bingley had a betrothed.
I should have expected it! Why would he remain unattached for an entire year after believing himself jilted by me?
“I was not trying to…” Christine began.
“I believe the evidence of my own eyes!”
“Lady Christine, may I introduce Lady Martha, my betrothed?” Lord Bingley said, “Now, Martha…” he began in a conciliatory tone.
But his sentence remained unfinished. Martha snatched a wine glass from a passing servant and threw its contents into Christine’s face.
Three
The corridor was dim, lined with sideboards and gilt-framed landscapes. Christine hurried, her dress snagging at her feet. Wine stung at her eyes. It dripped from her hair and soaked into her dress, rendering it closer and closer to destruction with each passing second. But she could not think of repair. Only one of the utter humiliations she had just suffered.
She had run from Lady Martha’s jealousy and Lord Bingley’s cold disdain. Run blindly, finding a door and diving through, seeking an escape from watching eyes and whispering voices. Behind her came the sound of a door opening, footsteps hurrying.
It might be Blanche. She is bold enough to come after me and hang what anyone thinks. Or it might be Lady Martha. Or some other busybody looking for gossip.
Looking back over her shoulder, she snatched at a door she had just reached and ran through. And collided with someone very solid. Very tall. Very broad.
“Oh!” she gasped, starting to step back, but too late.
Her shoes stamped down hard on a foot shod in the kind of shoe men wore for ballrooms, not designed to withstand impact. He grunted in pain, and Christine leaped away, stammering apologies, only to back into a crowded sideboard.
Something gave behind her, moved, and…the man’s hand shot out to catch the vase Christine had knocked from its stand. He had to lean close to save it. His body pressed her back against the wall as he scrambled to save what was doubtless a priceless antique. Christine froze. It was him.
The Wolf Duke.
For an instant, neither moved. His face was inches from hers, all sharp lines and dangerous grace. His eyes, dark blue like an ocean storm, were fixed upon her. Her pulse thundered. She was amazed he could not hear it. Under that gaze, time slowed. She trembled and felt herself blush furiously.
Both were unwelcome sensations in the sense that she did not wish to appear to be weak and vulnerable to such a man. A man with such a wild, savage aspect. But the experience of those sensations was more than welcome. Christine found herself wishing she could feel those sensations without showing the outward signs.
She tried to control her breathing, conscious of how her chest heaved, though his eyes had still not strayed from hers. Heat rose in her face as those eyes stripped her. Her mouth was dry. Finally, after what seemed an age, he set the vase back upon the stand. But he did not immediately step away.
