Page 79 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
“As soon as possible.”
His gaze sharpened. “Ah.”
He did not ask further, and she was grateful. He understood the reason without needing to hear it for a young couple to be rushing to the altar.
“Then it is your domain,” he said after a moment, “speak to Mrs. Fogarty and Mr. Rollins about the arrangements. I leave such matters to my duchess-to-be.”
He rose from the table, folded the paper under his arm again, and inclined his head.
“Mrs. Fogarty will be waiting for you in the morning room. Discuss with her what you need for your ball and for your couple. She will manage both with equal efficiency.”
“You are going out?”
Christine felt disappointed. She’d become used to Tristan’s company on a daily basis during the Duke Hunt.
“There are matters to settle,” he said. “Duskwood keeps me busy.”
He did not elaborate. Within minutes, he was gone, and the great house seemed to grow larger in his absence. Christine went to see Mrs. Fogarty, and by the time the clock struck eleven, plans were taking shape. Christine felt at once bewildered and exhilarated.
She could not tell if she was being given tasks for idle hands. The thought stung. Perhaps he wished to keep her indoors, arranging roses, while he went into the dark after ghosts. She closed her eyes against the idea. If she was to be his wife, however long that lasted, she would exercise the authority that went with that position.
When dinner came, she dined alone in her room. The butler brought word that His Grace was detained in town and would not return until late. She sat in the window-seat, trying to read but failing. Then, she saw him. A figure emerging from the side door, walking with measured purpose across the grass. Tristan.
He wore no coat again, only a shirt open at the throat. It was as she had seen the night before. He crossed the same ground, entered the same trees, and vanished. She told herself not to follow. She told herself that a lady did not chase a man into the woods in her nightdress.
But her heart had already chosen disobedience. Within minutes, she had thrown on a cloak and slippers, caught up a lantern, and slipped through the corridor to the side door. It took longer than she thought to navigate the dark passages of the house.
But eventually, she was outside. The air smelled of wet grass and pine. Her breath made small ghosts in front of her face.
She followed the faint print of his boots, careful not to let the lantern show too high. The house behind her disappeared. After perhaps ten minutes, the trees thinned, revealing a clearing. In the center stood a stone structure with an arched doorway. She stepped closer, extinguished her lantern, and peered through the arch.
It was a bathhouse. Mossy with age, stone dark and smooth. Inside, the air shimmered with warmth. A stone pool was fed by a spring that bubbled quietly from a fissure in the wall. And there was Tristan gliding through the water away from her, his shoulders silver in the light.
For a moment, she could not move. The water clung to his skin as he stroked through the water with graceful, powerful movements. His hair was a mane, slicked back to lie on his back. His muscles were sleek, the water outlining their power. In the dim light, he gleamed as though his naked body were covered in diamonds. Reaching the far side of the pool, he floated, tossed his head, and stretched. The moment was unguarded, private.
He was all power and stillness, the same man who had commanded a ballroom now belonging to no one but himself. Hereached the far edge. His head turned slightly, as if he had heard something. She drew back behind the wall, heart pounding.
“Who’s there?” His voice echoed softly in the chamber.
She froze.
“Rollins?” he called, then, lower, “No, Rollins knows better than to disturb me…Christine?”
Her breath caught. He pulled himself out of the pool, water streaming down his body. The sight sent a rush of heat to her face, heat that raced down from her shoulders, tingling into her fingertips and even lower. She turned quickly, facing the door.
His body is as perfect as I imagined. Michelangelo himself would have despaired at trying to capture such masculinity as the Duke of Duskwood.
The image lodged in her mind could not be displaced. Shining muscles, slick with water. Faint traceries of steam rising from him. Rigid definition to his arms and his torso, tight lines. In the periphery of her vision, she had been aware of something else. Of his utter nakedness.
Something she had felt but never seen. She thought she would expire from the burning heat of her face. That steam should be rising from her instead of him.
“Come out,” Tristan commanded.
“You should lock your doors better,” she said faintly, looking back over her shoulder but not facing him fully.
He was half in shadow now, the darkness cast by a crumbling pillar enough to give him modesty. He looked her up and down slowly, and Christine felt his eyes as a physical touch.
“You followed me.”
