Page 84 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
Christine lowered her voice so that there was no possibility of the coachman overhearing.
“You have seen me unguarded. To paraphrase you, what can a naked woman hide?”
A smile tugged at Tristan’s lips, and his eyes wandered to hers. She thought there was smoke there, evidence of a fire still smoldering.
I caught him unawares last night. Saw him unguarded. Now he wears inscrutability like armor.
The carriage jolted into motion. The landscape unspooled around them. Hills silvered by the remnants of rain, copses of birch trembling in the wind, the occasional cottage with smoke curling thinly from its chimney. The country was waking, its greenery wet and its air full of the smell of smoke, earth, and wet grass.
Tristan seemed in unusually good spirits. Now and then, he pointed out a landmark or made some dry observation about the world passing their window. She found herself laughing more than she had in months, perhaps years.
“Was Duskwood always so empty before?” she asked as the miles slipped by.
“Empty?”
“I mean, when it is not being filled with the Thynnes and their laughter. And Flora’s mischief.”
His mouth curved. “It was quiet. That suited me. Do you object?”
“I have lived in a quiet house. I find myself wishing for life.”
“Society is overrated,” Tristan said.
“Wolves are social animals.”
“Ah, but I am a funny sort of wolf.”
The confession, understated as it was, warmed her. She let herself imagine, for a dangerous moment, that this could be ordinary. This comfort, this laughter, this journey side by side. She teased him, and his responses were delivered with a half-smile, a twinkle of the eye.
He maintained his image of the solitary wolf, uncivilized and uncaring. But she had seen a different side to him and knew that there was more to him.
He continues to play a role, and I am almost sure it is a performance. Not reality. Almost.
“Ah,” he said at last, glancing out the window, “we have arrived.”
She leaned forward, following his gaze. The road opened onto a long, tree-lined drive that swept toward an elegant manor of pale stone. Its windows caught the sun, and ivy climbed the walls like a green tide. Recognition struck her like sunlight.
“Birchfield?”
Tristan’s smile deepened. “Your sister’s home. I thought you would appreciate some cheering up.”
Her breath caught. “Selina knows we’re coming?”
“She does,” he said, pulling from his pocket a folded letter, “I wrote to her from my carriage as I was on my way to Gillray House. Told her I meant to steal you away and that she might wish to see what she was losing.”
Christine’s hand flew to her mouth. “You wrote to Selina?”
“I did. And she replied, quite warmly. She insisted I bring you as soon as the weather and sense allowed. I believe she intends to scold me for not having done so sooner. And probably you as well.”
The carriage stopped before the steps, where a footman already waited. The door opened, and a familiar voice called out.
“Christine!”
Selina was descending the steps, one hand upon her rounding belly, the other extended in delight. Her face was pale but radiant, her eyes bright with happiness. Christine was out of the carriage and running to her before propriety could protest.
“Selina,” she gasped, catching her sister’s hands, “you look…”
“Enormous,” Selina said cheerfully, “but alive, which is something I was not certain of a month ago. Oh, Christine, it does my heart good to see you. And you, Your Grace,” she turned to Tristan with a smile that was both grateful and appraising, “you’ve done precisely as I hoped.”
