Page 86 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
“I hate deceiving her.”
“You are sparing her. That is different.”
Christine folded her hands. “Perhaps. But it feels like a lie.”
“Then I will shoulder it,” he said quietly, “for what it is worth, I do not think she is as well as she would have you believe. I…regret insisting on this visit. I would not add to her burdens.”
There it was again—the gentleness that crept into his voice when she least expected it.
“Nor would I. Which is the very reason I don’t want to tell her the truth,” Christine said.
Tristan nodded, and for a moment Christine took advantage of the silence that fell between them. He seemed engrossed in a study of the grounds, following the darting path of a swallow with a look on his face of almost boyish enjoyment.
She studied his profile, mapping for her memory the shape of his face. It was noble, the epitome of gentility. There was strength there, indefatigable and unyielding. There was also determination. Relentless determination.
That frightened her. She thought that might apply to Charles and worried for his fate if that resolve were truly turned fully upon him. What behavior might that single-minded focus drive? What actions?
I will not worry. I will not think of it. Selina has put herself out to welcome me and provide me with a respite from my worries. Whether she knows or not, that is what she is doing. I must make that sacrifice worthwhile.
“Are you painting a portrait?” Tristan asked, without looking at her.
“Just looking,” Christine said.
“I am told my neutral expression is confusing. Most people think I am angry all the time.”
“You look furious at the world. But I think I am learning to see beyond that.”
“Good. Because I am not. Not all the time, anyway.”
For a moment, she wanted to tell him everything. To pour out all of her fears and even her gratitude. Selina’s laughter floated through the open window, and the confession dissolved.
They spent the day in a sort of golden peace. The three of them dined in the garden, where sunlight dappled the tablecloth and bees drifted lazily among the blooms. Selina was endlessly cheerful, teasing Tristan about his reputation.
“I half-expected you to arrive draped in black and scowling,” she said, smiling, “instead I find a wolf almost tamed.”
“A tamed wolf is a lapdog, is it not?” Tristan said, amused.
“Oh, not that! Never that,” Selina replied, “what do you think, sister? Is your husband-to-be a dog lolling in your lap?”
Christine blushed, saw Tristan’s very direct stare, and blushed even deeper.
I will not say what he is thinking. That he has indeed…lolled in my lap. Oh Lord, I must banish such thoughts now!
“I have not dared to try and leash him yet. But give me time,” Christine replied with a cheeky smile.
“In all seriousness, Tristan. I see how my sister looks at you. Whatever roughness the world finds in you, Christine has forgiven it already.”
Christine laughed, but her throat felt tight. She wondered if her sister could sense the truth behind her composure, that beneath the serenity lay guilt, and beneath that, a small, frightened hope. As the afternoon waned, Selina grew noticeably paler. Christine saw her sister press a hand to her back, though she tried to disguise the wince.
“You should rest,” Christine said softly.
Selina waved her off. “I will not waste this day. You’ve come home to me, and that is worth a little discomfort.”
But the truth was there in the sheen of sweat at her temples, in the tremor of her hands when she lifted her teacup. She was putting on a brave face for them both. Later, while Selina napped again, Christine wandered through the gardens alone.
The air had cooled, the sky turning a deeper shade of gold. She thought of Duskwood, its shadows, its silences, the strange tenderness that had begun to grow between her and Tristan. It frightened her how natural it felt to walk beside him now, how easily she began to imagine that this was her life.
When they took their leave that evening, Selina clung to her hand.
