Page 28 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
Christine stiffened. “Do not presume to know me.”
“I intend to.” His voice was velvet, his eyes storm-cloud blue, “every step teaches me something.”
They spun, skirts flaring, her breath catching as his strength carried her effortlessly through the pattern. She had danced with gentlemen before, of course, Lord Bingley among them. Butnever had she felt like this. Never so aware of the man’s body, of the raw power restrained beneath the trappings of civility.
The music slowed, leading toward its close. The final figure approached, couples circling before parting. Yet when the moment came for release, Tristan did not let her go. His grip lingered, thumb brushing across her knuckles, eyes locked on hers.
Applause rippled through the room as the set ended. Laughter, chatter, the rustle of silk, all swelled around them. Christine knew they should part, should curtsey and bow, rejoin the crowd as if nothing had passed between them. But neither moved.
“You are flushed,” Tristan said softly, his gaze devouring her.
“The dance was lively,” she answered, though her voice faltered.
“Not so lively as your pulse.” His smile was faint, wolfish.
At last, she pulled her hand free, though her skin burned where his had touched. She tried for composure, lifting her chin. “You are insufferable. This should be a perfectly innocent pursuit.”
“And you,” he said, bowing, “are irresistible. But you are right, this is a pursuit.”
Christine’s cheeks flamed. She turned swiftly, slipping into the crowd before he could see how her lips curved despite herself. But she felt his gaze on her still, searing through the press ofgowns and coats. Somewhere behind, she heard Lady Martha’s voice, shrill with fury.
“Did you see? She flaunts herself with him! After everything!”
The gossip had already begun, spreading like fire through dry straw. Christine’s heart hammered with mingled dread and exultation. She had stepped into danger, into scandal itself.
Yet as she moved away, her body still hummed with the memory of Tristan’s hands, his eyes, his voice. And she knew, with a thrill that was half terror and half desire, that the dance had only begun.
Ten
The moon was up, gilding Greystone’s gardens in a wash of stark white. Christine strolled arm in arm with Blanche Waldron, their cloaks pulled tight against the evening chill. Paths wound among manicured hedges, lit by torches in sconces or lamps held by servants.
The dance was over, as was dinner. Christine and Blanche had taken the opportunity for a breath of air and the chance to talk without the other guests breathing down their necks.
“Everyone watches you, you know,” Blanche murmured, half-teasing, “first Lady Martha with her tantrums, then that dance with the Wolf Duke. It is a wonder the Dowager doesn’t sell tickets.”
Christine forced a smile. “I would rather no one noticed me at all.”
“Impossible,” Blanche said briskly. “Especially when he stares at you so.”
“And how, pray tell, does he stare at me?” Christine said with a chuckle, as though Blanche had just made an excellent joke.
Her breath caught in her throat. She knew how he stared at her. Part of her wanted Blanche to say it, to hear her thoughts voiced by someone else. It would make it all the more real. All the more exciting.
“Like he is hungry,” Blanche replied with a wicked smile.
Christine was glad of the darkness which hid her blushes. Before Christine could reply, three figures appeared ahead on the path. Lord Ernald Thynne, bluff and genial as ever, his wife Elizabeth, and, walking with them, of course, was Tristan.
“The Wolf has sniffed out his prey once again,” Blanche whispered.
Christine’s pulse leapt, though she schooled her expression to cool civility. Blanche brightened and hurried her steps, greeting Elizabeth with delighted exclamations. Within moments, the ladies were arm in arm, while Lord Thynne fell into easy chatter on the other side of Blanche. That left Christine, somehow, inevitably, at Tristan’s side.
They walked a few paces in silence. Gravel crunched beneath their shoes, birds called from the hedges. Christine tried tofix her eyes on anything but him, but his presence seemed to command the very air.
“You are quiet,” he said at last.
“I find silence preferable to argument, Your Grace.”
His mouth quirked. “How disappointing. I was beginning to look forward to our quarrels.”
