Page 3 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
“Of course,” Lady Gillray said. “It was for his own good.”
Christine bowed her head. “Then I must beg pardon for interrupting your tea. I will return to my duties.”
Lady Gillray’s eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering.
“Just like that?” she asked. “No outburst? No childish tantrum?”
“Would there be any point, My Lady?” Christine said, removing any emotion from her voice, wanting to appear as helpless as possible. “My hopes were pinned on Lord Bingley. But it seems those are dashed.”
“Very well. I am glad you are capable of controlling yourself,” Lady Gillray said after a long, uncomfortable moment in which Christine felt herself weighed and measured. Then Lady Gillray spoke again.
“Before you go, child, be sure to fetch Lady Dreadford’s gowns from Madame Lenoir on Oxford Street. They should be readytoday. We have a function to attend this evening and she will need ample time to prepare, so do not dawdle.”
Christine curtsied. “At once, my lady.”
She turned, walking swiftly back toward the house. Her rapid steps echoed the wildly racing currents of her thoughts.
A plan had come into her mind just then, fully formed. Her position was untenable. Intolerable. But she had an invite to the Duke Hunt. Lord Bingley would be there.
He must be there! He has to be!
She would tell him the truth, that she had never rejected him. Perhaps he would listen. Perhaps she could rebuild what Lady Gillray had torn apart. Yet even as hope flickered, a shadow crossed her mind. Lord Bingley was safe and dependable. But he was not the stuff of passion, not the kind of man to set her heart alight.
It does not matter. I will take a lifetime of grey days and boredom to a life of slavery.
Lord Dreadford stepped out of the French doors that led into the drawing room. He was scowling. Christine saw Lady Dreadford disappearing through a doorway, slamming it behind her. When Dreadford saw her, a dark smile spread across his saturnine features.
“Well, has Lady Gillray given you the good news?”
Christine felt ice in her veins at the leering suggestion in his voice. She glanced back at Lady Gillray, who watched her with the intensity of a raptor.
“Which good news would that be?” Christine asked.
“‘My Lord,’ please.”
“I am not a Lord,” Christine replied, unwilling to address him as such.
Dreadford’s grin was the toothy grimace of a predator.
“No, but I am. And I will beyourLord.”
He stepped closer. Christine wanted to keep her distance but refused to let him see fear. She stood her ground.
“You are married.”
“Married men always have mistresses. You will enjoy it, I promise you. Once you’ve learned your place.”
Christine looked back at Lady Gillray instinctively.
“Don’t look to her for help. It was her idea in the first place. Profitable for her. Elevating for you, to be mistress to a man such as I.”
Christine brushed past him, almost running. His laughter followed her into the house.
Two
The pins clinked into place as Jane, Christine’s maid, tugged at the bodice. Christine’s bronze hair and green eyes matched the dress surprisingly well. It combined the palest green, sunlight filtered through paper-thin leaves in a forest canopy, with flashes of cream.
“Breathe in, Christine. If you faint, at least you’ll faint looking beautiful.”
