Page 65 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
“It is not.”
His fingers traced her jaw. The world narrowed to the space between them. Christine knew she should step away, but something stronger than reason rooted her there. When his lips touched hers, it was both shock and inevitability, the meeting of two storms.
The kiss deepened. Books pressed against her back, his body pressed against her front. She felt the hard plane of his chest, the uneven rhythm of his breath. Somewhere a clock ticked, forgotten. Her hands found his shoulders, steadying herself or holding him, she could not have said which.
A sudden thud broke the spell. They sprang apart. On the table beside them, a volume had fallen open, its pages fluttering like startled wings. Tristan caught it before it fell to the floor. The book was oddly light. He frowned, running his thumb along the gilded edge.
“This one,” he said.
Christine peered over his arm. The title wasThe Art of War.
“Appropriate,” she murmured.
He opened it. The center had been neatly hollowed, the pages glued into a box. Within lay a small velvet pouch and another folded note.
Christine gasped. “The prize.”
Tristan drew the note free and read aloud:
‘Congratulations. You have found the Duke’s secret. But perhaps, my dears, you have found something rarer still.’
He glanced up, eyes glinting with amusement. “The Dowager is a shameless romantic.”
“She will be insufferable,” Christine said, half laughing, half breathless, “we should tell her at once.”
He did not move. “In a moment.”
The moment stretched. His thumb brushed the edge of the pouch. “A ring,” he said softly, showing her the delicate gold band within, “symbolic, I imagine.”
“Or prophetic,” she said before she could stop herself. Their gazes locked.
He caught her hand and, very deliberately, slid the ring onto her finger.
“Then let prophecy stand.”
Her heart leapt. “Tristan…”
The door opened. A maid entered carrying a duster and a wooden box of cleaning implements. She almost dropped them at her first sight of Christine and Tristan. The girl stopped dead, eyes widening at the tableau before her, the Duke towering over Christine, her hand in his, the disordered books. Christine snatched her hand back, the ring glinting accusingly.
Tristan, unperturbed, set the book aside.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace. I thought everyone was still in the dining room. I will leave you…”
Something in that voice, soft, lilting, touched by nerves, caught Christine’s ear. Memory stirred. She looked sharply at the girl.
“What is your name?”
The maid hesitated. “Constance, my lady.”
Christine’s breath caught. The same gentle tones she had heard in the garden, whispering to the coachman.
“Constance,” she repeated. “I have seen you before.”
Color drained from the maid’s face. “I do not think so, my lady.”
“Yes,” Christine said, stepping forward, “on my first night here. You were accosted by Lord Dreadford.”
Constance’s eyes darted to Tristan, then down. “I…beg pardon, my lady…I must not speak of that.”
