Chapter 2 #2
It was a man with long dark hair, his face angular and hard, as though hewn from marble.
Hard but beautiful. Perfect. He stood apart from the others, contained within his own bubble, which few seemed willing to come near.
And he was watching her. His gaze was steady, dangerous, like a wolf waiting at the edge of the firelight.
Her breath caught. She looked away, then back again, unable to stop herself.
She was a moth drawn to his flame. Those eyes made her feel naked.
Christine felt her pulse at her throat. She was deliciously exposed to those penetrating eyes.
The notion that she walked naked before him, with only his intense eyes able to see, made her heart beat faster.
She felt heat in her cheeks, and the hairs on the back of her neck lifted. A hand touched her arm, and Christine jumped. She squeaked before clapping a hand across her mouth. Someone sniggered.
“Best not,” whispered her dear friend, Blanche Waldron, at her side.
Blanche guided her to stand with her back to the stranger. “You do not want the Wolf Duke’s attention, I assure you. He is…dangerous.”
“The Wolf Duke?” Christine repeated.
“Duskwood. Some call him the Wolf Duke for the ferocity with which he guards his den, some for his… predatory ways. Do not meet his eye unless you wish to find yourself ruined.” Blanche studied her shrewdly.
“You make him sound like the devil,” Christine said, “one man cannot be all that bad.”
She felt like Orpheus, forbidden to look around but desperate to.
“You have not been among the ton since your debut—which I intend to take issue with, by the way, but more of that anon. You have not been around, so you do not know. Do not play with fire. That man will burn you.”
Christine saw the seriousness in Blanche’s face and nodded, swallowing.
Perhaps he is the devil. Well, I am not some silly girl whose head can be turned by a pair of smoky eyes. Or broad shoulders. Or a handsome face. Or that imposing height. Or…
She stopped herself, trying to put the Duke of Duskwood from her mind. She had greater concerns.
Blanche suddenly hugged her, ignoring etiquette in her exuberance at their being reunited. “Christine, I have not seen you in person since your debut! Why is that? Where have you been? Letters are a poor substitute for one’s best friend.”
Christine faltered. “I have been…in the country,” she said.
Forgive me, my dear friend, but I cannot bear for you to know the truth.
Blanche’s smile and arched eyebrow suggested disbelief, but she only squeezed Christine’s hand.
“We’ll speak in private. For now, think no more of it. You are here now, and we have much to catch up on.”
Christine’s chest loosened with gratitude.
“You’re kind, Blanche. Tell me, have you seen Lord Bingley?”
Blanche hesitated, glancing over her shoulder. “Why yes, but…”
“I simply must see him, Blanche. It is vitally important,” Christine said, urgently. “You see, I have recently discovered that the end of our engagement was…well, it was a misunderstanding. A miscommunication.”
Christine was so keen to discover Lord Bingley’s whereabouts and speak to him that she did not realize how many people were now listening. Blanche glanced around and made a hushing gesture, but Christine continued.
“Once I have spoken to him, I will be all yours, only…have you seen him?”
Blanche looked helpless and glanced across the room again. Christine followed her gaze, and her heart leaped. There, a few dozen yards away, was Lord Bingley.
Oh Lord, thank you! Now, if only Providence will grant me one more boon. That Lord Bingley will be willing to help me!
She disengaged from Blanche with promises to find her later and began making her way to Lord Bingley. It seemed to take an interminable amount of time, but finally, she stood before him. Bingley looked around, and his eyes widened. His chin lifted.
“Lady Christine, I did not expect to see you,” he said in a lofty tone.
Christine felt a frisson of disquiet at his aloofness.
“Lord Bingley. You look well. May I speak to you privately?”
“Privately? I hardly think that would be appropriate.”
Christine faltered, a sense of wrongness surging within her. This was not how she had expected the conversation to go.
“I really think that we have much to discuss,” she persisted, stepping closer.
“I think not!” came a female voice from behind Christine.
She turned to see a young lady with a round face and dark hair. She had a pouting, doll’s mouth, and her pretty features were twisted in anger.
“I thank God that a friend of mine came to me to tell me that Christine Davidson had been sniffing around my betrothed. Did you think to steal him the way your brother stole from everyone he met?”
Christine was rocked by both the young lady’s vicious anger and the revelation that Lord Bingley had a betrothed.
I should have expected it! Why would he remain unattached for an entire year after believing himself jilted by me?
“I was not trying to…” Christine began.
“I believe the evidence of my own eyes!”
“Lady Christine, may I introduce Lady Martha, my betrothed?” Lord Bingley said, “Now, Martha…” he began in a conciliatory tone.
But his sentence remained unfinished. Martha snatched a wine glass from a passing servant and threw its contents into Christine’s face.