Chapter 3
Three
The corridor was dim, lined with sideboards and gilt-framed landscapes.
Christine hurried, her dress snagging at her feet.
Wine stung at her eyes. It dripped from her hair and soaked into her dress, rendering it closer and closer to destruction with each passing second.
But she could not think of repair. Only one of the utter humiliations she had just suffered.
She had run from Lady Martha’s jealousy and Lord Bingley’s cold disdain. Run blindly, finding a door and diving through, seeking an escape from watching eyes and whispering voices. Behind her came the sound of a door opening, footsteps hurrying.
It might be Blanche. She is bold enough to come after me and hang what anyone thinks. Or it might be Lady Martha. Or some other busybody looking for gossip.
Looking back over her shoulder, she snatched at a door she had just reached and ran through. And collided with someone very solid. Very tall. Very broad.
“Oh!” she gasped, starting to step back, but too late.
Her shoes stamped down hard on a foot shod in the kind of shoe men wore for ballrooms, not designed to withstand impact. He grunted in pain, and Christine leaped away, stammering apologies, only to back into a crowded sideboard.
Something gave behind her, moved, and…the man’s hand shot out to catch the vase Christine had knocked from its stand. He had to lean close to save it. His body pressed her back against the wall as he scrambled to save what was doubtless a priceless antique. Christine froze. It was him.
The Wolf Duke.
For an instant, neither moved. His face was inches from hers, all sharp lines and dangerous grace. His eyes, dark blue like an ocean storm, were fixed upon her. Her pulse thundered. She was amazed he could not hear it. Under that gaze, time slowed. She trembled and felt herself blush furiously.
Both were unwelcome sensations in the sense that she did not wish to appear to be weak and vulnerable to such a man.
A man with such a wild, savage aspect. But the experience of those sensations was more than welcome.
Christine found herself wishing she could feel those sensations without showing the outward signs.
She tried to control her breathing, conscious of how her chest heaved, though his eyes had still not strayed from hers. Heat rose in her face as those eyes stripped her. Her mouth was dry. Finally, after what seemed an age, he set the vase back upon the stand. But he did not immediately step away.
“While I’m pleased to sample the Hunt’s vintages,” he said at last, voice low, “they’re not generally offered at such high velocity.” His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Had I known, I would have worn armor.”
The spell snapped.
“You should not lurk behind doors, then,” Christine retorted, breathless but defiant.
“Doors,” he countered, “are meant for stepping through. Which is what I was attempting before you dashed into me. Do you often run about with your eyes closed?”
“My eyes were not closed,” she said hotly.
“Then how,” he asked softly, “did you fail to see me? I am hardly insubstantial.”
Her gaze swept his broad shoulders, the scale of his physique, which barely seemed contained by his clothing. Against her will, she whispered a fervent agreement.
“No. You are not.”
Heat flamed her cheeks. She tried to push past him.
“Forgive me, I am in haste.”
“Yes, we have thoroughly established that,” he said, stepping back with a limp.
“You are exaggerating. I am not that heavy.”
“Your shoes are.”
“I am sorry that you are so fragile.”
“And I am sorry that you should prove to be so rude.”
She had been trying to extricate herself from his company, stepping away and down the hallway. Now she stopped.
“I am not rude. Merely…”
“Argumentative.”
“No…”
Christine stopped as she realized that her disagreement with him was proving his point. He did not smile. Not as such, but she thought she detected a slight change in his expression. As though his granite features had somehow softened. She smiled, laughing softly.
“I do apologize for our…clash. I was running, but I think you must also have been moving too quickly to be unable to avoid me, no?”
“There is nothing quite so insulting as half an apology,” he said dryly.
Oh, dash it all! Why won't he just let me go!
She wanted to respond with a tight smile and a half-chuckle, but keep walking as though disengaging from an unwanted conversant. But she could not. Something in his manner made her want to stand her ground, unwilling to let him have the last word.
“It was a full apology,” she said firmly.
“It did not sound that way.”
“I cannot help how it sounds to you. Only how I intended it, which was sincerely. Now, if you will excuse me.”
Turning her back on him was difficult. He dominated her awareness. As she walked along the softly carpeted corridor, she found herself listening for his footfalls behind her.
“Might I at least have your name?” he called when she had advanced ten yards.
She stopped, biting her lip, wanting to give her name so that he would know her. Wanting the opposite with the same fervor. The question was settled for her.
“Lady Christine!” came Lord Bingley’s voice from behind her.
Her heart jolted. Lord Bingley was framed by the arch at the far end of the hall, golden hair gleaming in the light from the ballroom beyond.
But he was no longer the knight in shining armor—well, at least scuffed and serviceable armor—of her imagination.
Now she saw the aloofness in his fixed smile, the wariness in his eyes.
And then it struck her. She was caught. Alone. With the Wolf.
“Lady Christine, will your string of scandals never cease? What brings you here unchaperoned in the company of this gentleman?”
Christine stood before him, wine still dripping from her gown, the fabric growing ever more sodden. She felt a fountain of anger begin to bubble up from within her. She opened her mouth but was silenced by the low, commanding voice from behind her.
“Bingley. You can leave. If you are so eager to guard reputations, perhaps begin with your own betrothed, the one flinging goblets as though she were at a tavern brawl. Pray, keep your house in order before I am forced to do it for you.”
Christine’s stomach twisted. The Wolf Duke loomed at her back, a dark counterpoint to Lord Bingley’s bright clothes and face. Lord Bingley’s smile faltered as he met the Wolf’s eyes.
“Your Grace,” he said formally, his brow furrowed in worry, though his tone feigned indifference, “Lady Christine’s reputation is no concern of mine. She’s barely an acquaintance.”
The Wolf Duke’s lips curved in a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Ah. An acquaintance. One who bathes in wine?”
“It should be perfectly obvious to you that this is the result of an accident,” Christine said with as much dignity as she could muster.
“It did not look accidental to me. Did I not tell you to go, Bingley?”
Bingley actually took several steps before realizing that he was meekly obeying. He scowled at the Duke. Christine lifted a finger to her lips, panic fluttering at her heart. Everything was falling apart.
Weak, pathetic man! I cannot possibly be asked to stay for the Hunt after this! Despite the dowager being my sister’s grandmother-in-law, she surely will not side with me when she hears the gossip Lord Bingley will spread about me.
She saw herself forced to return to Gillray House. Saw the gloating triumph in Lady Gillray’s eyes. What did the woman want? Surely not simply to torture her, to make her life a misery out of sheer spite?
“I understand that our host,” the Duke began. “The dowager duchess takes pains to invite eligible men and women to these events, with married men and women invited to serve as either role models or cautionary tales. Which might you be?”
Lord Bingley glared at the Duke.
“This is no business of yours,” he said.
The Duke shrugged. “One finds diversion where one can.”
“I’m sure the Davidson girl will be delighted to be your diversion,” Lord Bingley said.
The Duke was silent for a moment and then turned to look searchingly at Christine.
“Davidson?” he asked.
Christine felt the familiar sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“Yes, of Southbria, Your Grace, which I’m sure was going to be your next question.”
“It was. I am familiar with your family.”
Whatever he was about to say next was drowned by a shrill cry.
“Christine Davidson! I know you are here with my betrothed. I saw you! Mark my word, Lady Gillray and every soul of the ton will hear of it!”
The Duke’s hand closed lightly around Christine’s wrist. Not possessive, not gentle either. Simply, inevitable.
“This way,” he commanded.
Christine lingered, hesitating as the reality of the moment settled upon her. No one could help her now.
Do I trust the wolf at my side, or face the hounds alone?
The duke opened a small door at the back of an alcove. Lady Martha’s footsteps thudded closer, her voice slicing through the air.
“Lady Christine, I know you are here! I will make sure your face is never seen again in polite society!”
Christine’s pulse thundered. Without another thought, she followed the Wolf Duke into the shadows.