Chapter 4
Four
Tristan held Christine’s elbow firmly as he guided her down yet another silent corridor. He was acutely aware of her fragile slenderness. Never had he felt more aware of a female form. Her perfume assaulted his awareness. Light, floral with a hint of citrus. Feminine.
He resisted the urge to inhale deeply, not wanting to show how much he was savoring her. The feel of her skin beneath his fingers became the primary sense of his body. She felt perfect with skin that made satin feel like hessian.
“Are we to march through every chamber in this house, Your Grace?” she asked tartly, tugging at her cloak.
He cut her a sidelong glance. “Until I’m satisfied, you’re safely beyond that woman’s talons, yes. You may thank me later.”
“I don’t recall asking you to rescue me.”
“No,” he agreed, pushing open a door and ushering her through, “but you ran when I told you to, and now you are safe from her. I call that a rescue.”
Does she agree with anything without arguing about it first?
Tristan wondered for the hundredth time why he was embarking on this escapade. It seemed to serve no immediate purpose other than to risk scandal. Not that he cared particularly about his name. He was well aware of how darkly others spoke of him.
A man refuses to let others dictate how he should behave, and he becomes the greatest danger to civilization since Attila the Hun.
Dark words were perfectly suitable for him.
But not for this woman’s blazing beauty.
She had been a beacon, outshining all other women in that hall.
Tristan had been unable to take his eyes from her, berating himself the entire time for allowing the distraction.
When he had then witnessed her being assaulted, his interest had been piqued even further.
Except now I know who she is. Providential. She is exactly what I need.
The room they eventually stopped in was a small, intimate, shuttered drawing room, with a pair of French doors opening onto a long stretch of lawn. The immaculate grass was silver in the moonlight. Tristan gestured toward them.
“Should she sniff you out, there’s your escape route. I doubt any woman here could cross that lawn quickly in the gowns they insist on wearing. Yours is far more practical.”
Christine bristled. “Are you an expert on fashion?” she asked.
“Hardly. I intended my comment as a compliment. I cannot abide frippery.”
Tristan strode to the hearth and crouched to strike a flame, coaxing warmth into the grate.
The fire caught quickly, casting a restless glow against the walls.
Behind him, Christine lowered herself onto the sofa with exaggerated composure.
He heard her shift, once, twice. And though he kept his back turned, Tristan felt her gaze trailing him, burning against his shoulders.
I feel naked. Damnation, but no other damned woman has ever made him feel so. I must get a grip on myself.
He picked up a book from the table, studied the spine without interest, and replaced it.
His pulse was irritatingly uneven and had been from the moment she had blundered into him.
She seemed confident, sharp-tongued, and stubborn.
Irresistible and insufferable at once. And no, she was a Davidson.
Sister to Charles Davidson, the debtor and fraudster.
“You needn’t prowl like a wolf in a cage,” she said, breaking his reverie, “sit, if you must linger.”
He turned. “Forgive me if I prefer to keep my distance. I’m told I have fangs and claws, after all.”
Her lips twitched into a smile. To his amazement, he found himself returning the smile. Briefly. Even a smile that lasted the duration of a second radiated from her face like a sunrise. It elevated a beautiful countenance to something approaching the divine. She glowed.
Dimples. Damn her.
He leaned against the mantle.
“This is rather a ludicrous situation, isn’t it?” he said.
“Running away and hiding? I should say so,” Christine said.
There was a moment of silence, and then both laughed. It was spontaneous and connected them for a moment, laying aside barriers.
“Tell me, why does that woman hate you so?”
Christine shook her head, eyes fixed on the firelight. “Lord Bingley once courted me. I think she is jealous.”
“That is all? Jealousy over Bingley the Buffoon?” His tone carried insolent disbelief.
“He is a very nice man,” Christine said after a moment.
“You don’t sound so certain.”
“He is or was perfectly courteous and…”
“Dull. When the best description a lady can give of a man is that he was very polite,” Tristan retorted.
“I would rather a polite man than a savage one,” Christine said,
“Meaning me?” Tristan asked with an insolent grin.
I do not believe she means what she says. No one could feel such an attachment to a man who is so banal.
“Meaning the Wolf of Duskwood.”
“Ah, so you indulge in petty gossip and name-calling.”
“Bingley the Buffoon?” Christine said with a raised eyebrow.
Tristan laughed. “Touché. You are a worthy opponent.”
“I didn’t know we were engaged in a duel,” Christine said.
“Wolves don’t duel. I would call this a hunt.”
“What is your prey?”
Tristan considered his response, holding Christine’s gaze.
The moment stretched and became something more than consideration.
There was fire in the exchange. He felt it, and from the color of her cheeks, so did she.
Tristan licked his lips, mouth dry. He berated himself for the weakness of a wet-behind-the-ears youth.
You would think I had never kissed a girl or spoken to a woman before.
“My prey is your brother,” he said, flatly.
He watched the glow leave her face. The brows drew down, and she looked away. Tristan felt bereft to be deprived of her smile. Of her fierce gaze.
“I see. Well, I do not know where he is. So, you would be as well taking your leave of me.” Christine replied, tone empty.
Tristan’s eyes narrowed, and he pursed his lips. Then he pushed off the mantel and strode to the door. “Very well. Shall we go back to the ball and let everyone see that you were alone with me?”
“Don’t!” The word escaped her like a yelp. She sprang to her feet, crossing the room in a flutter of skirts, eyes wide. He halted with his hand on the doorknob, looking down at her. So near. Too near.
Her green eyes, so wide, so helpless, appealed to something primal. He did not want to look away. Before she could speak further, the doorknob jerked beneath his palm. He took his hand away, and Christine gasped, clutching at it instinctively. His larger hand closed over hers, easily pinning it.
On the other side came a querulous voice. “Is anyone within?”
Christine’s breath stuttered. He saw her lips part, saw the panic gathering.
He pressed one finger to her mouth. Her lips were warm and moist against his skin.
His heart tripped in his throat. His skin tingled where it came into contact with hers.
He wanted to replace his finger with his lips, kiss her, taste her.
The knock came sharper, followed by a huff, then retreating footsteps and muttered complaints. Silence returned.
“I do not think that was Lady Martha,” Christine sagged in relief.
But Tristan did not release her hand. He looked down at her, caught in the glow of the fire, and whispered.
“Where is your brother? Best for you that you give me what I want.”
“And you want Charles?” Christine asked.
“I want justice.”
Her chin lifted, tremulous yet proud. “Best for me? Are you threatening me? Exposure or hand over my brother?”
He shook his head, amused. “Merely stating uncomfortable facts.”
Before he quite thought better of it, he lifted her hand to his lips.
She snatched it back as though burned, retreating to the far side of the room.
Tristan felt almost giddy at the memory of his lips against her smooth skin.
He wanted to know what she tasted like. What her lips tasted like. How she felt to hold, to possess.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
“To help you.”
She laughed softly, bitterly. “First, you threaten, then you offer aid. Your reputation suggests I’d be a fool to trust you.”
His own smile was mirthless. “Your own reputation is hardly stainless.”
“My reputation,” she said coldly, “is unimpeachable.”
“Your brother’s is not,” he returned smoothly.
Color flared in her cheeks. “There is nothing you can say of Charles that I haven’t heard a hundred times.”
Tristan shrugged. “Then I will not voice my thoughts. It is understood what he did.”
“The ton understands what he did. But not why.”
“I do not spend my time among the ton,” Tristan said. He didn’t spend his time with anyone, in fact, but she didn’t need that knowledge.
Her eyes narrowed. “Then what are you doing at the Duke Hunt?”
“My duty,” he said simply.
She scoffed. “And I suppose you’d have me believe you dislike all this?”
“I dislike most things,” he said, voice dry, “tell me, was your invitation for the ball only, or for the full week?”
She hesitated. “I am invited to participate. I attended for two years and won Lord Bingley’s attention. I think our hostess wants to see if I can be matched again, perhaps?”
Tristan laughed, sharply. “The man quails at his own shadow. What on earth drew you to him?”
“I…I was fooled.”
“Perhaps,” Tristan said. “And if you prefer weakness to strength, then perhaps you are a poor judge of men.”
Her eyes flashed. “Better a weak man than an insufferable one.”
He stepped closer, slow, deliberate. “Why not ask your brother for aid? He is Earl now, is he not?”
Her throat worked. “I don’t know where my brother is.”
A lie, surely. I can see it in the flicker of her eyes, the set of her jaw. She knows more than she claims. And she might be my best chance of finding Charles Davidson.
“I am also invited to participate in the Hunt,” he said at last, voice low, deliberate, “Perhaps the friendship of a duke might serve you well—and persuade Lady Martha to leave you in peace?”
She blinked. “Why would you do that?”
Tristan smiled thinly, though his blood was hot with want and warning both.
“Does it matter?” he asked.
He could not forget the feel of her soft skin beneath his hand.
The delicacy of her. The vulnerable femininity.
Her eyes were large, their light fierce.
Her body was the very paragon of womanhood, curving and sumptuous.
Curves that cried out to be touched. Tristan clenched his hands behind his back.
“I thank you for your consideration and for your help. But I think that I must now find a way to prove that I have not been closeted alone with you. To avoid scandal,” Christine said.
She stepped away from him, clasping her hands together, creating a shield against him.
This is my opportunity. To gain my revenge on her damnable brother for his crimes against my family. I will not let it pass by.
“There is only one way to avoid such a scandal. I thought of it the moment I heard your name. If we are believed to have been matched, if we were betrothed, there would be no scandal.”
Christine gaped at him. Then she laughed.
“I came here to try and repair a courtship that had been sabotaged without my knowledge. And now a complete stranger proposes? And one with such a reputation!”
“We are all strangers here, and yet we are expected to pair off. Hundreds of strangers marry in England every day. The aristocracy is practically founded on arranged marriages.”
“But all with more than a few minutes’ notice!” Christine cried, “Why do you wish to offer me this?”
“I wish to find your brother. He did considerable harm to my family.”
“You want to be revenged upon him? I do not know where he is or even if he is still alive.”
“Not revenge, justice. I don’t believe he is dead. Merely hiding. Our being publicly linked might draw him out.”
Christine paced the room, hugging herself tightly.
“I…I don’t know. I can’t just leap into such a decision.”
“Nor would I expect you to. So, take the time you need. We are supposed to be here for a week, are we not?”
She stopped pacing. Looked at him. It was a look that had nothing of vulnerability or weakness. There was a fierceness there that stirred something in Tristan.
“A week then. At the end of the Hunt, I will give you my answer.”