Chapter 5
Five
“There you are, my dear. I hope the wardrobe I furnished your room with was suitable?” the Dowager Duchess asked.
“To describe the wardrobe as suitable is to do your generosity a great injustice, Your Grace,” Christine replied.
After being escorted to her room by a servant, Christine had, at first, thought herself in the wrong place. A large oak wardrobe housed a dozen gowns, which rustled and glittered as she ran her hands over their sumptuous fabric. She wore one of them now.
“I am pleased that I remembered your dimensions as well as I did. It was based purely on memory, from my grandson’s wedding to your sister, Selina,” the Dowager Duchess said, casting a critical eye over Christine’s dress.
“In fact, if anything, I should say that the gown is slightly on the large side. It could benefit from being taken in, though it was already intended to be something of a slim fit.”
And I cannot tell you how that has come about. The days in which I was denied food or held to a starvation ration for some perceived slight against Lady Gillray.
Christine colored, but the Dowager Duchess was not one for noticing subtleties unless they related to match-making. She had already moved on in the conversation.
“Now then, I understand that Lord Bingley was not the man for you. I do not take such things personally, no, not at all. Though it was here that the two of you were matched, under my roof and by my judgement. Yes, indeed.”
“No reflection on you at all, Your Grace,” Christine assured her.
“On me?” the Dowager Duchess said with surprise, “Well, of course not. The very idea. You came through the games together, the perfect match. If Lady Martha is truthful…well, that is neither here nor there. I have such an event planned for this evening. Come, everyone should be gathered on the lawn by now.”
While Christine had been changing her clothes and cleaning herself up, night had fallen.
She was hungry and had quite forgotten the scheduled entertainment to celebrate the beginning of the Duke Hunt.
At the same time, she was nervous about potentially running into Lady Martha again, given her apparent enmity towards Christine.
Is Lady Martha truthful? What has she been saying about me?
“What, pray tell, has Lady Martha said?” Christine asked, following the Dowager Duchess from the drawing room in which the venerable matron had hunted her down.
“She has been reprimanded for her actions. There will be no more wine spilled. Quite a precious vintage I had brought up for this evening, and she tosses it like vinegar. The idea!”
“I was also quite upset by her actions,” Christine said.
“Well, you would be. Though seeking out her fiancé when he was not long ago your fiancé…” she tutted, wagging a finger, “open to the wrong sort of interpretation and hardly advisable. Selina would not have made such a mistake.”
“I have not seen my sister for a long time and barely had a chance to talk to her after she left for the country.”
“Society weddings are about alliances and connections. Joining the roots of one’s new family to those already established. Not for reminiscing with your own family.”
“Quite,” Christine replied, quietly.
After reaching the safety of her room, she had wept tears of helpless frustration.
She had wanted to dig in her heels against the current of fate that seemed to have her in its grip.
Dig in her heels and arrest the headlong rush she felt she was in.
Take stock and set her own direction. But everything was happening so fast.
Now, I am reminded of how little I know the waters I find myself sailing. Selina might be able to advise, but I dare not ask.
“How is your sister, by the way?” the Dowager Duchess asked, taking a moment to straighten a bouquet of flowers as they strode along a hallway.
“As I said, I have not seen her for a few months. She is pregnant and finding it a difficult time,” Christine said.
“Kindly take those canapes out to the south lawn!” the Dowager Duchess barked to a passing servant, apparently heading the wrong way.
Christine did not know if she had been heard at all.
They reached a sitting room with doors that opened out onto a veranda and a lawn beyond.
Torches in sconces lit the scene. Tables had been set up on the grass with flickering candles and ivory tablecloths.
Ladies were perusing name plates set up along the tables. Gentlemen stood, singly or in groups.
“A little bird tells me that the Duke of Duskwood came to your aid, earlier?” the Dowager Duchess whispered, in a tone that few would not hear.
“He merely happened to be in the vicinity,” Christine said, not sure if admitting a connection to the Wolf Duke would be wise.
And after all, I do not know how to deal with these people. How could I, when I have been living the life of a servant for years!
“Ah, well, do not be reliant on the help of the Wolf. Before him, you are a veritable lamb. Ladies and gentlemen, I think we are all now gathered!”
The Dowager Duchess went from conspiratorial whisper to a clear, carrying command, making Christine jump.
“Lady Christine has rejoined us and will take the remaining place at the tables.”
She ushered Christine to an empty space beside Blanche and just a couple of seats away from Lady Martha. Christine tried to ignore the glare she felt coming from that direction.
“I am so glad the Wolf did not eat you up!” Blanche whispered in a voice truly intended only for Christine.
“Why should he have?” Christine whispered back.
“Because Lady Martha is saying he disappeared around the same time as you. It does not do to be associated with such a man,” Blanche said, fervently, “his reputation can suffer no harm. It is bad enough. Yours would be tainted forever.”
“It already is,” Christine said.
A man with a reputation blackened in every drawing room in London. Would he suddenly play the hero? Her rational mind reminded her that she should be glad if he did not turn up for the rest of the Hunt.
Let him find better hunting elsewhere. But if he truly hunts my brother, there is nowhere else he will find his game.
But she could not forget the way her skin hummed when his hand brushed hers. The scandalous heat when he had pressed her fingers to his lips.
I should pray to God that he changes his mind!
“You are not twenty-one until next year, are you?” Blanche said.
“That’s right, why?”
“Because I have half a mind to write to my father and ask that he have a word with your guardian. It is Lady Gillray, is it not? She should be looking out for you to protect you against the likes of him.”
Christine laughed aloud at the very idea. Blanche was speaking with characteristic earnest fervor, determined and convinced of her own righteousness. Christine thought of the look on Lady Gillray’s face if such a letter arrived.
“Lady Gillray is…” she considered her words, feeling too ashamed to admit her living conditions even to her closest friend, “not concerned about that.”
“I think she would be if she knew.”
“I am safe enough under Her Grace’s wing for now, am I not?” Christine said, smiling and hoping to dissuade her friend.
Before Blanche could answer the Dowager, as though summoned by being named, she overrode all the other voices. She stood on a box, helped by a footman to either side.
“Ladies and gentlemen, during dinner and before the fireworks which will…oh, bother! That was supposed to be a surprise. Never mind. Where was I? Oh yes… during dinner, only the ladies will keep their places. The gentlemen will spend precisely three minutes seated opposite and then move one seat to their right. By this means, I wish to ensure every gentleman becomes at least acquainted with every lady. It will begin with the ringing of the bell, and each subsequent ring will move our gentlemen on by one seat.”
Christine had time for a startled glance with Blanche before the Dowager Duchess’ voice was replaced by a tinkling bell.
The gentlemen lined up and took their first seats.
Christine thanked God she was not seated before Lord Bingley.
She was introduced to a Marquis with a bold nose and a crooked smile.
Then a Baronet who seemed a composition of circles, a face, a protruding lip, and a protruding stomach.
Then an Earl with foppishly flung blond hair and a chin lifted so high he seemed to be studying her from atop Mount Olympus.
Then came Lord Bingley. She had seen him coming, of course, drawing nearer chair by chair. Lady Martha was leaning forward, ignoring her companion to stare balefully at Christine.
“Your Grace,” Bingley said stridently, “as a betrothed man, surely, I should not be participating. It gains the ladies nothing to become acquainted with me.”
He was hovering opposite Christine, a hand on the back of the chair.
“Then let me take your place,” came a deep, growling voice.
The Wolf Duke cut several places and took the chair from Lord Bingley, swiping away the other man’s hand curtly. He sat opposite Christine, crossing his legs indolently.
“Well, Your Grace, this is hardly in the spirit of the game,” the Dowager Duchess protested.
“I think Lady Christine has found her level. You are right, George, let us remove ourselves and let the unattached ones get to know each other,” Lady Martha said, standing.
Lord Bingley stammered.
“Was that an insult aimed at me or Lady Christine?” the Duke asked, lazy eyes drifting to Lady Martha, lip curling.
“I offered no insult, Your Grace,” Lady Martha curtsied.
“Then you should sue your voice and your face too for defamation,” the Duke drawled.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I am often misunderstood, I find.”
“Then you should be clearer in your words,” Lord Bingley retorted.
The Dowager Duchess attempted to interject after each exclamation and was left with an open mouth each time, and nothing came out of it.
The Duke smirked. “I do not think you would wish that from me.”
Christine watched the exchange in amazement. Around them, silence broke only for whispers of commentary and editorializing. She felt that all eyes were upon her, felt her cheeks grow scarlet. But the only pair of eyes that touched her deeply were those of the man opposite her.
I think he is defending me! Verbally sparring with them to deflect attention from me. But if that is his plan, it is failing. He is bringing me more attention!
He did not look away from her as he spoke.
His eyes had the depths of the ocean, the color of the sky after the sun had just disappeared below the horizon.
There were such depths there. Christine had never felt such a compulsion to look and to keep looking.
Such a compulsion to strive to discover the soul that lay beyond those windows.
In the flickering candlelight, he seemed a foreign prince. His cheeks were sharp and slanted, giving an exotic cast to his eyes. His lips were straight and unyielding, his jaw granite.
“Good evening. I am Lady Christine Davidson of Southbria,” Christine said, putting out her hand.
The Duke blinked before accepting it, rising from his seat to courteously kiss the back of her hand.
“I am Tristan Draymore, tenth Duke of Duskwood. At your service.”
Did he hold her fingers for a fraction longer than propriety demanded? Did his lips linger? Christine could still feel them. If she closed her eyes, she could convince herself that he was still kissing her. In her mind, she saw and felt him kissing her wrist, her arm, her shoulder.
My neck! Oh Lord, but I must control my thoughts!
“Bravo, Lady Christine!” the Dowager Duchess called out, “let us continue our rearrangement. Lord Bingley and Lady Martha, if you wish to sit out this game, then please do so.”
Lady Martha seemed put out now that her removal from the game had ceased to have an impact on Christine.
But she had risen from her seat. Lord Bingley dithered, courteously offered the seat opposite Blanche by a waiting servant, and almost took it before Lady Martha hissed in his direction.
There was a ripple of tittering as Lord Bingley hurried to her side and the two left with injured dignity.
“So, you have three minutes. What should I know about you?” Christine asked.
The Duke blinked, then stroked his chin for a moment.
“Tick tock, Your Grace. The bell will ring,” Christine said.
“I was raised from the age of fourteen by my uncle, Sir Alfred Draymore, my father’s younger brother,” he said, finally.
“You are fortunate. What became of your father?” Christine asked.
“Fortunate?” the Duke asked, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes.
“That you had an uncle who could step into your father’s shoes,” Christina said.
“Very. My father’s heart gave out. It was sudden. My uncle was a different matter. Am I permitted to ask a question?”
“No. What do you mean about your uncle?” Christina said, determined to exploit this opportunity to the best of her ability.
She was conscious of ladies on both sides of her, paying more attention to the Duke’s answers than to those of the gentleman opposite them. The Duke glanced with lidded eyes, one way then another. There was something of a snarl about the curl of his lip.
“My uncle succumbed to…a long illness.”
“I am very sorry.”
“You aren’t the one who should be sorry.”
Christine blinked. It had the feeling of a rapier blade. The Duke looked away, shaking his head and running a hand through his mane of hair. The bell rang, and the Dowager Duchess rang right after it.
“Time to move on, gentlemen!”
The Duke stood and walked away, declining to move one seat over.
Christine watched him stalk away and wondered at the need that would drive such a man to an event like this.
An event he clearly loathed. Or perhaps he simply loathed other people.
His posture said that he stood alone, even surrounded by others. That he was resigned to it.
How can I contemplate betrothal to such a man? To such a wild, savage man with so little respect for social conventions.