Chapter 6
Six
From outside Christine’s room, in the hallway, came a sound.
Dinner was long over, and midnight was approaching.
Who would be abroad in Greystone at this hour?
She gathered her courage and then her skirts, opened the door, and slipped into the hall.
The corridors of Greystone were a maze, half-lit where they were lit at all.
Lamps were turned down low and seemed to throw more shadow than flame. Christine turned a corner, listening. She was just about to turn back, dismissing it as her overactive imagination, when she heard a low voice, oily with false charm, making her skin prickle unpleasantly.
“…no need to run off, pretty one. I only meant to…”
The answering whimper tightened Christine’s spine. She crept closer, saw Lord Dreadford looming over a maid pressed against the wall, his hand blocking her escape. Christine’s blood went hot.
Why would he even be invited? What is he doing here?
Before she could think better, she seized a sword from an ancient, ornamental display on the wall. It proved hard to remove, requiring both hands. It was heavy and unbalanced, and by the time she had it under control, Dreadford was advancing towards her.
“Unhand her at once!” Christine shouted.
He laughed. “What’s this? Christine Davidson playing at soldiers?”
“I am not playing,” Christine said, feeling her arms tremble with the weight of the blade.
“It is well that I found you. My wife and I were invited, but she decided to accept another invitation. But I was informed that you would be here by Lady Gillray. Trying to make up for losing you in the first place, I think. Most annoying. But all can be put right now that I have you.”
He advanced, and Christine lifted the sword.
“Get back!”
Dreadford stood with arms outstretched and head back, eyes closed.
“Do your worst,” he said before dissolving into snorting laughter.
Christine only had to look at the tear-streaked and frightened face of the maid, cowering against the wall, to find her courage.
She snapped the flat of the blade against his ribs, wielding the sword like a club.
It drew a high-pitched yelp from Dreadford.
The maid darted away, starched uniform rustling as she fled down the passage.
Dreadford recovered swiftly, his face mottled with fury. He lunged, seizing Christine's wrist. The sword clattered to the floor. Christine gasped, trying to twist free, but his grip was iron.
“Bold little fool,” he growled. “You’ll pay for…”
A hand grabbed his shoulder from behind. A shape loomed. Dreadford was spun around, and a fist struck him clean across the jaw. He went sprawling, crashing against the wainscoting. Standing over him, eyes flashing with cold fury, was the Duke of Duskwood.
“If I ever see you touch a woman again, Dreadford,” the Duke said, his voice low, dangerous, “you’ll not get up again.”
Dreadford spat blood, glaring up. “You will regret this, Wolf!”
The Duke’s temper snapped. “Call me that again and I will show you my teeth! Get out before I decide to end you now.”
Something in his tone, or the way his boot pressed threateningly close, convinced Dreadford. With a curse, he scrambled away and fled down the corridor. Christine clutched her wrist, heart hammering.
“Thank you,” she stammered.
The Duke turned to her, his face unreadable. “What business do you have with a man like that at this time of the night, in your nightgown?”
Christine heard the accusation in his tone. She remembered then that she was indeed in her nightdress, covered by a thick dressing gown of brocaded silk, but undressed nonetheless. She tightened the gown unnecessarily; it still covered her adequately.
Her heart raced, but it was no longer the result of the confrontation. The idea of being seen dressed for bed by this man was intensely exciting. She blushed, glad of the shadows to hide it from him.
“I caught him assaulting a maid,” she said. “How did you come to be abroad at this hour?”
“You challenge your rescuer again? I often walk when I cannot sleep. Do I need your permission?”
“I merely responded to your tone, questioning me.”
“I am fully dressed and not in an altercation with a known rake,” the Duke said sharply.
“As I said, I intervened to save a poor young girl from him.”
“That is not what the gossip will say. Have you not given them quite enough ammunition for one night?”
Christine forgot about her lack of clothes. She felt a surge of anger that this man constantly deemed it appropriate to judge her.
He mocked me when Lady Martha assaulted me. Called it bathing in wine if you please! Now, he implies I am trying to bring scandal upon myself! He is insufferable!
“Whether I risk scandal or not is my concern. I would not stand by and let…”
“But you risk putting yourself into the trap this maid was in. You might have become the victim of assault,” the Duke said harshly.
“Would you care?” Christine challenged, raising her voice.
“Do you mind?” came a male voice from behind a nearby door, “people are trying to sleep!”
Christine flushed bright scarlet. She and the Duke had drifted closer as they argued. Their voices had become increasingly raised.
Why do I let him get under my skin?
Her breathing was ragged, chest heaving. She looked up into the Duke’s blue eyes. They were the color of a winter storm now, dark and impenetrable. He was staring at her, lips parted, harsh face as still as stone.
“We should, perhaps, not be bawling at each other,” he whispered.
Christine laughed, despite herself. “Do you think not?”
Was that a quirk of the corner of his mouth? Has he just shared my joke?
“I do not trust that the rogue you confronted will not be lurking around. I will escort you to your room,” the Duke said, “let us be quick to avoid being seen.”
Christine nodded. “Thank you, Your Grace. That is sensible.”
He paused. “Call me Tristan.”
That stopped Christine, too. She had not expected to be on first-name terms with a Duke she had spent three minutes honestly getting to know and thirty arguing with. She turned and began to walk back along the corridor to her room.
Tristan strode alongside, hands clasped behind his back. Christine was acutely aware of his presence, silent though he was. She felt that she could have pointed to him with her eyes closed.
They reached the door without incident. Christine opened it and turned back to Tristan.
“Thank you for your help,” she said.
Tristan shrugged. “It is a disgrace that it was needed.”
“Meaning?” Christine said.
“I judge Dreadford this time,” Tristan said, “the man has no honor.”
“But before now, you judged me?” Christine asked.
“No.” Tristan snapped, then looked up and down the corridor as though remembering what had happened the last time they had argued.
“I do not judge, and you should not leap to conclusions. Conversations between us might become easier.”
“But you haven’t told me why?” Christine said, “Or for that matter, why you were wandering the halls at night.
“Perhaps because you are attractive, as an answer to your first question. Because I heard the same commotion as you in answer to your second. My room is at the end of the hall.”
The compliment he paid her was casually dropped into the conversation so that it took a second to register in Christine’s mind. She found herself blushing.
“And what distinguishes me from all the other attractive women present?” she asked.
“They do not pick up swords. Or stamp on feet.”
“I make a habit of neither.”
“You do not have to. One instance of each tends to stick in the mind. Think over my offer,” he made as though to leave, but stopped.
“I am not blind to your situation,” he said, after a moment’s silence.
“My situation?”
“Do not play games. I do not indulge in gossip, but neither do I walk around with my fingers in my ears. You live on the charity of Lady Gillray.”
It stung to hear her situation put so bluntly by someone who was effectively a stranger.
“I have lived there since I was orphaned at the age of thirteen. I am now twenty.”
“And you do not get along with Lady Gillray?”
“You might say that. But my sister is married to the Duke of Greystone. They are in the country, but when they return, I will live with them. So, you need not worry about me.”
“I did not say I was worried. Only that I offer my help.”
Christine looked up at him, desperately trying to see through the stony exterior.
He gives me nothing. But I know that he must be doing this for his own agenda. He is a wolf, not even pretending to wear sheep’s clothing. But what choice do I have?