Chapter 8
Eight
“The Duke of Duskwood,” Christine called out as she unfolded the slip of parchment that she had drawn from the silk bag held by a servant.
There were mixed reactions. Ladies whispered, and some gentlemen went so far as to shake their heads. The Dowager Duchess led the applause as Tristan strode from the group of gentlemen to stand by Christine’s side. Others joined in out of politeness.
There were sympathetic looks and looks of contempt. Lady Martha looked away, nose in the air, clinging to Lord Bingley’s arm. Each lady standing with a gentleman had drawn from the bag, and half a dozen remained. The draw was the beginning of the first game, Aim for the Duke’s Heart.
The morning sun was warm enough that the ladies wore dresses that left their arms bare, with only the filmiest of shawls to cover their shoulders. Christine had. It felt daring, but she had not been able to resist.
When else would I get the chance to wear such fine gowns? When else have I ever had that chance?
“Shall we?” Tristan’s voice sounded far too smooth at her shoulder. Christine turned to find him bowing with mock gravity, extending his arm. “Our destiny awaits, Lady Christine.”
She rolled her eyes and refused his arm. “Our turn will not come for some time. The queue is long.”
“And yet,” Tristan murmured, leaning closer so only she could hear, “I find myself impatient.”
She turned her face away, lest he see the warmth stealing into her cheeks.
The lawn glittered with color, silks and satins, parasols like painted wings, laughter and chatter carried on the late morning air.
At the far end of the green, the mannequin of the Duke for whom the entire event was named.
Its heart was painted bright red. It stood like a ludicrous scarecrow.
Couples queued with bows and blindfolds, the ladies laughing nervously while their gentlemen guided them into position.
Christine told herself it was only a game. A harmless country diversion. Yet when Tristan took the blindfold from the steward and held it out to her, she felt as though she were stepping into something else entirely.
They stood in a line; servants walked along it with trays of fruit, sweets, and punch. There was much laughter and chatter. The dowager kept up a running commentary on how each lady performed with her arrow.
Tristan looked at her. “Will you be returning to Gillray House when this is over?”
Christine thought about telling a glib lie. But really, what was the point in concealing anything?
“No. I do not get along with Lady Gillray,” she said, “I will delay returning for as long as possible. Hopefully, not before I am able to go to my sister.”
“And why is that?”
“Why do you wish to know? It seems a very personal question.”
“I am interested in you.”
“Don't you mean ‘nosy’?” Christine countered.
“Hardly. I abhor slang.”
“Is that intended as a slight?” Christine asked, feeling as though she had been insulted.
“Only if you are very overly sensitive,” he paused for a moment, “where will you go then?”
She looked at him. The question seemed innocent enough, but it also felt loaded with significance. Tristan was watching the shot of the next lady in line. But he glanced at her.
What is to be gained by lying? If he thinks I will say that I am going to join my brother, he will be disappointed.
“I will stay with my sister as soon as she has had her baby. Her pregnancy has been difficult. I would not want to add to her worries.”
“Is it not the case that a pride may have only one lioness?” Tristan asked.
That was definitely of significance. He was fixing his attention on Christine now.
She looked back, trying to fathom what his motives were for these questions.
Though she had to admit, the metaphor was very flattering.
So, even while she studied him with narrowed eyes, she felt drawn to him for his compliment.
“Actually, my understanding is that a pride has many females. They work together to raise the children, hunt, and defend.”
“But there is only one alpha female. Is that not correct?” Tristan insisted, “The others are subordinate to her. I have difficulty seeing you as subordinate or…submissive.”
“Selina would not require it of me,” Christine said.
They were now at the head of the line. Tristan held up the blindfold he had been given.
“I can manage,” Christine said, snatching the cloth from his hand.
He cocked his head. “I do not doubt you can tie a knot. But that is not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
“That you should trust me.”
She met his gaze and, after a moment’s hesitation, thrust the blindfold back. “Very well.”
His fingers brushed her temple as he tied the cloth over her eyes.
She tried not to shiver. Where he touched, the memory of that contact lingered.
She could not help but replay it in her mind.
A sharp intake of breath brought his scent to her.
It was unbearably masculine. A cologne that had notes of wood and musk, leather and open air.
It made her think of being held before him on horseback, the wind flying his hair behind him like a banner.
“Too tight?” His voice had dropped, intimate.
“No.” It came out breathless, betraying her.
“Good.”
The weight of the bow surprised her, heavier than it looked. She fumbled, nearly dropping it. Tristan’s hand closed over hers, steadying her grip. The heat of him seeped through, a steady pulse.
“Hold here,” he murmured, shifting her fingers on the bowstring. His breath grazed her ear. “Straighten your elbow. Yes, just so.”
She swallowed hard, hyper-aware of everyone watching. Of Martha’s sharp laugh somewhere behind them. Of the sun beating down. Of the smell of Tristan, leather, spice, and something wholly male.
“You’re trembling.”
“I am not.”
“You are,” he insisted softly, “but only here…” his thumb brushed the inside of her wrist, setting her pulse hammering.
It made her skin tingle. Her breath came in quick jerks. She did not know how she would hold up the bow when his touch seemed to make her knees shake and her hands tremble. She nearly lost the arrow in sheer panic.
A squeal erupted nearby.
Christine jerked, swinging the bow wildly.
“Careful!” Tristan’s grip clamped around hers, “You nearly shot Lady Martha.”
Christine’s mouth dropped open beneath the blindfold. “What?”
He laughed, low and wicked. “A pity, some might say. Aim back toward the mannequin, my lioness. Unless you truly crave scandal.”
“Do not call me that,” she snapped.
“Why not?” His lips hovered close enough that she could feel the ghost of them, “It suits.”
Her chest rose and fell, each breath too shallow.
“Now,” he whispered, guiding her aim with subtle touches, “Let fly.”
She released. The string twanged, the arrow thudded home. Laughter erupted. Christine tore off the blindfold. The mannequin stood pierced in the groin. Tristan winced in theatrical agony, clutching himself.
“Merciless. You’ve unmanned me entirely.”
Christine blushed scarlet as titters and hoots spread through the crowd. But then, unexpectedly, Tristan caught her eye and grinned. Not mockery. Not disdain. Genuine amusement. She found herself grinning back.
Later, Christine was seated at a wrought iron table on the lawn.
It was one of many scattered about so as to provide privacy to those who sat at them, allowing conversations to be had that would not be overheard.
Tristan sat opposite, and Christine tried not to watch the sunlight glint in his eyes as he poured wine into her glass.
“Three new facts about one another,” he reminded, handing her the goblet, “the challenge we have been set for this afternoon. Do not think you may evade it.”
Christine arched her eyebrow. “You begin, then. Since you are so very eager.”
“How long until your sister gives birth?”
“That is not a question about me,” Christine countered.
“It concerns you peripherally, and you are not the arbiter of the rules.”
“Shall we call the dowager to adjudicate?” Christine chuckled, sipping her wine.
She felt more relaxed than she had. The unfortunate placement of her arrow had made them both smile. Tristan seemed easier in himself, and that made Christine relax.
“My sister’s child is due in two months.”
Tristan frowned. “Two? But the Duke Hunt lasts only a week. What will you do for the remaining seven if you do not wish to return to Gillray?”
“That is hardly your problem. I…in truth, I do not yet know.”
She blushed, knowing that she sounded churlish and hating the fact.
“I feel like we have suddenly taken two steps backward,” he said.
“We have taken no steps forward, so that cannot be. We are still at the start,” Christine replied.
Tristan shrugged. “Implying that we stand at the beginning of a journey. I am not sure that we are. Or, that you are.”
“My journey is clear, but it is a solo one,” Christine said.
“It needn’t be. In fact, I would say that will make it harder for you. A companion will help the time pass, don't you think?”
“A companion must be trusted.”
“Which is why we are playing these games, is it not? To build trust?”
And so, the dance goes on, and we come back to the same thing. Can I trust him? He wants to find Charles, but can I trust him when he says he means him no harm?
“It is. But I find trust a difficult thing to come by. I trusted my father, and he was taken from me. I trusted my brother…”
Tristan’s eyes seemed to sharpen, and Christine looked away.
“…and look what happened,” she finished.
“What did happen?” Tristan leaned forward in his seat, every inch the hunter.
“You know as does everyone else here. What no one knows, myself included, is where he is now.”
Tristan sat back, disappointed. Christine had thought of another reason that Tristan might be helping her, but could not bring herself to believe it.
He might be interested in me. In the same way that Dreadford is.
The thought of being desired by Tristan was intoxicating, setting her heart racing.