Chapter 9
Nine
The ballroom glittered like a jewel box, all chandeliers and gilt mirrors, every surface polished to brilliance. Music swelled from the small orchestra in the gallery, a stately waltz whose notes shimmered through the air like champagne bubbles.
Silk skirts swirled across the floor in clouds of pastel and jewel tones, punctuated by the darker, sterner hues of gentlemen’s coats. Conversation fluttered at the edges like so many butterflies, but the dance floor was the heart of the spectacle.
The dance was intended to allow an opportunity to deepen their connection for those who had been paired together for the first game.
Christine lingered at the fringe of the crowd, her fingers wrapped too tightly around the stem of her wineglass.
She told herself she was only catching her breath after the morning’s games, yet her eyes roved the room until they found him. Tristan.
He stood half-turned from the crowd, as though aware of the attention yet too indifferent to care.
His hair, dark as a raven’s wing, caught the light when he moved.
His broad shoulders looked carved from some harder substance than flesh, and though he wore the same cut of coat and cravat as every other man present, he made them look absurd by comparison.
He belonged not to fashion but to legend, like some predator strayed into a flock of geese.
Christine’s breath caught when his gaze found hers.
The corner of his mouth curved—mocking, knowing, devastating.
He crossed the floor toward her, each step measured, as though he owned the very ground.
Ladies tilted their fans; gentlemen whispered behind gloved hands.
She wanted to turn, to flee the scrutiny. But she could not move.
Do they know of our intimacy in the arboretum? They cannot. If they did, surely the scandal would be too great. We would be asked to leave.
“Lady Christine,” he said when he reached her, bowing just low enough to honor convention while his eyes held hers without release, “may I have this dance?”
Her throat was dry. This was where all uncertainty would be stripped away. All would see them dance and know their pairing was blossoming. She would be linked in the minds of all to the Duke of Duskwood. There was a thrill in that, an excitement that set her heart racing.
“I believe that is why we are here,” she replied with a small smile.
He extended his hand and she placed hers delicately into it.
Again, she felt that peculiar scar. Her eyes met his, asking the question and receiving no answer.
His hands felt strong enough to crush, yet offered with courtly grace.
The warmth of his skin spread through her as he drew her into the throng.
She told herself it was only courtesy, only necessity. Yet her pulse drummed traitorously as he led her onto the polished floor.
“Last night you did not dance at all. I have not forgotten. That is why I offered the first dance tonight.”
“You have put us in the center of attention,” Christine whispered.
“I have,” Tristan said as though he could not care less.
“I thought you despised such attention.”
“I despise the people who thrive on such attention. I don’t think you do.”
“I have had too much of it.”
She realized that she had been gazing into his eyes. Their conversation had obscured the closeness that the dance required. Now she became acutely aware of his physical presence. It seemed scandalous that all should see them all but pressed against each other.
Can they not see how his body being so near sets my pulse racing and quickens my breath? Can they not see how my cheeks heat?
The music shifted, signaling the new set. Couples arranged themselves. Christine found herself swept into Tristan’s arms, his hand firm at her waist, her other hand lifted in his. The world contracted to his nearness.
“You look frightened,” he murmured, leaning close as they began to move.
“I am not frightened.” Her chin lifted in defiance, though her heart galloped.
“No?” His thumb brushed against her side through the silk of her gown, subtle, invisible to onlookers. “Then why do you tremble?”
“It is the heat,” she said quickly. “The room is stifling.”
His eyes glinted, amused. “It is not the room.”
They turned with the music, step and counter-step, her skirts brushing against his boots.
Christine’s body seemed to know the rhythm of his without her willing it.
Every shift of his shoulders drew her in.
Every glance bound her tighter. She tried to focus on the steps, on the chandeliers above, on anything but him.
But Tristan leaned close again, his breath stirring the curls at her temple.
“You are a lioness pretending to be a lamb,” he said.
“Better that,” she retorted, “than a wolf pretending to be a man.”
He laughed, low and dangerous, and she felt it reverberate through her bones. “Touché.”
Around them, the dance continued, dozens of couples twirling in perfect figures.
Yet Christine felt as though the others blurred into shadow, leaving only Tristan.
The violins swelled, the floor seemed to tilt, and she realized with a shiver that she was smiling.
Against her will, against reason, she was enjoying herself.
“You see?” he murmured, as if reading her thoughts. “We move well together.”
“In dancing, perhaps. Nothing more.”
“And yet the dance reveals more than words ever could.” His hand pressed at her waist, guiding her through a turn so seamlessly she almost gasped. “You resist, but you yield. You argue, but you follow.”
Christine stiffened. “Do not presume to know me.”
“I intend to.” His voice was velvet, his eyes storm-cloud blue, “every step teaches me something.”
They spun, skirts flaring, her breath catching as his strength carried her effortlessly through the pattern.
She had danced with gentlemen before, of course, Lord Bingley among them.
But never had she felt like this. Never so aware of the man’s body, of the raw power restrained beneath the trappings of civility.
The music slowed, leading toward its close. The final figure approached, couples circling before parting. Yet when the moment came for release, Tristan did not let her go. His grip lingered, thumb brushing across her knuckles, eyes locked on hers.
Applause rippled through the room as the set ended. Laughter, chatter, the rustle of silk, all swelled around them. Christine knew they should part, should curtsey and bow, rejoin the crowd as if nothing had passed between them. But neither moved.
“You are flushed,” Tristan said softly, his gaze devouring her.
“The dance was lively,” she answered, though her voice faltered.
“Not so lively as your pulse.” His smile was faint, wolfish.
At last, she pulled her hand free, though her skin burned where his had touched. She tried for composure, lifting her chin. “You are insufferable. This should be a perfectly innocent pursuit.”
“And you,” he said, bowing, “are irresistible. But you are right, this is a pursuit.”
Christine’s cheeks flamed. She turned swiftly, slipping into the crowd before he could see how her lips curved despite herself. But she felt his gaze on her still, searing through the press of gowns and coats. Somewhere behind, she heard Lady Martha’s voice, shrill with fury.
“Did you see? She flaunts herself with him! After everything!”
The gossip had already begun, spreading like fire through dry straw. Christine’s heart hammered with mingled dread and exultation. She had stepped into danger, into scandal itself.
Yet as she moved away, her body still hummed with the memory of Tristan’s hands, his eyes, his voice. And she knew, with a thrill that was half terror and half desire, that the dance had only begun.