Chapter 10
Ten
The moon was up, gilding Greystone’s gardens in a wash of stark white. Christine strolled arm in arm with Blanche Waldron, their cloaks pulled tight against the evening chill. Paths wound among manicured hedges, lit by torches in sconces or lamps held by servants.
The dance was over, as was dinner. Christine and Blanche had taken the opportunity for a breath of air and the chance to talk without the other guests breathing down their necks.
“Everyone watches you, you know,” Blanche murmured, half-teasing, “first Lady Martha with her tantrums, then that dance with the Wolf Duke. It is a wonder the Dowager doesn’t sell tickets.”
Christine forced a smile. “I would rather no one noticed me at all.”
“Impossible,” Blanche said briskly. “Especially when he stares at you so.”
“And how, pray tell, does he stare at me?” Christine said with a chuckle, as though Blanche had just made an excellent joke.
Her breath caught in her throat. She knew how he stared at her. Part of her wanted Blanche to say it, to hear her thoughts voiced by someone else. It would make it all the more real. All the more exciting.
“Like he is hungry,” Blanche replied with a wicked smile.
Christine was glad of the darkness which hid her blushes. Before Christine could reply, three figures appeared ahead on the path. Lord Ernald Thynne, bluff and genial as ever, his wife Elizabeth, and, walking with them, of course, was Tristan.
“The Wolf has sniffed out his prey once again,” Blanche whispered.
Christine’s pulse leapt, though she schooled her expression to cool civility.
Blanche brightened and hurried her steps, greeting Elizabeth with delighted exclamations.
Within moments, the ladies were arm in arm, while Lord Thynne fell into easy chatter on the other side of Blanche.
That left Christine, somehow, inevitably, at Tristan’s side.
They walked a few paces in silence. Gravel crunched beneath their shoes, birds called from the hedges. Christine tried to fix her eyes on anything but him, but his presence seemed to command the very air.
“You are quiet,” he said at last.
“I find silence preferable to argument, Your Grace.”
His mouth quirked. “How disappointing. I was beginning to look forward to our quarrels.”
She gave him a sidelong glance. “Then you must find amusement elsewhere.”
They turned down a more secluded path, the others lingering behind in animated conversation. When they were alone enough, Tristan’s tone shifted.
“Have you given more thought to my offer?”
“I still have time, do I not?”
He faced her squarely, his expression unreadable but his eyes alight with some fierce intent.
“A betrothal of convenience. You gain protection from Lady Gillray, from Dreadford, from the vultures of society. I gain leverage. Your brother will surface if his sister is bound to me.”
Christine’s heart thudded painfully. “I am bait and my brother the innocent prey.”
“Hardly innocent.”
“He does not know that he is hunted.”
“He must know or else why hide?”
I cannot deny the logic. If he did not fear reprisals, he would be in his place as Earl, and I would not be threatened by Lord Dreadford.
“I would use every weapon at my disposal,” Tristan said evenly, “and you would cease to be a pawn in other people’s games. I would shield you.”
“Shield me?” Her laugh was bitter, “By making me your wife in name only? Do you take me for such a fool?”
“No fool,” he said softly, “and who said anything about a wife? I speak of betrothal, not marriage.”
Christine flushed, realizing the mistake she had made, the slip of language that betrayed some buried fantasy she didn’t want to admit even to herself.
“I would allow no man to threaten you when you are mine,” Tristan said, pressing his case.
His words touched her like his body when he pressed her against him as he kissed her. She felt embraced by this thought, held tight. Her skin tingled at the thought. She wet her lips, wanting the taste of him on them, the wetness of his lips.
Safe. No man would dare threaten the woman of the Wolf Duke.
It was alluring and exciting, setting a thrill running through her that emanated somewhere deep and primal within her.
“You call me yours. As though I would be your property. Your possession. Is that not arrogant?” Christine said, trying to regain some control over herself, over the conversation.
And yet, her heart told her that his arrogance was thrilling. It was, so was his casual dominance. It made her want to dig her heels in, want to push back and claim her own independence.
But why does it also make me want to submit” To swoon and be carried away in his arms? Because then my worries could end. I could utterly surrender.
His words stirred both fury and something hotter, more dangerous. She lifted her chin.
“And what of trust, Your Grace? Or affection?”
“I told you to call me Tristan,” he growled, looming over her.
The shadows reached for them, branches and brambles encroaching and forcing them to walk closer. They had diverted from the main path and left the conversation of others behind them. Darkness cloaked them. He stepped closer, still.
“I do not offer affection. But I will be honest. You know my aim. I will not lie about it.”
“You admit it, then. You care nothing for me.”
His reply was silence. They stood, no longer walking, as though even movement had to be sacrificed to allow their focus to be solely on each other. Christine stared up into his night-haunted face.
“Is it important that I care?” he said.
“Yes.”
The answer was immediate, but Christine wished she had it back.
“Why?”
“Because…I do not know.”
He has enough power with the offer of a fake betrothal that he makes. I will not give him more. If only he were ugly instead of so damnably handsome.
“I don’t think it is important. It is irrelevant, in fact.”
“I will have my week. We agreed to that.”
She forced herself to turn, to walk on, each step brittle with defiance.
“That is not the way,” Tristan said.
“We agreed I could have a week.”
“I mean, you are following the wrong path,” Tristan said, a trace of wry humor in his voice.
“Nonsense. I know the way we came. This way.”
She pointed just as Tristan said. “That way,” and pointed in the opposite direction.
Christine stood for a moment, held by the force of his gaze. The shadows and the moonlight hid his features, but she felt sure that he was laughing at her.
“Shall we see who finds their way back first?” she challenged.
There was definitely laughter coming from him now.
“Go,” he said.
Christine went, turning and striding into the black that was a combination of night and night-painted garden.
She heard Tristan’s footsteps retreat in the opposite direction, and immediately regretted her stridency and pride.
The path continued to narrow, and she was certain it had not been so…
so clinging before. Or winding. She could barely see her own hand in front of her face.
“Marry me, Constance,” came a voice from the darkness.
Christine stopped dead. It was a man’s voice, and it was coming from close by. Then she saw the glint of candlelight between the thick, interlaced branches of a rhododendron.
“You know we cannot, James,” came a female voice, “the mistress doesn’t approve of marriages between staff. She would send one of us away, I’m sure of it.”
“I’d speak to her. Plead your case.”
“Oh, yes, a coachman going to speak to a Duchess. I’ve heard it all now.”
“What choice do we have?”
A branch snapped beneath Christine’s foot, and the voices were abruptly silenced. Before she could get a look at who was speaking, the light was snuffed out, and there came the sound of hurried movements through the undergrowth. Hurrying away.
Bother! I have frightened them, and they seemed to have quite enough to deal with as it is. The woman sounded familiar. The man was a coachman called James. I wonder what their predicament is?
She cautiously stepped towards where the light had been, a branch scraping her forehead, seeming to appear out of nowhere. She ducked and felt another tug at the sleeve of her dress.
Stepping back caused a crackle of disturbed undergrowth, brittle and sharp, making her jump. All happened in near absolute darkness, rendered more so by the recent light, whose sudden absence had blinded her.
Christine lost her balance, and suddenly the ground was gone.
She cried out as her right foot swung in the air and her left began to slide.
The rhododendron bush seemed to have concealed a steep slope.
Christine grabbed for the thin, woody branches as she overbalanced, and an unknown distance yawned beneath her.
A hand caught her wrist. With one sudden, decisive movement, she was swung back from the edge.
Her swing ended with a solid thump. Her chest was pressed against an unyielding slab of muscle.
Her foot stepped on his, but this time she was not wearing boots.
Tristan’s other hand caught her about the waist and pulled her back from the brink.
“Not very high but enough to break bones given the paving at the bottom,” he whispered, “were you contemplating throwing yourself into the void?”
“Don’t laugh at me!” Christine said fiercely.
“Then do not give me such a ludicrous scenario at which to laugh.”
“I fell by accident.”
“Because you were trying to eavesdrop.”
“You were following me!”
Tristan was silent. Christine felt his shrug. His shoulders were so muscular. So powerful. She was reminded strongly of the physique of a mountain wolf, with its thick, bunched muscles and dense mane of hair.
This close, she could smell the leaves that had brushed him, the disturbed soil beneath his shoes as he braced them both. The scent that was just him and him alone.