Chapter 13 #2
Gale’s eyes darted again. “A gentleman paid me to watch for a Lady Christine. Said she might come into the town from the function up at Greystone. Said to see where she went and who with. I’ve been waiting all week.”
“Describe this gentleman.”
“Tall. Well-spoken. Country coat too fine for the cut. He never gave a name.”
“Accents betray men more than knives,” Tristan said, “London? Bristol? North?”
“London,” Gale said quickly. “But he tried to sound country.”
Someone who wants to be overlooked. A country squire would be ignored by the ton.
Tristan released the sleeve, only to catch the lapel instead, hauling Gale half a step into shadow. “You will take a message back. Tell your gentleman that wolves hunt in daylight as well as in the dark. Tell him the lady is attended by a keeper who does not sleep.”
Gale’s throat bobbed. “I…yes. Your Grace.”
So the man is clever enough to know who the wolf is and sharp enough to see through the country disguise of his employer.
“And Gale,” Tristan added, almost gently, “if you ever put your shadow on her again, you will not have one to put.”
He let go. Gale stumbled, nearly fell, then fled like a hare, hat clutched, elbows sharp as wings. Tristan stood in the alley’s mouth until his pulse slowed. When he turned back toward the square, Christine had already sensed an alteration in the air.
The doe was perceptive to her environment, always looking for the predator. Her gaze found him, questions swimming to the surface like fish. He went to her.
“You should not be alone in town,” Tristan said quietly.
“I am not alone,” Christine returned, equally quiet, “I am with friends.”
“I see only one,” Tristan said.
“You are here also,” Christine said with significance.
“Am I counted as a friend?”
“We have spent so much time together, you had better be, or another label will be applied by those who observe us,” Christine said.
“Good. I believe you know my feelings on that. A man was following you.”
Her breath caught. He felt it, as surely as if their bodies touched.
“Who?”
“None of your concern any longer.”
“Christine…”
She blinked at the name, naked of title or honorific. It set a flush along her throat. “Yes?”
“I went to my solicitor. There is movement. Charles is closer than we thought.”
He watched the shock ripple through her and kept his tone level.
“Then he lives?”
“I believe so.”
“And he has chosen not to see me,” Christine said slowly.
“If the house believes us betrothed, he will come nearer. If the house believes us married…”
Her fingers tightened on the brown paper parcel until it creased. “You cannot mean…”
“It need not be forever, just as our betrothal was not intended to be forever,” he said, “it will give you the shield you asked me for. And it will bring your brother inside the circle of my reach.”
This is logical. It is practical. Why do I hesitate to say that it is not permanent? That is illogical and impractical. I do not seek romance.
“My conditions remain,” she said, voice very steady now, “no harm to my brother. Swear it.”
“I swear it,” Tristan said.
“And there is one other,” Christine said.
“Name it.”
“Complete freedom. I will not be dangled as bait but otherwise ignored. I will be a Duchess.”
Tristan took in a deep breath, sensing the slope that he stood at the top of. Complete freedom. Be a Duchess. That had not been part of his planning.
But the marriage can be ended. Jamison will make it easy, especially if it is not consummated.
That, for some reason, was the hardest thing to accept. Part of him didn’t want to acknowledge that as reality. That he would be married to Christine but would not, would not ever touch her. Or be touched by her.
To tolerate the desperate longing in his body whenever he shared a room with her.
Whenever he was close to her. Tolerate it and know it would never be satisfied.
Could never be satisfied. A heat swept over him that made him want to tear off his clothes.
And hers. To do so would be to seal the marriage forever.
I would have a Duchess. I did not want one. Did not wish for attachment and the weakness that comes with it. All I must do is resist this masterpiece of the human form that stands before me. That sets light to every nerve.
“You will hear me,” Christine said, eyes boring into his, refusing to let him look away.
“I will hear you,” he said, “I will not promise to obey you. But I will not infringe on your freedom, and I will hear you.”
Her eyes flared. “I did not ask for obedience,” she paused, drawing breath, “so what use is hearing then? Will I simply be shouting into an empty room?”
“It is the use of truth,” he answered, then sought the end he wished to the conversation, “we will post the banns at once. There will be talk. It will protect you,” he held her gaze.
“And I will not be chained to Duskwood. I will have the freedoms of a Duchess?” Christine insisted.
Tristan stepped closer, looking down at her, drinking in her beauty like a man dying of thirst.
“You will not be chained. I swear it. You will never be chained again.”
Christine bit her lip, as though tempted but still hesitant.
“And when does our alliance end. Our marriage?” she asked.
“When your brother is found,” Tristan said, “when my purpose has been served. But do not fear. I will not see you return to your life at Gillray House. I will protect you from that.”
Christine looked past him, to the alley, the apothecary, the harmless bright shopfronts, and then up at him again. What he saw there was not surrender but calculation, courage gathering itself like a cloak.
“Very well,” she said, “but understand me. If this draws Charles from whatever hole he has burrowed into and you mean to devour him on the threshold, I will stand between you.”
His mouth curved. “Then I must learn to be very patient.”
“I doubt you know how,” she said.
“Teach me.” The words escaped before he could dress them in armor.
The square blazed around them. Bells, hawkers, a dog barking madly at the piper’s notes, but for an instant, all Tristan heard was the horn-cry of a hunt beginning in earnest.