Chapter 15
Fifteen
The evening light slanted long across the marble floor of Greystone’s great hall, turning the portraits to burnished gold. Footmen hurried to and fro with trays of candles, and the faint hum of violins drifted from the music room.
Christine was on her way to her chamber when a ripple of unease passed through the air, followed by hushed voices and the soft scrape of the front doors opening.
“Lady Gillray,” announced the butler, his tone polite but stiff.
The name struck like a north wind. Christine stopped on the stairs, heart jolting.
Lady Gillray swept in as though she still commanded every threshold Christine crossed. Her plum-colored silk rustled like the hiss of an adder.
“My dear ward,” she said, lifting her veil, “you are not easy to find, even when I know precisely where you are to be found.”
Christine forced her voice steady. “Nor am I obliged to be found.”
Gillray’s smile showed the small, sharp teeth of victory. “So bold. Greystone has spoiled you.”
Her gaze swept the hall, noting the servants’ deferential glances. “A duke’s house can make even a scullery maid fancy herself a lady.”
Christine came down the steps. “What do you want?”
“What I have always wanted. What is mine. You will pack your things. We leave tonight.”
“I will do no such thing.”
“Do not test me, child. You are not of age; your guardianship is in my name. I could have the magistrate’s men fetch you by morning,” she leaned closer, perfume thick and cloying, “and should you resist, Lord Dreadford is quite eager to…resume his interest.”
Christine’s breath caught, but she held her ground. “You lie.”
“Do I?” Gillray’s eyes gleamed, “he and his wife have left town. You will find his company much improved in the country. It need not be unpleasant, Christine. You were always meant for comfort, not honor.”
“You mean your comfort,” Christine said coldly, “not mine.”
“Do not pretend righteousness. I know your kind of virtue, it trembles until the right offer steadies it.”
Christine’s palm itched with the urge to strike her, but she clenched her fists instead. “You will leave this house, Lady Gillray.”
Gillray’s laughter was low, triumphant. “I shall leave when I choose. I came for your sake, to spare you worse humiliation. You think yourself a grand lady. You do not even know the half of it.”
“What do you mean?”
Gillray’s eyes glittered. “I have information about your brother.”
Christine froze. “Charles?”
“I know where he is,” Gillray said softly, “and what he intends. But I will tell you nothing until you come home with me. You owe me obedience.”
“I owe you nothing.”
“Oh, you owe me everything,” Gillray hissed, “your meals, your roof, your very dresses, all paid for with my goodwill. You were a charity case, and a tiresome one. It is time you learned gratitude.”
The sting of those old words, the ones she had lived under for years, rose like bile. Christine lifted her chin.
“Gratitude is not what you want. You want control. But you lost that the day I left your house.”
Gillray’s lips curved. “A duke’s plaything cannot speak of freedom. When he is done with you, you will crawl back to me, and I may not take you then.”
Before Christine could answer, a new voice cut through the air.
“Then she will not need to.”
The sound of boots on marble. The air seemed to sharpen. Tristan strode from the far corridor, his expression cool as tempered steel.
“Your Grace,” Gillray said quickly, executing a curtsy that was more mockery than respect, “I must inform you that this is a private matter between me and my…”
“Former servant,” Tristan said.
Lady Gillray’s face sagged for a moment, but then her mouth snapped shut and her lips twitched.
“I do not know…”
“How close you are to being publicly shamed,” Tristan spoke over her, advancing a step.
“I have nothing…”
“On that, we are in agreement. You have nothing. No control over your ward, who is now my betrothed.”
Tristan turned as though dismissing Lady Gillray. He came to stand beside Christine, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, smell the faint spice of his cologne.
“Your Grace, I fear you are misinformed,” Lady Gillray said with an obsequious smile, “I…”
“Am a reprehensible individual who has abused her position as guardian over Christine. And you would not survive the scandal.”
Christine wanted to laugh as Tristan ruthlessly refused to allow Lady Gillray to complete a thought. She was turning dark with apoplexy, eyes bulging. Tristan stepped into the gulf which her angry astonishment had created. He took Christine’s hand deliberately, his thumb brushing her knuckles.
“Lady Christine is no longer under your guardianship. She is under mine, as my future wife.”
“She is penniless. Her brother squandered the Southbria fortune.”
“She is, but I am not, so it is irrelevant.”
“She is tainted with the scandal of her brother. You will be tarred with the same brush.”
“And I have the means to hound those who spread gossip until the end of time. Christine is mine, and I do not appreciate trespassers.”
Christine held her tongue and warred with her own feelings. The casual possessiveness infuriated her.
I do not want to be a man’s possession. Any man’s possession. But hearing him say it feels almost like… freedom.
“She has not yet reached twenty-one years old. Therefore, she is unable to marry without the permission of her father, who is dead, or her guardian. Who is very much alive. Needless to say, I withhold it. But I am open to…negotiation.”
She spun on her heel, stamping out of the house. The echo of her departure lingered long after the door slammed. Christine stood rigid, her hand still in Tristan’s. When she finally pulled away, her voice shook. “You should not have done that.”
“I should not have stopped her from dragging you away?”
Christine turned away, pacing. “You enjoy this, don’t you? Pretending concern while tightening your net. You think if you make me dependent on you, I will tell you what you want.”
“What I need,” he corrected, “is information about your brother. Gillray all but confirmed she’s in contact with him.”
Her pulse stumbled. “You were listening.”
“I was saving you,” his tone hardened, “if I were not here, what then? Would you have gone with her?”
“Never.”
“Then you are welcome.”
She faced him, anger and confusion knotting together. “You use kindness as a weapon.”
Tristan’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes.
“If I were truly kind, Christine, I’d have stayed out of your life altogether.”
“And yet here you are.”
“Yes,” he said quietly, “here I am.”
The silence between them stretched until she could hear the faint tick of the mantel clock.
The trouble was that Christine knew the source of her anger was that she wished to deny, even to herself, how thrilled she felt at his defense of her.
At his possessiveness. His claiming of her.
It made her head spin and her knees tremble.
Made her want to faint, or pretend to, just so that he would be forced to scoop her into his arms, so she could melt into his body.
He moved closer, the distance between them shrinking until she could feel his breath against her temple. “Do you truly believe I could spend this much time in your company and feel nothing?”
She swallowed. “I believe you feel many things. You simply measure their value before you allow them.”
For a long moment, neither spoke. Tristan exhaled, a sound that was almost a laugh but carried no amusement.
“You are sharper than is good for either of us.”
“Then tell me the truth,” she said. “What do you intend?”
He looked down at her, the mask slipping just enough to show the man beneath. Tired, conflicted, dangerously human.
“I told my solicitor to trace your brother,” he said, “he believes Charles will reveal himself if he thinks his sister has risen high enough to be useful again. A duke’s fiancée is bait no man like him could resist.”
“So I am bait.” The words landed like a stone in her chest.
His answer was soft, almost apologetic. “You are necessary.”
She turned away, voice trembling. “I suppose you are honest at that.”
“Too honest, perhaps,” he said, “I should have lied and said I wanted you for your beauty, your wit, your courage.”
She glanced back, startled by the rough edge in his tone. “But you do not?”
He stepped closer, gaze locked to hers. “I imagine those things every time I see you. What it would be like to be your husband in truth. To wake beside you, to see you smile because of me,” he hesitated, then added bitterly, “but I am a man who deals in facts, not fantasies.”
“Perhaps you should allow fantasy to have free rein. Just once.” Christine said boldly, “I have spent years living in fantasy because the real world was too terrible.”
Something changed in Tristan’s face. Something broke.
A chain holding back the wolf. His arm went about her waist, and he claimed a kiss from her that left her breathless and desperate for more.
But the stairs were speaking of intruders into their tryst, the sound of footsteps rapidly increasing.
The Wolf moved swiftly in the face of danger.
Seizing Christine’s hand, he strode across the hall and opened a small door in the shadow of the grand staircase.
Beyond was a small storeroom, the kind which only servants know the location of, beneath the notice of anyone else.
They shared it with shelves of linen and the smell of lavender.
Into that smell, Christine’s head was filled with the smell that was simply Tristan.
His soap, his clothes, the tobacco from the after-dinner cigar that had infused the thread of his coat. The sharp musk of his cologne.
Primal. Outdoor and masculine. Painfully masculine. Christine found her back pressed against the door. Tristan placed her hand over the doorknob.
“Hold this for your life and reputation. Do not allow it to be opened,” he whispered.
“I will not…” Christine began to reply but stopped, words failing her as she felt the tender roughness of his lips on her neck.
He wrenched the neckline of her dress from his path.
His hands kneaded her breasts as though he owned them and savored the sampling of his possessions.
Christine’s hand on the doorknob tightened, the cold metal stinging her palm.
She clamped her teeth tight shut around a moan of pleasure, hearing someone outside.
Tristan’s hands left her breasts and splayed across her stomach as though trying to touch her through the fabric of her dress. She wished it would just melt away, along with his. Her skirts pressed inward around her loins by insistent fingers, and she squeaked. That kind of touch was so…indecent!
Tristan was looking at her, a smile on his face, knowing what he was making her feel.
Enjoying the helpless weakness he was causing her.
His other hand, as mischievous as the first, found her bottom and squeezed hard.
The two worked in concert, touching her in a way that she was not sure that even a husband would be allowed.
One rubbed the other squeezed, and Christine’s head whirled.
She wanted to close her eyes, concentrate on the pleasure, but she wanted to see him just as much.
Sounds reached her through a fog of pleasure.
Conversation, orders given to servants, passing footsteps.
Christine used her free hand to gag herself as something built within her.
Tristan was looking at her again, seeing in her eyes what she was feeling.
“Was this a fantasy you ever inhabited?” he whispered.
Christine shook her head wordlessly, feeling her eyes go wide as the feeling within her broke free like a volcano.
“Then welcome. We are to be married, and such a life will not be terrible. Fantasies such as this might be your waking life.”
Christine nodded, eyes finally closing tight. She collapsed against him, but with her hand still holding the door tight shut. Time slowed. Became eternity. Finally, they opened the door a crack, and when the coast was revealed, they stepped out and apart. Tristan kissed her hand.
“Do not let that odious woman poison you. There is more hope in your life than you think, and being a she-wolf is not so terrible, is it?”
Christine watched him go, the echo of his words twisting through her mind. Facts, not fantasies. And yet when he had spoken of being her husband, the fantasy had sounded terribly, achingly real.