Chapter 16
Sixteen
The chandeliers of Greystone were a constellation of light that evening, reflected in silver and glass and the soft shimmer of ladies’ gowns. The Dowager Duchess was in her element, presiding at the head of the table with the gleam of mischief in her eye.
She had spent the day arranging guests like chess pieces, every move leading inevitably toward one goal, the pairing off of hearts.
She will think to increase her prestige as a matchmaker by proclaiming herself the architect of my betrothal to Christine. The woman who matched the Wolf of Duskwood indeed!
Tristan’s coat was black, his cravat stark white, his expression that familiar mask of composure. Yet any who knew him long enough to read the signs, would see the tension in the angle of his shoulders, the way his gaze kept sliding to the place opposite him, where Christine sat.
She was luminous in blue silk, her hair pinned simply but with that unstudied elegance that mocked artifice. And next to her, newly arrived and already drawing every eye, lounged the Duke of Windermere.
“He strolled in as though he had been here from the beginning. No apology to Her Grace,” someone next to Tristan whispered.
“Disgraceful behavior.”
Austin Delves, known as the Velvet Duke, was everything Tristan was not. Languid where Tristan was taut, his smile a weapon that had felled half the unmarried women in London.
He had arrived late in the afternoon, citing an unavoidable delay involving a broken carriage wheel and an innkeeper’s daughter. The Dowager had greeted him with fond exasperation and placed him beside Christine with all the subtlety of a general placing a cannon.
Now he was making the most of the position. Tristan caught fragments of the exchange across the table, Windemere’s lazy charm, Christine’s polite replies, the faint flush rising in her cheeks. Tristan’s knife paused mid-cut.
“Careful, old friend,” Ernald murmured from beside him, “you’re about to saw through the plate.”
Tristan’s eyes flicked to him, cool as ever. “The silver here is thin. I’m testing its quality.”
“Of course you are,” Ernald said, amused, “and the way you’re glaring at Windemere is purely in the interest of metallurgy.”
Tristan’s answer was a small, tight smile. At that moment, Lady Helena Morton of Henley leaned in from Tristan’s other side. She was safe to position next to an unmarried man because of her own betrothal to Lord Ashdowne, who sat opposite, and talked to his neighbors of India and Africa.
“Your Grace,” Lady Helena purred, “you must tell us about Duskwood. Is it true that the forests there are haunted?”
Tristan’s jaw tightened. “Only by creditors and poets, madam.”
“Then we should all be safe,” she said archly, mistaking dryness for invitation.
She continued talking, undeterred, and Tristan, trapped by civility and wishing for a more savage society, was forced to turn toward her.
Christine felt her attention torn. The gentleman next to her had been introduced as the Duke of Windermere, a name she knew.
He was ludicrously handsome in a way that would have left her stammering just a few weeks ago.
Now, it washed over and beyond her, leaving no stain upon her.
Her eyes kept going from his conversation to Tristan.
Windermere is lean and lithe. He is well-dressed and well-groomed. He smiles. Tristan is dark and scowling. He looks like a barbarian prince with that long hair of his.
But no matter how many times she stacked the cards in Windermere’s favor, Tristan kept winning the hand, and her eyes returned to him. Each time Lady Helena’s laugh rang out like a cracked bell, Christine’s hand tightened on her wineglass. The Velvet Duke noticed, of course. He noticed everything.
“Tell me, Lady Christine,” The Velvet Duke said, his tone one of lazy amusement, “do you believe all the tales they tell about the Wolf Duke?”
Christine’s lips curved faintly. “Which tales are those, Your Grace?”
“That he devours the hearts of innocent maidens,” he said, “or that he hasn’t one of his own.”
Christine met his eyes, calm as a lake. “I believe men tell tales to disguise what they fear to feel.”
Windemere laughed softly. “Then we are all storybooks at your mercy.”
Tristan’s fork stilled again. Christine glanced over and found him in the act of doing the same. She saw the tension in his arms, the straightness of his brow, and the intensity of his eyes.
Because he sees me as an asset? Just like his stables or his properties. Or as a woman to whom he has laid claim.
“Except him,” Windermere said softly.
Christine was surprised to see him. “Excuse me?”
“The attention you give him is surely that of someone studying a difficult text and not understanding the meaning.”
“I think you ascribe too much significance to the direction of my eyes.”
“Ah, but they are the windows of the soul, are they not?”
Another shrill laugh from Lady Helena pulled Christine’s eyes. She realized that she had a piece of food on her fork that had not reached her mouth for a couple of minutes.
“I arrived too late to catch up with the gossip. Perhaps you can tell me, which ladies are still free and which are spoken for?” Windermere said, sipping wine and letting his eyes roam the room.
“I don’t keep up with gossip either,” Christine said.
This is my chance. Do I state that I am one of those who are spoken for and embrace the fiction that Tristan has proposed?
Once she did it, it felt as though she would be stepping from one trap into another.
Her choices would be just as limited as they were if she returned to Gillray House.
No matter her striving for independence, she would be tied to Tristan.
That thought sent a pleasurable shiver down her spine.
The thought of being his wife, able to be alone with him unchaperoned. To kiss him…
Christine found herself blushing and found Tristan’s hungry hunter’s gaze on her. The line of his mouth tightened, and Helena’s chatter broke upon granite cliffs that no longer acknowledged her presence.
“I know that Lady Martha is betrothed to Lord Bingley,” Christine managed, conscious of Windermere’s attentive gaze upon her.
“I am aware. And would behave as though that was the case even if it weren’t,” Windermere said.
Christine found herself laughing. Further down the table, Lady Martha glanced in Christine’s direction, glanced next at Tristan, and then lowered her head to whisper to her neighbor.
After dinner, the guests drifted into the drawing room where the Dowager had contrived yet another of her matchmaking diversions.
Tristan felt a sense of relief at being freed from the burdens of dinner table conversation.
He found himself striding towards Christine but saw her snatched away by the Dowager Duchess.
She gathered the ladies like the pied piper.
“We shall play blind man’s buff,” she announced, clapping her hands as servants cleared a space.
“Only our version shall have a touch of romance. The ladies shall be blindfolded, and the gentlemen will stand in a circle. Whichever gentleman the lady catches will be her partner for the dance that follows. If you have someone in mind, ladies, be sure to remember the fragrance of his cologne or the sound of his voice. He will be allowed to call out to you once.”
Laughter and mild protest followed, but no one dared refuse the Dowager’s games. The first few rounds were all in good fun, laughter, teasing, and the occasional squeal when a gentleman was caught by the wrong lady.
When Christine’s turn came, Tristan straightened unconsciously, though he remained at his place in the circle beside Windemere. He had not begun there, but the Dowager changed the places in the circle after each round.
The Dowager tied the silk blindfold over Christine’s eyes herself, giving her shoulders a reassuring squeeze.
“Remember, my dear, listen for what cannot be seen. Now, who would like to call out to guide Lady Christine home?”
There was a clearing of throats, and Tristan’s gaze roamed the circle, silencing men wherever it landed.
“Here,” he snapped.
Lord, let this stupidity be over. Let her agree so that we can return to Duskwood.
Christine turned slowly, hands outstretched.
The gentlemen shifted on their feet, a murmur of anticipation rippling through the circle.
Christine moved cautiously, her fingers brushing air, then fabric.
She turned toward their side of the circle.
The Velvet Duke, never one to miss a performance, murmured just loud enough for Tristan to hear.
“If she chooses me, I promise to be gentle.”
“She will not,” Tristan said.
“Care to wager?”
Christine stepped closer. She breathed deeply and then smiled, stepping closer again.
But her senses were off; she had drifted closer to the Duke of Windermere than Tristan.
He clamped his teeth shut around the urge to speak, seeing the Dowager watching closely.
Christine reached out, inches away from touching Windermere’s shoulder.
The Velvet Duke gave a subtle flick of his wrist, and the full wine glass he held tipped, its contents cascading in a crimson arc across his waistcoat.
“Devil take it!” he exclaimed, stepping back out of the circle in mock alarm. Servants hurried forward with napkins, laughter breaking the tension.
Christine, reaching at that very moment, stumbled forward, her hands landing squarely against Tristan’s chest. The room went still for a heartbeat. Tristan caught her wrists instinctively, steadying her. She gasped, blindfolded still, sensing who it was before she spoke.
“Tristan,” she whispered, “I followed your voice.”
“Christine,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear, “I thought for a moment you were destined for him.”
She hesitated, then smiled under the silk. Out of the circle, Windemere met Tristan’s gaze and winked. It was conspiratorial, teasing, yet with an edge of respect. The Dowager clapped her hands.