Chapter 17
Seventeen
“Today’s game, the final game, is Unlock the Duke’s Secret!” the Dowager Duchess shrilled across the breakfast room, sweeping by the tables in a flounce of silk.
“And perhaps the secret some of you end up unlocking is the heart of your partner. That is our hope and, in some special cases, our certain knowledge,” she continued, turning the room into a stage just for her.
Tristan sipped tea, alone at his table in one of the room’s bay windows.
Others had tried to share his table, but a glance had been enough to steer them away.
Christine was across the room with Blanche.
He was aware of her presence but did not look.
She was a continual draw, there in the periphery of his vision. An itch he couldn’t scratch.
Thank God this is the last game. Let us be done with it and be gone.
“So, without further ado, I think it is time to draw lots. Let us see if further shuffling of our pack of available ladies and gentlemen will produce a pairing that has not yet found each other. I see some wistful eyes around this room that tell me just that,” the Dowager Duchess pointed, and wherever her finger landed, someone who had not yet found their partner blushed.
Tristan growled in his throat and stood, pushing his chair back so abruptly that it toppled into the wall.
“Spare me,” he snarled, “I choose Lady Christine Davidson and none other. Have our names taken out of your silk bag.”
A hush fell that was broken, eventually, by the Dowager Duchess clapping her hands together.
“Now, now, Your Grace. That is not how the game is played.”
Tristan raised a hand, and she actually stopped talking.
“It is how I play. Lady Christine, do you consent to play this final game with me?”
Christine stood. “I do.”
They stood for a moment, islands in a sea of faces. In between, the Dowager Duchess looked from one to the other in shock, which soon became delight.
“Well, this might be my greatest triumph, I do declare. Very well. Have their names removed from the bag,” she ordered, prompting a rapid search of the names within until both were removed.
“Well, I have finished my breakfast. I will take some exercise in the grounds while I wait for the start of our latest game. Good morning.”
Tristan strode from the room without a backward glance, riding a surge of murmuring voices.
“If my brother does not hear of our engagement, it will not be for lack of trying from you,” Christine said as she tightened the blindfold around Tristan’s eyes.
“I could not stomach another draw. Or risk being partnered by Lady Martha again.”
“Or Lady Helena,” Christine said, almost absently.
Almost. Tristan couldn’t see her, but he could hear her.
“There is something in those three words.”
“They are English and intended to convey that you seemed at risk of partnering her at dinner last night,” Christine said hurriedly.
“I was not. Merely cornered into speaking to her, as anyone in her husband’s vicinity was into speaking with him. As you were into speaking with the Velvet…Windermere.”
“You are sufficiently aware of the gossip to be aware of his nickname then,” Christine said, a tone of satisfaction in her voice.
“As are you.”
“Servants hear everything.”
That bit like a nettle. It was a stark reminder of the cruelty she had experienced at Gillray House. Not that living as a servant was cruel. It was the foundation of English society. But servants were paid. They had careers. Christine had been little more than a slave.
If I choose to believe her. Her brother was an inveterate liar. What if she shares his inclinations?
He could not believe that. He did not want to believe that of Christine.
To believe her a liar. In Tristan’s mind, Christine was honorable and pure.
His own suspicious nature was leading him astray.
As she stood close enough to adjust the blindfold, ensuring he was truly blind, he breathed her in.
A floral scent from her soap. Lavender from her clothes.
Something with a hint of citrus accompanied the gentle drift of fragrance from her hair when she turned her head quickly.
She was a flowering meadow with the wind gently stirring bright blossoms, casting their scent for miles. Tristan wanted to be lying amidst those flowers, basking in the warm sun and breathing in their heady bouquet.
“How did it feel when I almost chose Windemere?” she asked suddenly.
“Who told you that you almost chose him?”
“Blanche,” Christine said.
“You mean, he did.”
“I am not in the habit of telling lies.”
“One is not a habit. It matters not. He stepped out of the circle of his own volition. I think he possesses more honor than his name suggests.”
Christine was silent for a moment. “You have not answered my question.”
“No,” Tristan said, “remind me what tomfoolery we are expected to perform this time?”
Christine huffed, tugged the knot of the blindfold just a little too tight.
“There is a key, many keys. Hidden in the woods. We are to find them. I look and you reach, guided by me. The key will lead us to a clue which will…”
Tristan put up his hands in surrender. “Spare me. I think I can deduce the path of the game. Very well.”
“Could you perhaps be a little less like a bear with a sore paw?” Christine chided, leaning close so that their fellow players would not hear.
Tristan grinned. “Don’t you mean a wolf? When does this farce begin?”
There came the tinkling of the Dowager Duchess’ bell.
“Now,” Christine said.
“Point me in the right direction,” Tristan said, letting his arm hang by his side, his body open to Christine’s guidance.
Christine steered him to the start line and oriented him by gentle touches.
They were the last touches she was allowed to give in this game.
He was acutely aware of her perfume, the sound of her breathing, and the soft touch on his arm.
It was tender and soft, the touch of a butterfly.
Where her fingers landed became the heart of his awareness.
They were one hundred meters from the woods, and the distance was strewn with obstacles to be negotiated.
It was a test of communication and trust. Tristan had known that the moment he had glanced out of the window of the breakfast room at the servants setting up the damn obstacle course, first thing that morning.
Part of him was unwilling to let any other couple win.
He told himself that was pure foolishness of the highest order.
I do not care if we never ever make it to the woods, let alone find a key or a clue.
“What is to stop me just sitting down here on the grass?” Tristan asked.
“I would kick you,” Christine replied.
“You could sit with me.”
“I could not. I would not offend Her Grace. She is a lovely lady who has given me a new lease on life.”
“I thought that was me.”
“You are neither lovely nor a lady.”
Tristan found himself laughing. Christine seized his shoulders and turned him.
“Begin walking. After ten yards, I will stop you, for we have a series of cart wheels on the ground to contend with.”
Tristan could hear exclamations and laughter from all around as other couples began to navigate through the complications that the Dowager Duchess had formulated for them.
He started forward, stopping at Christine’s command.
A cautious boot revealed the edge of a wheel, and he followed it with his toe.
“If I put my hands on your shoulders…”
“We are not allowed to touch,” Christine said.
Tristan huffed, and Christine laughed at his exasperation.
“This is the last game, then you are free,” she whispered.
“It cannot come soon enough.”
Christine began to guide him through the convoluted path that avoided the cartwheels. The noises he heard from the other players told him that others were falling, tripping, and stumbling. And laughing like demented geese.
He swore under his breath and despaired for England that its leaders were so frivolous. But Christine was competent and careful. Her instructions were precise, and he never came close to tripping.
“You have passed the first hurdle. There are ropes tied between posts now for us to navigate. Some will need to be stepped over, others crouched under. Ah! The Dowager Duchess’ favorite musical instrument is attached to each, a silver bell,” Christine said.
“So, we must avoid ringing the bell?” Tristan said acidly.
“Yes,” Christine replied, brightly, “or go back to the beginning.”
“Heaven forbid.”
He followed Christine’s instructions to align himself with the beginning of the new obstacle.
“What will you do to entertain yourself when this is over, I wonder,” Christine said in the tone of absent, almost rhetorical contemplation.
Tristan considered his response, then decided it was not worthy of consideration. He lost nothing by sharing something of himself and gained only her trust.
“I draw,” he said gruffly, the personal admission grating at his throat as it was released.
“Draw? What do you draw?” Christine’s interest was sharp.
“Nature. The wild. My country estate is not a bowling green like Greystone. I have allowed nature to reclaim large parts of it and have been rewarded with many animals and plants you will not find in gardens sculpted by Capability Brown.”
Christine was silent for a moment, and Tristan found himself frozen in mid-stoop. His back began to ache.
“Have you taken a tea break?” he demanded.
“Oh! I’m sorry!” Christine sounded startled, “a little lower…”
She touched his shoulder as though to demonstrate, then her hands leaped away as though burned.
“Oh no! I’m not supposed to touch you!”
“Damn that, just tell me where to move!” Tristan snapped, thighs and calves groaning.
“Stoop an inch lower and lift your left foot, then move it six inches to the left…no!”
Tristan obeyed and heard a tinkle, felt a rope catch his left ankle.
He instinctively jerked away, heard another as he hit the rope he was stooping under.
His right foot snagged a third rope, and his balance, denuded by his blindness, was gone.
He toppled to the grass in a tangle of ropes and a jangle of bells.
“Damnation!” he roared.
Someone raised a cheer. Tristan assumed that he and Christine had been leading, and now were celebrated by their opponents for their first foul. He raised his hands to his blindfold, but Christine beat him to it. Her hands closed around his.
“No! We will not just give up. This means a lot to Her Grace, I told you,” she said.
“This is absurd. You have agreed to our betrothal. We do not need to put ourselves through this!” Tristan retorted.
Christine’s voice came much closer now. “If you want the marriage to go ahead, you will see it through. It is important to me. I will be heard, remember?”
She must have been crouching over him for her voice to be so close to his ear. His hand was clasped in both of hers. He was struck by her skin, smooth but not perfect, as a lady would often be expected to be. He felt the ridge of a scar on her left index finger. Another on the heel of her hand.
Aesthetically, imperfections are supposed to be ugly. But it just makes her…real. She has lived. Worked. Suffered. There is texture to her soul. It makes her fascinating in a way that a perfect princess who has lived within a protective bubble could never be.
“I wish I knew where that scar came from,” she whispered, fingers tracing the line that bisected his palm.
“Why?” Tristan whispered back.
“Because you are to be my husband and I would know you.”
“Husband in name only.”
“I am still to share your house, am I not?”
Her voice receded, and he wished for it back. Wished for the feel of her warm breath in his ear. The scent of her perfume close by, the knowledge that he had but to put out his hand to feel her body.
“It is a rope burn,” he said, climbing to his feet, “a misadventure when I was young. Do I look as disheveled as I feel?”
Christine laughed. “No, except…”
Suddenly, she was close again, her fragrance filling his head. He felt her breasts press against his chest and her hands gently twining through his hair. Then she was gone, like a dream.
“Some grass was clinging to your hair. Now, you look presentable.”
Tristan licked his lips, discomfited by the rush of emotion that had flooded him at her sudden and unexpected proximity. It was an unwelcome presage of weakness to come. The scouts of attachment, riding out ahead of the main army. His defenses needed to be stronger.
“Shall we continue? If we must play, I would win.”
He made his voice gruff with the ease of long experience. The same gruffness that had long ago sent a vicar of Duxworth running from his front door. That had sliced off attempted small talk with the effectiveness of a falling axe.
“I think we should. There are clouds gathering. I think we might be in for a spot of rain,” Christine said.
“Wonderful.”
She resumed her guidance, and they progressed through devious obstacles with their previous smoothness. He wondered at her loss of focus earlier. It had come after he had shared with her his love of drawing.
I surprised her. She judged me nothing more than an anti-social brute with no interior life of my own. Just a scowl, a title, and an estate. I wonder if it pleased her.
The first fat drop of rain touched him as they cleared the obstacles.
“The trees are closer than the house,” Christine said.
A second, third, and fourth made their appearance and then, as though a celestial bucket had been upended, the downpour began in earnest. Tristan pivoted to Christine’s voice and scooped her into his arms.
She gave a shriek but held on as he ran in the direction she had previously orientated him to. The direction of the trees. He slowed at the feel of the first whip-thin branch against his shins, the fronds of a fern, and the wetness of long grass.
The deluge seemed to ease, though its sound on the canopy was cacophonous.
“Am I allowed to remove the blindfold now?” he asked.
“I think the game is suspended. I can see most others running for the house.”
“We are the brave ones,” Tristan said.
The blindfold was removed for him, and he blinked against the muted, gray light of the rainstorm. Christine held the blindfold, and he held her.