Chapter 19
Nineteen
The storm burned itself to silence, leaving the gardens drenched and glistening.
Christine’s skirts clung damply about her knees as she crossed the threshold of Greystone beside Tristan.
The heavy oak door closed behind them with a sound like a sigh.
Candles sputtered in the draught, releasing a faint scent of beeswax and smoke.
Tristan set the small iron key upon the marble console in the hall, its ornate bow catching the faint light.
“One mystery solved,” he said, brushing rain from his sleeve, “and another beginning.”
Christine’s hands were trembling, though whether from cold or the memory of his mouth against hers in the damp shade of the oak she could not tell. She turned away, forcing composure.
I have given myself to him. Given him more than any man has ever had. I am vulnerable, and I do not know that it is something I dislike.
The thought felt wanton. Wild. Civilized people did not engage in such acts outside of wedlock. But then, was the Wolf Duke civilized? Or was he as wild and untamed as his moniker suggested?
His eyes met hers, and the memory of their shared intimacy sparked between them. It set Christine’s heart beating faster, reminding her that some semblance of equilibrium and control must be achieved before anyone else came across them.
“The Dowager said the clues would lead us to the heart of Greystone. That must mean the library.”
He regarded her with that unreadable half-smile of his, the one that could be amusement or challenge.
“You seem very certain.”
“I am certain of nothing where you are concerned,” she murmured, gathering her soaked shawl.
“Then allow me to improve my standing.”
He picked up the key and strode toward the west corridor. She followed, her slippers whispering on the polished floor, aware with every step of his nearness, the heat radiating from him despite the chill.
They passed drawing rooms and the dining room, heard the soft murmur of guests, contained by the storm, talking and passing the time. Christine had no desire to go among them. It would be the final end of the heavenly couple of hours they had spent pleasuring each other. She did not want it to end.
This is a dream in which we ghost through the house, invisible to all, free to do as we please. Oh Lord, if only it were so.
The library door yielded with a sigh of hinges. Within, the air was warmer, perfumed with old vellum, cedar polish, and the faintest trace of wood-smoke from the dying fire. Dust motes swam in the slanted light from tall windows.
“Here,” Christine said softly, “this is where the Dowager hides her secrets, I am sure of it.”
“You think the Dowager Duchess reads?” Tristan said, sardonically.
“I think she reads romances,” Christine replies, “and uses them for inspiration for her next match-making event. You must admit she is good at it.”
“She is good at finding ingenious means of wasting time,” Tristan rumbled.
He was looking around the room as though wondering where to start.
His back was to her, and she was close enough to touch him.
Close enough to run her fingers through his mane of damp hair.
To press as she traced the line of his back, making him draw in breath and arch himself like a cat.
As he had done earlier. Some catch in her breath drew his attention, and he turned.
His eyes smoldered on hers, emanating more heat than the glowing coals in the fireplace. She bit her lip, wanting to collapse into his arms but knowing this was a dangerous place for such dalliance. Allowances would be made for a newly affianced couple, but there were limits.
“A scandal would surely draw unwanted attention,” Tristan said, closing the gap between them to tower over her.
Christine pressed a hand to his chest, pressing inward with her fingertips as though tasting his body with them.
She slowly drew her hand down, feeling a nipple become erect through the material of the shirt.
A slight movement of her hips, a shuffle of her feet, and her loins met his.
Separated by garments, the trappings of civilization seemed but a thin veil at that moment.
There came a sound from outside. A crack of a floorboard. It was as loud in that quiet moment as a rifle shot. Christine jumped back, smoothing her dress. Tristan grinned wolfishly.
“Not a scandal then,” he said.
“Not in reality, no,” Christine replied.
For a delicious moment, she wondered, had she consented, whether he had been serious.
Would he use me like that? Is he using me now? Taking pleasure from my body but using me as bait.
The thought was a sobering one, making her look at him differently. He turned away and crossed to the hearth, examining the mantel, the brass clock, the carved griffins.
“If she has hidden something, she has done so cleverly.”
Christine watched him for a long moment, wanting to see into his mind, to divine his intentions. He looked back over his shoulder.
“If we both look, this interminable game will be over faster, and we can depart.”
“Depart?” Christine asked.
“For Duskwood. You don’t think we would remain guests at Greystone any longer than we need to, do you?”
Something about the word we sent a thrill from the heart of Christine’s womanhood to her toes and the tips of her fingers.
She felt like she was glowing, her knees trembling in memory of the humming vibration he had set coursing through her not two hours before.
The screaming eruption. She smiled and saw the ghost of an echo on his face, a recognition that his mind had been exploring similar memories.
Christine wandered between the towering shelves.
The ladder gleamed where countless hands had polished it smooth, despite Tristan’s insistence that the Dowager Duchess was not literary.
She trailed her fingers along the spines: histories, sermons, romances, leather, and gilt.
The hush wrapped round her like the eye of the storm.
“Aha, a clue,” Tristan said.
She turned. He held up a folded scrap of parchment that had been pinned to the underside of the fireplace.
“Ingenious. The draught was making it flutter, but the sound wasn’t loud enough to be audible until you are practically in the fireplace.”
“And standing quietly, too. As one should in a library.” Christine pointed out.
“Our host is more intelligent than I gave her credit for.”
Christine took the paper, her fingers briefly touching Tristan’s. It felt as though sparks had leaped from the contact. She read, cheeks flushing furiously. Tristan stood close enough to touch, reading over her shoulder.
‘Seek wisdom’s hollow heart, where knowledge guards what lovers seek.’
Her gaze swept the rows of books. “A hollow heart…a book perhaps?”
He inclined his head. “Then begin your search, Lady Scholar.”
She moved between the shelves, plucking volumes, shaking them lightly, listening for a difference in sound.
Tristan followed her progress with folded arms, silent but intent.
Every so often, she felt his gaze upon her nape like the brush of a fingertip.
After a dozen fruitless minutes, she exhaled sharply.
“It could be anywhere.”
“Patience,” he said, “Greystone rewards persistence.”
“You speak as though the house were alive.”
“It is. Old houses remember.”
“Then perhaps it remembers where the Dowager hid her treasure,” she retorted, but the banter faltered when he came to stand beside her.
Their shoulders nearly touched.
He reached past her to a shelf just above her head. “Allow me.”
Christine’s breath caught as his coat brushed her sleeve. The faint scrape of leather against silk was louder than thunder. He drew out a thick tome, The Histories of England, and blew dust from its edge.
“Empty.”
“How can you tell?”
He rapped the cover with his knuckle. The sound was solid.
“Because it is genuine. The hollow ones have a lighter tone.”
“Have you much experience with hollow books, Your Grace?”
His mouth curved. “Enough to know they make good hiding places in a library. Like looking for a particular tree in the middle of a forest.”
“Which we have just done.”
She took another volume, Moral Reflections on the Passions, and set it on the table.
“If one wished to hide the prize of the Duke’s Hunt, one might choose something less moral.”
“Then we should look among the vices,” Tristan said dryly, moving toward the section devoted to poetry.
Their search became a dance, wordless, circling each other through aisles of knowledge. At last Christine stopped, leaning against the ladder, her cheeks flushed.
“We shall never find it.”
Tristan straightened, his dark hair falling into his eyes. “You give up too easily.”
“I am tired, cold, and…”
He stepped close, cutting her protest short. “And?”
“And aware that you are standing very near,” she whispered.
“I intend to stand nearer.” His hand came up, brushing a stray curl from her face. The gesture was almost tender, “You tremble.”
“It is the chill.”
“It is not.”
His fingers traced her jaw. The world narrowed to the space between them. Christine knew she should step away, but something stronger than reason rooted her there. When his lips touched hers, it was both shock and inevitability, the meeting of two storms.
The kiss deepened. Books pressed against her back, his body pressed against her front. She felt the hard plane of his chest, the uneven rhythm of his breath. Somewhere a clock ticked, forgotten. Her hands found his shoulders, steadying herself or holding him, she could not have said which.
A sudden thud broke the spell. They sprang apart. On the table beside them, a volume had fallen open, its pages fluttering like startled wings. Tristan caught it before it fell to the floor. The book was oddly light. He frowned, running his thumb along the gilded edge.
“This one,” he said.
Christine peered over his arm. The title was The Art of War.
“Appropriate,” she murmured.
He opened it. The center had been neatly hollowed, the pages glued into a box. Within lay a small velvet pouch and another folded note.
Christine gasped. “The prize.”
Tristan drew the note free and read aloud:
‘Congratulations. You have found the Duke’s secret. But perhaps, my dears, you have found something rarer still.’
He glanced up, eyes glinting with amusement. “The Dowager is a shameless romantic.”
“She will be insufferable,” Christine said, half laughing, half breathless, “we should tell her at once.”
He did not move. “In a moment.”
The moment stretched. His thumb brushed the edge of the pouch. “A ring,” he said softly, showing her the delicate gold band within, “symbolic, I imagine.”
“Or prophetic,” she said before she could stop herself. Their gazes locked.
He caught her hand and, very deliberately, slid the ring onto her finger.
“Then let prophecy stand.”
Her heart leapt. “Tristan…”
The door opened. A maid entered carrying a duster and a wooden box of cleaning implements.
She almost dropped them at her first sight of Christine and Tristan.
The girl stopped dead, eyes widening at the tableau before her, the Duke towering over Christine, her hand in his, the disordered books.
Christine snatched her hand back, the ring glinting accusingly.
Tristan, unperturbed, set the book aside.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace. I thought everyone was still in the dining room. I will leave you…”
Something in that voice, soft, lilting, touched by nerves, caught Christine’s ear. Memory stirred. She looked sharply at the girl.
“What is your name?”
The maid hesitated. “Constance, my lady.”
Christine’s breath caught. The same gentle tones she had heard in the garden, whispering to the coachman.
“Constance,” she repeated. “I have seen you before.”
Color drained from the maid’s face. “I do not think so, my lady.”
“Yes,” Christine said, stepping forward, “on my first night here. You were accosted by Lord Dreadford.”
Constance’s eyes darted to Tristan, then down. “I…beg pardon, my lady…I must not speak of that.”
“I will not tell anyone, don’t worry,” Christine said, kindly, “I too have suffered his unwanted attentions. It is nothing to be ashamed of.”
“He wasn’t even a guest, begging your pardon. He came to make mischief,” Constance said, fierceness breaking through in her voice and her eyes, “if my James had got hold of him…”
Her eyes went wide as dinner plates, her mouth fell open as she realized she had said too much. Tristan chuckled.
“Your husband, I presume? I would second him if he challenged that appalling Dreadford.”
Constance looked at the floor, swallowing.
“Not, my husband, Your Grace,” she whispered.
“No, he wants to be, though. But the Dowager Duchess doesn’t allow marriages between staff, does she?” Christine said.
Constance’s head came up, and there were tears in her eyes.
“Is it that obvious? Oh no! She will give one of us the sack if she knows. Or both!” Constance curtsied again, trembling, “Please, my lady, say nothing of what you heard. If the Duchess learns of it, she will dismiss us both.”
“You have my word,” Christine said. “Find me later, Constance. We shall speak privately. I may be able to help.”
The maid’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, my lady.” She fled.
When the door closed, silence reclaimed the room. Rain still dripped faintly from the gutters outside.
Tristan exhaled, long and slow. “How will you help?”
“If compassion is a fault, I confess it freely.”
“It will be your undoing one day. But you have not answered my question.”
“If it is to be my undoing, then you had better be there to catch me,” she said before thinking, and flushed scarlet.
His eyes darkened. “That, Christine, is precisely my intention.”
And I have not answered your question because I do not think you would like my answer. I will help her with the power a Duchess wields.
Tristan wanted to make her a Duchess, if only in name. Christine was determined to make full use of what time she had with that title and the power that went with it.
He intends to use me. I will use him.
She told herself it was a simple transaction, but knew, in her heart, there was nothing simple about it. Tristan stepped toward her, but she did not retreat. The air between them seemed to shimmer.
“The game is over,” she whispered.
“For you, perhaps,” his hand brushed her cheek, “for me, it has only just begun.”
Outside, a gust rattled the windows, and somewhere in the house a bell began to toll, summoning them to the Dowager’s drawing room. Christine drew a steadying breath.
“She will expect us to present the treasure.”
Tristan smiled wolfishly. “Then let us give her a spectacle.”
He offered his arm. She placed her hand upon it, the ring cold and light on her finger. Together they stepped into the corridor, leaving behind the hollow book and the old, dying fire. Prize and promise had already bound them tighter than any Dowager’s game could contrive.