Chapter 31
Thirty-One
The first thing she felt was warmth. The second, weight—the solid, steady kind.
She blinked, and the pale light of early morning seeped through the half-drawn curtains, turning everything to silver and rose.
Her mind surfaced slowly, as if from a pleasant dream, and found the truth waiting. Tristan lay beside her.
I dreamed of him coming to me. My dream would have me arrested if it were made public! I can still feel the heat of it.
His arm was wrapped loosely around her waist, the heavy drape of it a barrier and a comfort all at once. His breathing was even, his hair freed from its strict parting, tumbling over his brow. There was something disarming about the sight of him unguarded, the sharpness smoothed away by sleep.
For a moment, she simply watched him, the faint rise and fall of his chest, the way his mouth softened when it was not speaking.
A smile ghosted across her lips. She could have stayed like that forever, warm and safe, the quiet hum of his presence warding off every dark thing the world had ever offered her.
Then memory crept in, quiet and cruel. This was not her forever.
The warmth turned to a hollow ache beneath her ribs.
She had known from the beginning that their marriage was a construct, a shelter built for show.
Once Charles was found, the roof would vanish, and she would be left beneath the open sky once more.
She closed her eyes against the thought, but it only sharpened the ache.
The dream came back to her in soft fragments.
Sunlight over rolling fields, hens scattering at my skirts, a cottage with roses climbing its stone walls. And Tristan.
But he had not been the Duke of Duskwood, not the man who spoke in measured tones and moved the world with his will, but the man in shirtsleeves, tanned from labor, his laughter bright and unburdened.
She had dreamed of a simple life, of soil and harvests, of a love that was not wrapped in duty.
For a few blissful moments, it had been real.
She turned her head on the pillow and looked at him again.
He could give her everything she had ever been denied.
Safety, certainty, the sense that tomorrow would not vanish when she blinked.
Yet the knowledge made her heart twist all the more.
She could never ask him to be what he was not. The clock on the mantel chimed softly.
Dawn had not yet claimed the sky, but the city was stirring. Careful not to wake him, she slid from beneath his arm. He stirred slightly but did not wake, only turned his face into the pillow and sighed. She hesitated, then drew the coverlet higher about his shoulders.
Barefoot, she crossed to the window. The air was cool against her skin as she drew back the curtain. Portman Square lay quiet beneath the pearl-grey light. The rain had washed the streets clean, and even the air smelled new. And then she saw him.
A figure stood at the edge of the garden railings, half-shrouded by the low mist. The coat was dark, the hat pulled low, but something in the stillness of his stance made her heart leap painfully. She pressed her hand to the glass.
Charles?
She could feel it, some unspoken certainty that went beyond sight. The tilt of the head, the restless shift of weight. For a heartbeat, he seemed to look up at her window. Then, as if aware of being seen, he turned and slipped into the narrow passage beside the mews.
“Charles!” The word formed in her throat but never left her lips. She snatched for her robe and found none within reach.
Behind her, Tristan stirred. “Christine?”
His voice was rough with sleep. He pushed himself up on one elbow.
“What is it?”
She turned, breath caught halfway to confession. “Someone…”
He was awake now, his gaze sweeping the room. He saw her standing by the window, the dawn haloing her, and some shadow of comprehension crossed his face.
“Did you see something?”
“I…perhaps nothing,” she said quickly. The certainty that it had been Charles was so fierce it frightened her.
“Only a man in the garden. He’s gone.”
Tristan rose, fully dressed except for coat, vest, and shoes.
“You should not be near the window without a robe,” he said gently, not as a rebuke but as if the thought genuinely troubled him.
She flushed. “Nor should you be in my room at all, Your Grace.”
That brought a crooked smile to his lips.
“A fair point.”
He rubbed a hand across his face, the gesture boyish, “Forgive me. I heard you cry out in the night. You were dreaming. I thought you were in distress.”
She frowned. “I don’t remember crying out.”
“You were murmuring my name.” His tone was deliberately casual, but the admission hung between them like a thread pulled taut.
“I see,” she said, too quickly, “Then I thank you for your gallantry.”
He tilted his head, eyes glinting with amusement.
“Gallantry? Is that what we’re calling trespassing now?”
“Among gentlemen, I believe it is,” she said, though her lips curved. “Among dukes, perhaps another word applies.”
He stepped closer. “And what word would that be?”
She met his gaze. “Foolish.”
He laughed softly. “Entirely accurate. I have said it to myself many times.”
“Why?” Christine asked.
“If the cap fits.”
“It is a poor fit on you.”
She turned back toward the window, but his hand caught her arm lightly. “You look pale,” he said, “sit. I’ll call for breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“That makes two of us,” he murmured, though he crossed to the bellpull, “nevertheless, Mrs. Cleat will have our heads if she learns you’ve faced the morning on nothing but pride.”
Christine sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. “I’ve survived on less.”
“I believe you,” he said quietly, his back still turned. “You’ve survived on far too little, Christine.”
The simple truth of it struck her harder than sympathy would have. She looked down at her hands.
“It’s not survival I want anymore.”
He glanced over his shoulder, eyes unreadable. “No?”
“No.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “I’d like to live.”
Something in him shifted at that, a flicker of warmth beneath the practiced composure.
“Then we shall see to it.”
Presently, there was a knock, and a maid entered bearing a tray heavy with toast, jam, and tea. She bobbed a curtsey and fled, eyes wide, as if half-expecting the scandal to ignite before her. Christine took the teapot, pouring carefully.
“It seems we’re already the talk of the servants.”
Tristan smiled faintly. “They’ve likely wagered on how long before I’m chased out.”
“Then I shall ensure you lose their money.”
She passed him a cup, their fingers brushing. He took it, still watching her.
“You’re very determined to scandalize me,” he said.
“Someone must,” she said, “you’ve lived too long without proper provocation.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Careful, Christine. You’re in my domain now.”
“Your domain is chaos,” she said, spreading jam with unsteady grace.
He took the knife from her hand and spread the jam himself, too thickly, on his own slice. “Then you’ll fit perfectly.”
She laughed then, and it felt to her like sunlight. “You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.” He took a bite, then looked at her, eyes glinting with mischief, “But am I less impossible than this jam?”
Before she could answer, he dabbed a smear of it playfully against her wrist.
“Tristan!”
He looked unrepentant. She retaliated with a spoonful of cream, swift and precise.
It landed on his jaw. For a heartbeat, they stared at one another, and then laughter broke free.
Hers ringing and breathless, his lower, warmer, the sound of someone who had forgotten how to laugh and suddenly remembered.
He caught her hand mid-swipe, holding it fast. The mirth drained slowly, replaced by something quieter, heavier. The space between them contracted.
“Careful,” she whispered, though her pulse betrayed her, “You’ll stain the linen.”
“I’m past caring about linen.” His voice was low now, almost rough.
She meant to pull away, but the look in his eyes stopped her. He traced a streak of cream from her wrist to her palm and bent his head, his lips following its path. The touch was slow, reverent. Her breath caught.
“Tristan…”
He lifted his gaze to hers. “You said you wanted to live.”
She did not answer. There was no need.
He leaned closer, his mouth finding hers, and the kiss was as inevitable as sunrise.
Gentle at first, then deeper, tasting of sweetness and surrender.
Her hand came up to his shoulder, and his arm slid around her waist, drawing her against him.
The tray wobbled dangerously between them before he pushed it aside, tea sloshing onto the carpet.
The feel of his shoulder was that of a warm statue. Hard as marble but living and breathing. She felt the firmness of muscle and the suppleness of that same body.
His chest pressed up against her, crushing her breasts and bringing her alive with sensations.
His loins touched hers, and his desire was evident, the hardest of hardness.
One hand touched the small of her back, and it was as though he had found a string that connected to the core of her womanhood.
That light touch lit a fire in her loins, and that made her toes tingle and her knees shake.
She moaned in disappointment when the touch stopped, but then gasped as it simply moved lower, enveloping the swell of her buttocks, gripping and possessing her.
Digging her fingers into his chest, she tried to own him the way she felt owned by him.
His shirt was no barrier; she could feel his body through the wicked fabric that tried to keep them apart.
Christine’s breath came hot and fast as Tristan’s lips found her neck. He bit, and she squeaked. Animals bit, but at that moment Christine wanted to be an animal, a she-wolf alongside her mate.
The very notion brought images of love-making as mating.
As an act of primal physicality, it made her head spin.
She tightened her fingers in his silky but still somehow rough hair, pulling even as she tightened her embrace.
The reward was a gasp of pleasure from Tristan.
Christine pulled his head from her neck to claim his mouth, but then let her tongue flick across his lips and follow the line of his jaw.
He tasted sublime, a sense of masculinity that could not be intellectually defined. It had to be experienced.
She laughed again, half-breath, half-protest, but he swallowed the sound in another kiss, slower this time, unhurried as the dawn that spilled across the room.
When they broke apart, the light had strengthened.
She could hear the city waking fully beyond the window, but in the quiet heart of the room, there was only them.
For a while, they said nothing. Words felt fragile things to bring into a world that had, for one brief hour, gone still.
It was only when the clock struck eight that Christine stirred.
“You should go,” she said softly, “before Mrs. Cleat has you arrested for impropriety.”
He smiled against her hair. “She’d have to catch me first.”
“She’s formidable,” Christine warned.
“So are you.”
Her hand found his where it rested on her waist. “That’s what frightens me,” she whispered.
He kissed her temple once, gently. “Then we’re both afraid.”
She leaned into him, closing her eyes. For the first time in her life, fear felt almost bearable because it was shared.
Outside, the morning sun broke clean through the last of the clouds, pouring its light over London and the quiet room where, for a few stolen moments, love had stopped pretending to be a lie.