Page 106 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
“Idiot,” he said again, and kissed her hair where it curved over her ear, a benediction he had no right to give. She did not wake. The rain had taught London patience. So he lay and kept her, just for now. Just for another moment, and another, while the wolf’s watchfulness eased in her presence.
While the city acknowledged the morning.
While he drifted into sleep.
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 thatforever, 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 thepillow 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.
