Page 112 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
“Done,” he said. “My compositor will letter it tonight. You will have proofs in the morning for your corrections.”
“I will not correct what you write,” Tristan said, “you will write well without my hand. I will only confirm that you have not lied.”
Setter’s mouth twitched. It was the smile of a man who collects rare things and had just come across an unexpected treasure.
“Very good, Your Grace.” He looked at Christine then and made a small, awkward bow that could not undo what his paper had done and nonetheless tried.
Christine inclined her head.
“Write something kind to a girl at a confectioner’s while you’re about it,” she said gently, “she buys your wit and wears it like jewelry. You might consider selling her better trinkets.”
Setter’s ears went pink. “We will aspire to the quality of our readers,” he said, and meant it for the length of an hour at least, “good morning to you both.”
They were outside in the damp again before Christine realized she had been holding her breath. Tristan stood there with the city on his shoulder, the rain in his hair.
“I want to be away from here. I want you back at Duskwood. These people do not deserve the sight of you or the memory of you. Let them forget you and leave the sight of you to me alone,” he said.
“You did not have to do that,” she said finally. “I have lived through worse.”
“I have not,” he said, “and I prefer not to start.”
She laughed, then weakly but real. “How exceedingly selfish.”
“Utterly.” He offered his arm again, “Will you permit me a further outrage?”
“Another flower?”
“A lemon ice,” he said gravely. “I am told they are forbidden at this hour by the laws of digestion.”
“Scandal,” she breathed.
They walked back to the carriage, the foxglove nodding in her arm.
“You were magnificent,” she said when the carriage steps folded up and the square began to move.
“I was entertained,” he answered, but the humor had a new warmth to it, the kind that comes when anger has found work and finished it. He looked at her, “If you ever see that word again, show it to me first.”
“Scullery?”
“Duchess,” he said, and closed his hand over hers so she would feel the weight of it.
She did not answer; there was nothing to add that would not either cheapen or crown the moment and let her fingers curve into his instead. Vauxhall’s lanterns slid away. Portman Square waited with its correct face and its secrets. The foxglove brushed her wrist, and she resolved to press it between the pages of a book to keep it.
When the carriage turned, Tristan leaned, stole a kiss that tasted of sugar and rain, and said almost ruefully,
“We will be barred from the gardens if I continue to amuse myself at their expense.”
“Then you must learn to amuse yourself at mine,” she whispered, because she could not resist.
“Already begun,” he said.
Thirty-Three
Morning broke with the kind of deceptive brightness that made the world seem trustworthy. A thin mist burned off the hills. Dew silvered the lawns, and the lake beyond the terrace mirrored the sky. Duskwood’s great windows flung ribbons of light across the floors, and servants moved like tides, up, down, in, out, each in pursuit of some last perfection for the evening’s celebration.
Christine had been awake before dawn. Sleep had abandoned her as efficiently as a footman dismissed from duty. From her dressing-room window, she had watched the house come to life. The sight should have comforted her, but it filled her instead with a restless unease.
The engagement ball. My engagement ball.
