Page 113 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
And the man she was to celebrate it with had just unfolded a letter at breakfast, read two lines, and changed his expression from sunlight to storm.
“London,” he said abruptly, rising before she could ask, “there’s a matter that cannot wait.”
Christine set down her teacup, carefully enough that it did not clatter. “London? Today of all days? What can be so urgent?”
He did not answer but folded the letter and slid it into his pocket.
“I’ll be back before the first guests arrive.”
“But the ball…”
“May proceed without me for a few hours,” Tristan said, giving the lie to his previous sentence, “you’ve organized every detail. The house could dance itself at this point.”
He tried a smile, but it looked borrowed.
“Can you not tell me what calls you away?”
“I would rather not until it’s done.”
That tone, low and implacable, usually meant statecraft, ducal matters, or some crisis among tenants or investments. Yet the faint tension at the corner of his jaw betrayed something more personal.
“I wish you wouldn’t go,” she said quietly.
He came around the table, took her hand, and brushed his lips across her knuckles.
“And I wish I could stay. But I give you my word, I will be here. You have nothing to fear tonight. Lady Gillray will not darken the door, nor Lady Martha, nor that miserable barnacle, Lord Bingley. You are safe.”
“That isn’t what I fear,” she murmured.
He looked at her then, a long, searching look that left her breath tangled, and for an instant, she thought he might kiss her there in the breakfast room. But he only squeezed her hand once and said,
“You’ve faced worse storms than the ton’s chatter. Trust yourself, Christine.”
He left soon after, his carriage wheels snapping on the gravel like musket fire. She watched until the curve of the drive swallowed him, the weight of his absence settling before the dust had even fallen. All day, the preparations spun around her. She gave orders automatically, smiled when she was supposed to, adjusted a garland here, approved a menu there. Yet beneath the calm, she felt the peculiar hollow of loneliness, a silence where his voice should have been.
By late afternoon, she escaped to the terrace for air. The gardens shimmered under the sun, and yet something in the scene made her uneasy. The air itself seemed to hold its breath. She wasturning back toward the house when one of the younger footmen hurried down the steps.
“Beg pardon, my lady,” he said, doffing his hat, “Mr. Cobb from the grounds says there’s a stranger about the gardens by the yew walk near the south lawn. Thought you’d wish to know, seeing as His Grace is away.”
A chill threaded through her. “A stranger?”
“Yes, my lady. He wouldn’t let any of us approach.”
Christine’s heart began to hammer. “I’ll come.”
The footman blinked. “My lady, shouldn’t we send word to the steward?”
“No. Two of you with me will suffice.”
He obeyed, reluctant but trained, and within minutes they were making their way along the narrow path between clipped yew walls. The air smelled of damp greenery. When she reached the bend by the sundial, she saw him. Charles.
He stood half in shadow, half in sunlight, the same familiar tilt of the head and careless stance. He was thinner now, the sharpness of want in every angle. His clothes hung from him, patched and travel-stained. His hair had lost its gloss, his boots their polish. He looked older than his years, and behind the familiararrogance, she saw desperation. Her heart leapt and broke in the same instant.
“Charles!”
He flinched, then straightened, eyes darting past her to the footmen.
“Send them away.”
