Page 115 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
She hesitated. This was theft—not of money, but of trust.
He’ll never know. I’ll replace it when I can. When Charles is gone, when it’s all over. He will never notice. I do this to give Tristan and me the life we deserve together. To free him of his quest for revenge.
She counted out thirty sovereigns, enough for passage, and folded one promissory note besides. Her hand shook as she relocked the drawer.
“Forgive me,” she whispered to the air of Duskwood.
Back in the gardens, Charles waited where she had left him. His eyes widened at the sight of the purse.
“You truly are my sister.”
“Take it,” she said, pressing it into his hands, “and go now. Go anywhere. Just don’t come back. Not ever.”
He nodded, though guilt never reached his expression. “You’ll hear from me once I’m safe.”
“No,” she said fiercely, “not even then.”
He looked at her for a heartbeat, something unspoken flickering in his gaze, then turned and vanished down the slope toward the river path.
When he was gone, Christine sank onto the sundial’s stone base, breath catching like a sob. Tristan’s carriage would be returning by evening. The house would blaze with candles, music would rise, guests would toast the illusion of their happiness, and she would stand at his side, smiling, while the secret lay between them like a crack beneath polished marble. She pressed a hand to her heart. It thudded too fast, too loud.
“Please,” she murmured to the empty garden, “don’t let him find out.”
But the echo that came back from the yews sounded a great deal like:
He will.
Thirty-Four
The chandeliers blazed with such brightness that it felt like standing inside a star. Every candle had been doubled, every mirror polished to merciless perfection, every musician tuned to an inch of his life. Duskwood glowed like a jewel box flung open, and Christine stood at the centre of it, smiling till her cheeks ached and her heart trembled.
She had practiced the smile. The serene hostess, gracious duchess-to-be, mistress of all she surveyed. It worked, almost. Guests arrived in a shimmer of silk and murmur of gossip, and one by one she greeted them at the foot of the staircase, alone. Tristan’s absence grew heavier with each curtsy and bow.
“Lord and Lady Atherby!” announced the butler, his voice firm as granite.
Christine stepped forward. “How good of you to come.”
The lady’s eyes flicked to the empty space beside her, where Tristan should have been.
“Such a grand affair,” Lady Atherby said, brittle with curiosity, “His Grace must be very proud.”
“He is detained,” Christine replied, the words now rote, “he will join us presently.”
Lady Atherby’s smile said she doubted it. “But of course.”
Each guest after her offered the same polite disquiet, the same half-smiles that pretended not to whisper about the absent duke behind their lace fans. The Duke of Duskwood’s absence had become a spectacle unto itself. Christine could feel the eyes of the ton moving over her, measuring, judging, calculating how long a lady could stand alone before it ceased to be tragic and became humiliating. She stood her ground.
The orchestra began to play a quadrille, the first of the evening, but no one asked her to dance. Men bowed, women curtsied, conversation swelled and ebbed. Still, Tristan did not appear. Her throat ached with the effort of dignity.
What if this is the point?What if this is the lesson? Putting me in my place. Teaching me that I am nothing after all.
She tried to banish the thought. A murmur rose near the doors. The butler’s voice faltered. Christine turned.
“Lady Gillray,” announced the butler, his usual composure thinned to a thread, “and guest.”
The crowd parted like fabric under a knife. Lady Gillray entered on the arm of a heavyset man with a powdered wig and a magistrate’s insignia on his coat. Her face wore that same expression Christine remembered too well, piety painted over poison. The air froze. Christine’s hand clenched on the rail of the staircase.
“Lady Gillray,” she said, managing civility by force, “I was not aware you had been invited.”
