Page 118 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
“You should not be alone,” he said gently, “not now.”
“On the contrary,” she said, surprised by the steadiness of her own voice, “I have rarely felt less alone.”
She tilted her head toward the ballroom. “All England is at my elbow.”
“Then let us prove to them we are not a curiosity but a promise,” he returned, “Come down with me. Let them see what cannot be undone.”
The last words were not boast but balm. He offered them as a poultice, not a war cry. She wanted, unreasonably, to lean into him and let the heat of his certainty melt her doubts. Instead, she stood very straight, as if posture could do what prayer could not.
“A promise that depends on accident,” she said, “On whether you are summoned away.”
That is the crux. Will I accept him now and lose him the next time there is word of Charles?
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“I have said I am sorry.”
His tone was not defensive; it was exhausted.
“The letter was a trap. I should have smelled the bait. I will not make that mistake again.”
“It is not the letter,” she said, and heard the thinness in her own voice, the narrowness of the ledge, “it is the part of you that read it and stood at once. That part is always ready, ready to run, ready to fight. I cannot outrun it. I cannot say a word to stop it. I will always be behind it.”
He took a breath as if to argue, then let it out.
“What would you have me do? Tell me plainly, Christine. I will do it if it tears me in two.”
She had not meant to ask. She had meant to swallow the thing that would not be given and pretend she never hungered. But the room had been full of lies all evening, and she had no room for one more.
“Give him up,” she said, and the words were a bare blade, “give up the hunt for Charles. Give up revenge. Choose me instead.”
The silence that followed was not surprise. It was the dull, terrible quiet of a man measuring the cost he had already counted. His eyes, dark and clear, did not leave hers.
“I love you,” he said at once, before calculation, before caution, “I would marry you tonight if the law would let me. I would drive through the dark to Gretna, if that is what it takes. I will spend the rest of my life making you safe. All of this is true,” his voicedropped, “but I cannot put aside the harm he has done. Not to me. To others. To you. To my house. To those men who do not see because they think we are only purses and walls. It is a rot that spreads unless someone cuts it out.”
“And you must be the knife,” she said.
“I am the one who can be,” he answered, simply, “once it is done, it will be over. I swear it to you. Then I am yours with no remainder.”
She had thought she might be prepared for this answer. Preparedness turned to gravel on her tongue.
“You speak as if a life can be divided like a ledger,” she whispered, “this column for love, this one for vengeance, and at the end of the quarter we shall reconcile.” She shook her head, a movement so small it barely disturbed the air, “I am not a remainder, Tristan.”
He flinched as if she had struck him and took a step nearer, hands open at his sides. The strongest man she had ever known was standing like a supplicant.
“You are the sum,” he said roughly, “you are the only arithmetic I trust.”
He swallowed. “But I cannot lie to you. If I say I will leave him be, I will fail you tomorrow. I would rather be cruel with the truth than gentle with a promise I cannot keep.”
“It is not gentle,” she said, the words breaking, “to ask me to live beside your war.”
Something flickered across his face. Perhaps pain or pride or both. He did not reach for her; he had learned she came closer when not compelled.
“Come down,” he said softly, retreating to the thing he could offer in public, “dance with me. Let us show them that tonight belongs to us, not to any magistrate or gossip-monger. We will argue with the world tomorrow.”
The door handle turned faintly in her palm, slick with heat. Through the panels came the swell of applause; someone had performed a feat with a glass or a step, and the crowd was determined to pretend it had not recently thirsted for blood. The absurdity of it washed over her and left a kind of icy clarity.
She smiled at him. The smile had enough truth in it to pass.
