Page 16 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
“I am Tristan Draymore, tenth Duke of Duskwood. At your service.”
Did he hold her fingers for a fraction longer than propriety demanded? Did his lips linger? Christine could still feel them. If she closed her eyes, she could convince herself that he was still kissing her. In her mind, she saw and felt him kissing her wrist, her arm, her shoulder.
My neck! Oh Lord, but I must control my thoughts!
“Bravo, Lady Christine!” the Dowager Duchess called out, “let us continue our rearrangement. Lord Bingley and Lady Martha, if you wish to sit out this game, then please do so.”
Lady Martha seemed put out now that her removal from the game had ceased to have an impact on Christine. But she had risen from her seat. Lord Bingley dithered, courteously offered the seat opposite Blanche by a waiting servant, and almost took it before Lady Martha hissed in his direction. There was a ripple of tittering as Lord Bingley hurried to her side and the two left with injured dignity.
“So, you have three minutes. What should I know about you?” Christine asked.
The Duke blinked, then stroked his chin for a moment.
“Tick tock, Your Grace. The bell will ring,” Christine said.
“I was raised from the age of fourteen by my uncle, Sir Alfred Draymore, my father’s younger brother,” he said, finally.
“You are fortunate. What became of your father?” Christine asked.
“Fortunate?” the Duke asked, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes.
“That you had an uncle who could step into your father’s shoes,” Christina said.
“Very. My father’s heart gave out. It was sudden. My uncle was a different matter. Am I permitted to ask a question?”
“No. What do you mean about your uncle?” Christina said, determined to exploit this opportunity to the best of her ability.
She was conscious of ladies on both sides of her, paying more attention to the Duke’s answers than to those of the gentleman opposite them. The Duke glanced with lidded eyes, one way then another. There was something of a snarl about the curl of his lip.
“My uncle succumbed to…a long illness.”
“I am very sorry.”
“You aren’t the one who should be sorry.”
Christine blinked. It had the feeling of a rapier blade. The Duke looked away, shaking his head and running a hand through his mane of hair. The bell rang, and the Dowager Duchess rang right after it.
“Time to move on, gentlemen!”
The Duke stood and walked away, declining to move one seat over. Christine watched him stalk away and wondered at theneed that would drive such a man to an event like this. An event he clearly loathed. Or perhaps he simply loathed other people. His posture said that he stood alone, even surrounded by others. That he was resigned to it.
How can I contemplate betrothal to such a man? To such a wild, savage man with so little respect for social conventions.
Six
From outside Christine’s room, in the hallway, came a sound. Dinner was long over, and midnight was approaching. Who would be abroad in Greystone at this hour? She gathered her courage and then her skirts, opened the door, and slipped into the hall. The corridors of Greystone were a maze, half-lit where they were lit at all.
Lamps were turned down low and seemed to throw more shadow than flame. Christine turned a corner, listening. She was just about to turn back, dismissing it as her overactive imagination, when she heard a low voice, oily with false charm, making her skin prickle unpleasantly.
“…no need to run off, pretty one. I only meant to…”
The answering whimper tightened Christine’s spine. She crept closer, saw Lord Dreadford looming over a maid pressed against the wall, his hand blocking her escape. Christine’s blood went hot.
Why would he even be invited? What is he doing here?
Before she could think better, she seized a sword from an ancient, ornamental display on the wall. It proved hard to remove, requiring both hands. It was heavy and unbalanced, and by the time she had it under control, Dreadford was advancing towards her.
“Unhand her at once!” Christine shouted.
