Page 44 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
His mouth curved. “Then I must learn to be very patient.”
“I doubt you know how,” she said.
“Teach me.” The words escaped before he could dress them in armor.
The square blazed around them. Bells, hawkers, a dog barking madly at the piper’s notes, but for an instant, all Tristan heard was the horn-cry of a hunt beginning in earnest.
Fourteen
The path through the woods dappled sunlight across Christine’s skirts as she walked, following the faint sound of a stream somewhere ahead. The day had turned fine, and the air smelled of warm pine and earth. While Blanche circumnavigated the market and burdened herself with ribbons, hats, and jams. Christine had begged leave to take a walk before returning to Greystone.
Perhaps it was not wise to escape while Tristan was occupied with Lord and Lady Thynne and their picnic. Not if someone is watching me.
But if Charles was ultimately behind the watcher, she could not bring herself to feel afraid. Her brother could not possibly mean her harm.
No matter how far he may have sunk. He would not do me harm. Will I see harm done to him, even indirectly? No.
The conflict within her was tearing her in two. Charles’ victims, including their own father, deserved justice. But Charles was her brother. Nothing could change that. She knew that she would do anything to protect him.
It was rare, these quiet hours to herself, rarer still that her thoughts did not run immediately to Gillray House, to Charles, Selina, or the heavy question of her so-called betrothal to the Duke of Duskwood.
Which I have agreed to! I have actually agreed! I feel like I am dreaming. But is it a dream or a nightmare?
She could retract her agreement, she knew that. But part of her was bereft at the thought. Part of her did not want the arrangement to be cancelled. Wanted a wedding night with the Wolf…She lengthened her stride as though to escape the thoughts. Pushing through a cluster of ferns, she stopped short.
A child’s voice was crying somewhere to the left, thin and frightened. She called out.
“Louisa! Louisa, don’t leave me!”
Christine’s heart leaped. “Hello? Who’s there?”
Two small shapes burst out from the bracken like startled birds. Both were girls, one perhaps eight, the other no more than six. They were dressed in pale muslin already stained with grass andadventure. Their bonnets hung from ribbons; their hair tumbled loose.
The elder halted at once, clutching the other’s hand. The resemblance was close enough that Christine thought they must be sisters. The younger sniffled and wiped at her eyes.
“Are you lost?” Christine asked gently, crouching to put herself at the same level as the two children.
The older one nodded with grave dignity.
“We were playing hide-and-seek, but our governess went the wrong way. I think she’ll be very cross.”
“I expect she will be more worried than cross,” Christine said, “where were you meant to be?”
“Near the orchard,” the little one hiccupped. “We saw a squirrel.”
Christine smiled. “Then you’ve had quite an adventure. Shall we find your way back before your governess sends the entire militia to look for you?”
The older girl hesitated, squinting up through her curls. “You’re not afraid of the woods?”
“No,” Christine said, offering her hand. “I rather like them.”
The girl’s face brightened. “Uncle Tristan’s not afraid either.”
Christine blinked. “Uncle Tristan?”
The younger one nodded eagerly. “He walks faster than anyone! We saw him just now, but he didn’t see us. He was going that way.”
She pointed down a side path. Christine’s pulse skipped. Tristan was hardly the most common name in England. And for there to be another in this vicinity seemed to stretch the plausible.
