Page 51 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
Sixteen
The chandeliers of Greystone were a constellation of light that evening, reflected in silver and glass and the soft shimmer of ladies’ gowns. The Dowager Duchess was in her element, presiding at the head of the table with the gleam of mischief in her eye.
She had spent the day arranging guests like chess pieces, every move leading inevitably toward one goal, the pairing off of hearts.
She will think to increase her prestige as a matchmaker by proclaiming herself the architect of my betrothal to Christine. The woman who matched the Wolf of Duskwood indeed!
Tristan’s coat was black, his cravat stark white, his expression that familiar mask of composure. Yet any who knew him long enough to read the signs, would see the tension in the angle of his shoulders, the way his gaze kept sliding to the place opposite him, where Christine sat.
She was luminous in blue silk, her hair pinned simply but with that unstudied elegance that mocked artifice. And next to her, newly arrived and already drawing every eye, lounged the Duke of Windermere.
“He strolled in as though he had been here from the beginning. No apology to Her Grace,” someone next to Tristan whispered.
“Disgraceful behavior.”
Austin Delves, known as the Velvet Duke, was everything Tristan was not. Languid where Tristan was taut, his smile a weapon that had felled half the unmarried women in London.
He had arrived late in the afternoon, citing an unavoidable delay involving a broken carriage wheel and an innkeeper’s daughter. The Dowager had greeted him with fond exasperation and placed him beside Christine with all the subtlety of a general placing a cannon.
Now he was making the most of the position. Tristan caught fragments of the exchange across the table, Windemere’s lazy charm, Christine’s polite replies, the faint flush rising in her cheeks. Tristan’s knife paused mid-cut.
“Careful, old friend,” Ernald murmured from beside him, “you’re about to saw through the plate.”
Tristan’s eyes flicked to him, cool as ever. “The silver here is thin. I’m testing its quality.”
“Of course you are,” Ernald said, amused, “and the way you’re glaring at Windemere is purely in the interest of metallurgy.”
Tristan’s answer was a small, tight smile. At that moment, Lady Helena Morton of Henley leaned in from Tristan’s other side. She was safe to position next to an unmarried man because of her own betrothal to Lord Ashdowne, who sat opposite, and talked to his neighbors of India and Africa.
“Your Grace,” Lady Helena purred, “you must tell us about Duskwood. Is it true that the forests there are haunted?”
Tristan’s jaw tightened. “Only by creditors and poets, madam.”
“Then we should all be safe,” she said archly, mistaking dryness for invitation.
She continued talking, undeterred, and Tristan, trapped by civility and wishing for a more savage society, was forced to turn toward her.
Christine felt her attention torn. The gentleman next to her had been introduced as the Duke of Windermere, a name she knew. He was ludicrously handsome in a way that would have left her stammering just a few weeks ago. Now, it washed over and beyond her, leaving no stain upon her. Her eyes kept going from his conversation to Tristan.
Windermere is lean and lithe. He is well-dressed and well-groomed. He smiles. Tristan is dark and scowling. He looks like a barbarian prince with that long hair of his.
But no matter how many times she stacked the cards in Windermere’s favor, Tristan kept winning the hand, and her eyes returned to him. Each time Lady Helena’s laugh rang out like a cracked bell, Christine’s hand tightened on her wineglass. The Velvet Duke noticed, of course. He noticed everything.
“Tell me, Lady Christine,” The Velvet Duke said, his tone one of lazy amusement, “do you believe all the tales they tell about the Wolf Duke?”
Christine’s lips curved faintly. “Which tales are those, Your Grace?”
“That he devours the hearts of innocent maidens,” he said, “or that he hasn’t one of his own.”
Christine met his eyes, calm as a lake. “I believe men tell tales to disguise what they fear to feel.”
Windemere laughed softly. “Then we are all storybooks at your mercy.”
Tristan’s fork stilled again. Christine glanced over and found him in the act of doing the same. She saw the tension in his arms, the straightness of his brow, and the intensity of his eyes.
Because he sees me as an asset? Just like his stables or his properties. Or as a woman to whom he has laid claim.
“Except him,” Windermere said softly.
