Page 52 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
Christine was surprised to see him. “Excuse me?”
“The attention you give him is surely that of someone studying a difficult text and not understanding the meaning.”
“I think you ascribe too much significance to the direction of my eyes.”
“Ah, but they are the windows of the soul, are they not?”
Another shrill laugh from Lady Helena pulled Christine’s eyes. She realized that she had a piece of food on her fork that had not reached her mouth for a couple of minutes.
“I arrived too late to catch up with the gossip. Perhaps you can tell me, which ladies are still free and which are spoken for?” Windermere said, sipping wine and letting his eyes roam the room.
“I don’t keep up with gossip either,” Christine said.
This is my chance. Do I state that I am one of those who are spoken for and embrace the fiction that Tristan has proposed?
Once she did it, it felt as though she would be stepping from one trap into another. Her choices would be just as limited as they were if she returned to Gillray House. No matter her striving for independence, she would be tied to Tristan. That thought sent a pleasurable shiver down her spine. The thought of being his wife, able to be alone with him unchaperoned. To kiss him…
Christine found herself blushing and found Tristan’s hungry hunter’s gaze on her. The line of his mouth tightened, and Helena’s chatter broke upon granite cliffs that no longer acknowledged her presence.
“I know that Lady Martha is betrothed to Lord Bingley,” Christine managed, conscious of Windermere’s attentive gaze upon her.
“I am aware. And would behave as though that was the case even if it weren’t,” Windermere said.
Christine found herself laughing. Further down the table, Lady Martha glanced in Christine’s direction, glanced next at Tristan, and then lowered her head to whisper to her neighbor.
After dinner, the guests drifted into the drawing room where the Dowager had contrived yet another of her matchmaking diversions. Tristan felt a sense of relief at being freed from the burdens of dinner table conversation. He found himself striding towards Christine but saw her snatched away by the Dowager Duchess. She gathered the ladies like the pied piper.
“We shall play blind man’s buff,” she announced, clapping her hands as servants cleared a space.
“Only our version shall have a touch of romance. The ladies shall be blindfolded, and the gentlemen will stand in a circle. Whichever gentleman the lady catches will be her partner for the dance that follows. If you have someone in mind, ladies, be sure to remember the fragrance of his cologne or the sound of his voice. He will be allowed to call out to you once.”
Laughter and mild protest followed, but no one dared refuse the Dowager’s games. The first few rounds were all in good fun, laughter, teasing, and the occasional squeal when a gentleman was caught by the wrong lady.
When Christine’s turn came, Tristan straightened unconsciously, though he remained at his place in the circle beside Windemere. He had not begun there, but the Dowager changed the places in the circle after each round.
The Dowager tied the silk blindfold over Christine’s eyes herself, giving her shoulders a reassuring squeeze.
“Remember, my dear, listen for what cannot be seen. Now, who would like to call out to guide Lady Christine home?”
There was a clearing of throats, and Tristan’s gaze roamed the circle, silencing men wherever it landed.
“Here,” he snapped.
Lord, let this stupidity be over. Let her agree so that we can return to Duskwood.
Christine turned slowly, hands outstretched. The gentlemen shifted on their feet, a murmur of anticipation rippling through the circle. Christine moved cautiously, her fingers brushing air, then fabric. She turned toward their side of the circle. The Velvet Duke, never one to miss a performance, murmured just loud enough for Tristan to hear.
“If she chooses me, I promise to be gentle.”
“She will not,” Tristan said.
“Care to wager?”
Christine stepped closer. She breathed deeply and then smiled, stepping closer again. But her senses were off; she had drifted closer to the Duke of Windermere than Tristan. He clamped his teeth shut around the urge to speak, seeing the Dowager watching closely. Christine reached out, inches away from touching Windermere’s shoulder.
The Velvet Duke gave a subtle flick of his wrist, and the full wine glass he held tipped, its contents cascading in a crimson arc across his waistcoat.
“Devil take it!” he exclaimed, stepping back out of the circle in mock alarm. Servants hurried forward with napkins, laughter breaking the tension.
