Page 57 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
“Yes,” Christine replied, brightly, “or go back to the beginning.”
“Heaven forbid.”
He followed Christine’s instructions to align himself with the beginning of the new obstacle.
“What will you do to entertain yourself when this is over, I wonder,” Christine said in the tone of absent, almost rhetorical contemplation.
Tristan considered his response, then decided it was not worthy of consideration. He lost nothing by sharing something of himself and gained only her trust.
“I draw,” he said gruffly, the personal admission grating at his throat as it was released.
“Draw? What do you draw?” Christine’s interest was sharp.
“Nature. The wild. My country estate is not a bowling green like Greystone. I have allowed nature to reclaim large parts of it and have been rewarded with many animals and plants you will not find in gardens sculpted by Capability Brown.”
Christine was silent for a moment, and Tristan found himself frozen in mid-stoop. His back began to ache.
“Have you taken a tea break?” he demanded.
“Oh! I’m sorry!” Christine sounded startled, “a little lower…”
She touched his shoulder as though to demonstrate, then her hands leaped away as though burned.
“Oh no! I’m not supposed to touch you!”
“Damn that, just tell me where to move!” Tristan snapped, thighs and calves groaning.
“Stoop an inch lower and lift your left foot, then move it six inches to the left…no!”
Tristan obeyed and heard a tinkle, felt a rope catch his left ankle. He instinctively jerked away, heard another as he hit the rope he was stooping under. His right foot snagged a third rope, and his balance, denuded by his blindness, was gone. He toppled to the grass in a tangle of ropes and a jangle of bells.
“Damnation!” he roared.
Someone raised a cheer. Tristan assumed that he and Christine had been leading, and now were celebrated by their opponentsfor their first foul. He raised his hands to his blindfold, but Christine beat him to it. Her hands closed around his.
“No! We will not just give up. This means a lot to Her Grace, I told you,” she said.
“This is absurd. You have agreed to our betrothal. We do not need to put ourselves through this!” Tristan retorted.
Christine’s voice came much closer now. “If you want the marriage to go ahead, you will see it through. It is important to me. I will be heard, remember?”
She must have been crouching over him for her voice to be so close to his ear. His hand was clasped in both of hers. He was struck by her skin, smooth but not perfect, as a lady would often be expected to be. He felt the ridge of a scar on her left index finger. Another on the heel of her hand.
Aesthetically, imperfections are supposed to be ugly. But it just makes her…real. She has lived. Worked. Suffered. There is texture to her soul. It makes her fascinating in a way that a perfect princess who has lived within a protective bubble could never be.
“I wish I knew where that scar came from,” she whispered, fingers tracing the line that bisected his palm.
“Why?” Tristan whispered back.
“Because you are to be my husband and I would know you.”
“Husband in name only.”
“I am still to share your house, am I not?”
Her voice receded, and he wished for it back. Wished for the feel of her warm breath in his ear. The scent of her perfume close by, the knowledge that he had but to put out his hand to feel her body.
“It is a rope burn,” he said, climbing to his feet, “a misadventure when I was young. Do I look as disheveled as I feel?”
