Page 71 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
“But, does His Grace know?”
Christine hesitated, then smiled. “Not yet. But he will. And I have reason to think he will approve. I am to be his Duchess after all. The running of the house will be my preserve. Do not worry.”
It was bold, even reckless, to speak on Tristan’s behalf. Yet in that instant, Christine felt an unexpected certainty settle over her. If she were to become his duchess, as he seemeddetermined she would, then compassion must be her dowry. He might command the title, the estate, the power, but she could command grace. And perhaps, in time, teach him to wield it gently.
Constance covered her face with her hands, sobbing with relief. “You are too good to me, my lady. Too good.”
Christine embraced her. “You owe me no thanks. Only promise me you will tell James tonight. There is no cause for shame in love freely given.”
The maid nodded, still weeping.
When at last she had gone, Christine stood by the fire, staring into the glow. A strange peace had replaced her earlier anxiety. She could almost hear Tristan’s voice teasing her for her impulsive mercy.
You would turn Duskwood into a sanctuary for strays,he would say. And she would answer that there were worse fates than kindness. The clock chimed six. Downstairs, the first carriages were arriving.
Christine fastened the pearls at her ears, took a steadying breath, and descended the great staircase. The scent of roses drifted up from the hall, mingling with candle wax and the faint tang of rain on stone. Everywhere she turned, there were smiles, chatter, the bright rustle of silk. But no sign of Tristan.
She told herself he would appear before the first course. Still, as she entered the dining hall, her heart sank a little. His seat at the Dowager Duchess’ right remained empty. The Dowager Duchess herself, resplendent in violet satin, waved her over with a conspiratorial wink.
“My dear Lady Christine. No, don’t protest, I shall call you that until the vows are spoken. Come, sit beside me. We shall be two hens amongst these peacocks.”
Christine smiled despite herself and took the offered seat. The long table glittered under the chandeliers, every surface alive with crystal and silver. Conversation flowed like wine.
“I have done well, have I not?” the Dowager murmured, patting her hand, “three engagements in a week! Lord Fallsten, the Viscount of Norfolk and Lady Petra of Thanet; Lord Hannay, the Earl of Manchester and Lady Veronica of Bath. And your own. By far the most sensational, of course. Poor Lady Martha is livid, but that is to be expected. Jealousy makes even pretty women foolish.”
Christine’s fork paused above her plate. “Lady Martha has cause to dislike me?”
The Duchess sniffed. “Lady Martha dislikes every woman not named Lady Martha. You needn’t trouble yourself. Once she is married, she will turn her malice upon her husband instead.”
Christine laughed softly. “You speak as though from experience.”
“I speak as a woman who has outlived her husband, my dear. A feat that requires both endurance and strategy.”
The table erupted in laughter at some jest further down, and the Duchess leaned closer, lowering her voice.
“Do not look so worried, child. I can see the thoughts marching behind your eyes. Men like your Duke are slow to return, but they always do. Wolves stray for a purpose, never for pleasure.”
Christine looked down, cheeks warming. “You give him too much credit.”
“Nonsense. I have seen the way he looks at you. As if you were the first warmth he’s known in years. Enjoy that power, my dear. But do not flaunt it. Power untampered by kindness curdles into cruelty.”
Christine smiled faintly. “That sounds like something you might embroider on a cushion.”
The Dowager chuckled. “Indeed, I might. And I should send it to every married couple in London. Now, eat your soup before it congeals. We can’t have you swooning from nerves before the pudding.”
Her wit was relentless, and Christine found herself laughing more than she had expected. Yet beneath the laughter, a quiet ache persisted. Every time a door opened, her heart leapt, only to fall again when it was merely a servant.
By the third course, she had almost convinced herself that Tristan had simply been delayed, that he would sweep in with some plausible explanation, and she would forgive him for worrying her. But with each minute that passed, her confidence eroded.
When the meal ended and the company drifted toward the ballroom for cards and music, Christine excused herself under the pretext of seeking air. She found a moment’s solitude near the library, where the scent of leather and candle smoke lingered from the previous day’s discovery. It was there that Lady Martha appeared.
“Enjoying your triumph, Lady Christine?” The words dripped with false sweetness.
Christine turned, startled. “Lady Martha. You mistake me. There is no triumph in affection freely given.”
“Affection?” Martha laughed sharply, “Is that what you call it? Do you imagine he loves you? That a man like the Duke of Duskwood marries for anything but convenience…or revenge?”
Those words struck a chord with Christine, so aligned with her own worries. It was as though Lady Martha had peered into her mind, discerning her innermost thoughts. Christine met her gaze steadily.
