Page 72 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
“I think, perhaps, that he is a man learning to forgive. And forgiveness requires love.”
For a heartbeat, something flickered behind Martha’s painted smile, an emotion raw enough to be real.
“You know nothing of men, nor of forgiveness,” she said softly, “if you did, you would not bear the name Davidson.”
Christine’s breath caught. “What do you mean?”
Martha’s expression hardened. “Ask your brother. If you can find him.”
Before Christine could reply, Martha swept away toward the ballroom, leaving only the faint scent of perfume and bitterness in her wake. Christine stood motionless, the echo of those words ringing in her ears.
You would not bear the name Davidson. So, her hatred is not due to my engagement to Bingley. Yet another victim of Charles?
It was not the first time she had been reminded of her family’s disgrace, but Martha’s tone had carried something more, something personal. A secret grievance buried beneath propriety. Did Martha’s family count themselves among her brother’s victims? Or was her resentment rooted in something deeper?
Something relating to her specifically? A personal grudge?
The question gnawed at her as she returned to the drawing room, where the Dowager was holding court by the fire. The older woman beckoned her over.
“Ah, there you are, my radiant bride-to-be. Still no sign of your Duke?”
Christine shook her head, forcing a smile. “He is not a man to explain his absences.”
“Men rarely are. The trick, my dear, is not to chase after them. Wolves come home of their own accord, usually when they grow hungry.”
Christine blushed. “You are incorrigible.”
“I am experienced.” The Duchess’s eyes twinkled. “And I tell you this, when he does return, make him wait outside your chamber at least five minutes before you open the door. It keeps a man properly humble.”
Christine laughed, but her heart wasn’t in it. She made her excuses soon after and climbed the stairs to her room, the laughter of the guests fading behind her. Inside, the fire still burned low in the grate. On the table lay the small velvet pouch from the library, Greystone’s final treasure. She opened it, running her fingers over the delicate gold band within. It caught the firelight and gleamed like a promise.
“Where are you, Tristan?” she whispered.
A knock came at the door. Her pulse quickened, but when she opened it, it was only Constance, cheeks flushed from excitement. “I told James, my lady. He says to thank you a hundred times. We’ll serve you faithfully, I swear it.”
Christine smiled. “Then we shall both have new beginnings.”
If I have the power after all to offer it. What if I do not? If Tristan does not come back, then it will be three people he has left. However, he did not promise Constance salvation.
She knew that she should not have offered until such a time as she was in control of her own destiny. Now, James and Constance had been given hope which might be imminently dashed. The maid curtsied and left. Christine closed the door and leaned against it, listening to the distant strains of music below. Outside, the rain began again, soft and persistent, like a heartbeat against the glass.
She pressed a hand to her chest, willing calm. Tristan would return. He must. Whatever shadows he had gone to confront, he would find his way back to her. And together they would wait for Charles to return. For now, she crossed to the window and watched the night spread its dark wings over the gardens of Greystone, whispering to herself the only truth she knew:
Kindness is never folly, no matter how many wolves it awakens.
Twenty-Two
Christine’s life after Greystone was a whirlwind. Bracing herself for what would come next, she found herself unprepared for the barrage of modiste visits for a wedding dress, visits to the local vicar of the parish within which Duskwood lay. She was shown the wedding bands and the special license that Tristan had obtained. Christine felt that he had exercised a great deal of ducal authority and political string-pulling to arrange their marriage.
When it finally came, it was something of an anti-climax. Attended by the servants of Duskwood only, the ceremony flowed past and was culminated with a kiss that stole her breath and a whispered promise that she would be safe. From external threats and from him.
Tristan swept into the breakfast room the next day like a storm.
“Have you finished breakfast?” he demanded.
“I have,” Christine said.
“Good. Do not dawdle, we are leaving.”
