Page 17 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
He laughed. “What’s this? Christine Davidson playing at soldiers?”
“I am not playing,” Christine said, feeling her arms tremble with the weight of the blade.
“It is well that I found you. My wife and I were invited, but she decided to accept another invitation. But I was informed that you would be here by Lady Gillray. Trying to make up for losing you in the first place, I think. Most annoying. But all can be put right now that I have you.”
He advanced, and Christine lifted the sword.
“Get back!”
Dreadford stood with arms outstretched and head back, eyes closed.
“Do your worst,” he said before dissolving into snorting laughter.
Christine only had to look at the tear-streaked and frightened face of the maid, cowering against the wall, to find her courage. She snapped the flat of the blade against his ribs, wielding the sword like a club. It drew a high-pitched yelp from Dreadford. The maid darted away, starched uniform rustling as she fled down the passage.
Dreadford recovered swiftly, his face mottled with fury. He lunged, seizing Christine's wrist. The sword clattered to the floor. Christine gasped, trying to twist free, but his grip was iron.
“Bold little fool,” he growled. “You’ll pay for…”
A hand grabbed his shoulder from behind. A shape loomed. Dreadford was spun around, and a fist struck him clean across the jaw. He went sprawling, crashing against the wainscoting. Standing over him, eyes flashing with cold fury, was the Duke of Duskwood.
“If I ever see you touch a woman again, Dreadford,” the Duke said, his voice low, dangerous, “you’ll not get up again.”
Dreadford spat blood, glaring up. “You will regret this, Wolf!”
The Duke’s temper snapped. “Call me that again and I will show you my teeth! Get out before I decide to end you now.”
Something in his tone, or the way his boot pressed threateningly close, convinced Dreadford. With a curse, he scrambled away and fled down the corridor. Christine clutched her wrist, heart hammering.
“Thank you,” she stammered.
The Duke turned to her, his face unreadable. “What business do you have with a man like that at this time of the night, in your nightgown?”
Christine heard the accusation in his tone. She remembered then that she was indeed in her nightdress, covered by a thick dressing gown of brocaded silk, but undressed nonetheless. She tightened the gown unnecessarily; it still covered her adequately.
Her heart raced, but it was no longer the result of the confrontation. The idea of being seen dressed for bed by this man was intensely exciting. She blushed, glad of the shadows to hide it from him.
“I caught him assaulting a maid,” she said. “How did you come to be abroad at this hour?”
“You challenge your rescuer again? I often walk when I cannot sleep. Do I need your permission?”
“I merely responded to your tone, questioning me.”
“I am fully dressed and not in an altercation with a known rake,” the Duke said sharply.
“As I said, I intervened to save a poor young girl from him.”
“That is not what the gossip will say. Have you not given them quite enough ammunition for one night?”
Christine forgot about her lack of clothes. She felt a surge of anger that this man constantly deemed it appropriate to judge her.
He mocked me when Lady Martha assaulted me. Called it bathing in wine if you please! Now, he implies I am trying to bring scandal upon myself! He is insufferable!
“Whether I risk scandal or not is my concern. I would not stand by and let…”
“But you risk putting yourself into the trap this maid was in. You might have become the victim of assault,” the Duke said harshly.
“Would you care?” Christine challenged, raising her voice.
