Page 5 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
Thynne laughed heartily. “About time. You cannot spend your life skulking in Duskwood. Skulkwood, if you will, haha!” he chortled at his own terrible pun. William merely endured with a roll of his eyes.
“You’ll see the air is sweeter once you step into it,” Thynne continued.
“Is it?” Tristan murmured, sipping his wine.
“Elizabeth and I met at one of the Dowager Duchess’ Duke Hunts, you know?” Thynne said around a mouthful of pork pie, waving a fork loaded with ham for emphasis.
“I do recall you telling me,” Tristan said, his eyes roaming over the crowd and finding nothing to hold his interest.
Where to start? Any one of these lords and ladies might have information about the rogue that I seek.
“We are still invited as an example of a good marriage to the eligible people who come here. I suppose that also includes you now, eh?”
“If you try and give me lessons on finding a wife, you’ll regret it,” Tristan said with mock-harshness.
Thynne guffawed.
“I will not. Elizabeth is a law unto herself. Only God can stop her, and she will see you as a challenge.”
Tristan smiled indulgently but inwardly cringed.
“If it comes from Elizabeth, I suppose I shall have to grin and bear it.”
“I’m sure being introduced to a succession of pretty, accomplished females will be arduous indeed,” Thynne said.
“Torture,” Tristan agreed.
He was about to make another dry, witty comment, but the words died in his mouth. It seemed as though the currents within the mass of people around them shifted. Through a sudden clear space, he saw a young woman, making her way around the great hall. Slowly, delicately. She was haloed by golden hair and moved with delicate grace. There was an air of uncertainty about her, each movement seeming to be carefully planned, as though she walked among nettles.
Tristan looked away…or tried to. His eyes kept returning to her. She was a magnet, a flame, and his attention was a moth that could not resist her. To say she was beautiful was a gross understatement. A single word could not encompass her radiance. His heart leaped as she turned her head, and he found himself locking eyes with her. His mouth was dry.
Pull yourself together! You are not actually here to find a wife. Attachment is a weakness, and I will never be weak.
Everywhere Christine turned, whispers curled like smoke. Averted eyes. Faint sneers. Christine lifted her chin and forced herself forward. Her eyes scanned the meager crowd—the ton’s lowest ranks, those who did not have leave to arrive later than their social betters. Lord Bingley was nowhere to be seen.
Please tell me you have not become averse to arriving early all of a sudden!
She smiled as her eyes met those of others. Felt the pain as they looked away without a word. They judged her because of her brother. They judged her entire family. She tried not to feel the shame of it, but it burned her cheeks. The effort made her grit her teeth.
A sharp crash suddenly cut through the hum of conversation. A servant, now pale with panic, had dropped a tray. Glasses shattered, wine seeping across the floor. Ladies lifted their skirts fastidiously. Men glared at the man. One well-fed individual even raised a fist.
“Imbecile,” hissed a lord, dabbing at his shoe.
“Clumsy oaf,” another added.
The servant fumbled, cutting his palm on a shard in the process. Before Christine could think, she bent beside him, plucking a small handkerchief from within her glove.
“Here, press this against the wound and keep pressure on it,” she said firmly, pressing her handkerchief to his wound. “I'm sure your mistress will be angry if you bleed on your uniform.”
She gathered the unbroken glasses onto a table. None of the other guests, she supposed, would respond in such a way. To come to the aid of a servant and then help complete his work.
“I am stepping on broken glass,” a lady with her nose in the air protested.
“Then step somewhere else!” Christine snapped.
“Well, I never…” the lady spluttered as Christine stood.
The servant murmured thanks and fled, clutching the cloth to his hand. The weight of disapproval pressed on her from all sides. She ignored it. There was only one opinion in this room she cared about. Someone muttered.
