Christine’s blush deepened. Tristan schooled his features into polite neutrality.
“The first game of the week begins after breakfast,” the old lady went on. “I expect to see you both. It would please me enormously.”
Tristan inclined his head. “We would not dream of disappointing you, madam.”
The Dowager moved on, leaving silence in her wake.
Christine raised her cup again, though her hand trembled faintly now. “Well,” she said lightly, “I suppose we must be very careful. It seems the whole house is already writing its story for us.”
Tristan met her gaze. “Let them write.”
For once, she looked unsettled. But only for a heartbeat. Then her eyes sharpened again. Tristan smiled, turning his eyes to the paintings that decorated the wall as he sipped tea. He felt her gaze on him for a few moments longer.
What is her story? There are hints, clues that I do not think she intends to give. I must discover what life is like for her at Gillray House.
As soon as he thought it, Tristan wanted to dismiss the thought as superfluous nonsense. He was offering her security, the chance to be free of Gillray House. But he could not dislodge the sight of her blushing face when she felt she had said too much. The face of a person ashamed by the circumstances and not wanting anyone to know.
Eight
“The Duke of Duskwood,” Christine called out as she unfolded the slip of parchment that she had drawn from the silk bag held by a servant.
There were mixed reactions. Ladies whispered, and some gentlemen went so far as to shake their heads. The Dowager Duchess led the applause as Tristan strode from the group of gentlemen to stand by Christine’s side. Others joined in out of politeness.
There were sympathetic looks and looks of contempt. Lady Martha looked away, nose in the air, clinging to Lord Bingley’s arm. Each lady standing with a gentleman had drawn from the bag, and half a dozen remained. The draw was the beginning of the first game, Aim for the Duke’s Heart.
The morning sun was warm enough that the ladies wore dresses that left their arms bare, with only the filmiest of shawls to covertheir shoulders. Christine had. It felt daring, but she had not been able to resist.
When else would I get the chance to wear such fine gowns? When else have I ever had that chance?
“Shall we?” Tristan’s voice sounded far too smooth at her shoulder. Christine turned to find him bowing with mock gravity, extending his arm. “Our destiny awaits, Lady Christine.”
She rolled her eyes and refused his arm. “Our turn will not come for some time. The queue is long.”
“And yet,” Tristan murmured, leaning closer so only she could hear, “I find myself impatient.”
She turned her face away, lest he see the warmth stealing into her cheeks.
The lawn glittered with color, silks and satins, parasols like painted wings, laughter and chatter carried on the late morning air. At the far end of the green, the mannequin of the Duke for whom the entire event was named. Its heart was painted bright red. It stood like a ludicrous scarecrow. Couples queued with bows and blindfolds, the ladies laughing nervously while their gentlemen guided them into position.
Christine told herself it was only a game. A harmless country diversion. Yet when Tristan took the blindfold from the stewardand held it out to her, she felt as though she were stepping into something else entirely.
They stood in a line; servants walked along it with trays of fruit, sweets, and punch. There was much laughter and chatter. The dowager kept up a running commentary on how each lady performed with her arrow.
Tristan looked at her. “Will you be returning to Gillray House when this is over?”
Christine thought about telling a glib lie. But really, what was the point in concealing anything?
“No. I do not get along with Lady Gillray,” she said, “I will delay returning for as long as possible. Hopefully, not before I am able to go to my sister.”
“And why is that?”
“Why do you wish to know? It seems a very personal question.”
“I am interested in you.”
“Don't you mean ‘nosy’?” Christine countered.
“Hardly. I abhor slang.”
