“And yet you smile.”
“I smile because I pity you. You have no idea how transparent you are.”
He stepped closer still, the shadow of a grin ghosting his lips. “Then enlighten me.”
“You think this pretense of betrothal is a game you control. It is not. One day, you will find yourself caught by your own snare.”
His eyes darkened. “Is that a threat?”
“A prediction.”
The tension between them coiled tighter than the sunlight through the trees. She turned to walk on, but he caught her wrist, not harshly, just enough that she could feel the strength behind the gentleness. Her breath shuddered; she relished that strength, knowing that its display had been prompted by her.
He was the one whose self-control slipped. Not I. And it was I who made that control slip its chains.
“You enjoy testing me,” he murmured.
His voice was a soft rumble that reverberated through Christine.
“Perhaps I do,” she whispered.
For a moment, they stood like that, the forest hushed around them, their breaths shallow in the same air. His thumb brushed the pulse at her wrist, deliberate, lingering.
“Careful,” he said, “you might wake the wolf.”
“Maybe I am a wolf also. And you are waking me.”
He drew her closer, so close she could see the faint scar that ran along his jaw. His eyes were molten grey, his breath warm against her temple.
“This is foolish,” she said, though she made no move to step away, “anyone could happen along.”
“Just two wolves engaged in the most primal of dances,” he said, and kissed her.
The world seemed to tilt. The scent of crushed grass, of his skin, filled her senses. Her heart raced. His mouth moved against hers with a hunger that stole thought, that made her forget propriety, gossip, everything but the way his hands framed her face as though he would devour and worship her in the same breath.She pressed herself against him, feeling his hardness, feeling his heat in the pant of his breath, the movement of his chest, the unyielding power of his embrace.
She felt soft in comparison. Fragile. Delicate and helpless. She clutched at him, wanting more of his hardness, more of his power, while also fighting against it, resisting, refusing to be utterly helpless. When his lips broke from hers, she fastened onto his neck, pulling his head down, becoming the she-wolf. He gasped her name in a desperate exhalation that caused her legs to buckle. His arms were all that held her upright. One of his hands landed on her left breast, and it was his name that escaped her in urgent fervor.
The shocking inappropriateness of the touch was more intoxicating than the most potent spirit. She clasped her hand atop his, reason demanding that she rip the touch away. Instinct demanded a louder scream that his hand never move. She pressed, encouraging his fingers to delve and squeeze, moaning into his hungry mouth, letting her desire escape her. When at last he broke away, she was trembling.
“Christine,” he said roughly, “if I were a better man, I’d beg your forgiveness.”
She caught her breath. “And since you are not?”
“Then I’ll only warn you that once the wolf has tasted, he never forgets.”
She laughed, low and breathless. “Then we are both doomed.”
He smiled, a real smile this time, rare and devastating, and brushed a stray lock from her cheek.
“Perhaps,” he murmured, “but what a delicious doom it is.”
Fifteen
The evening light slanted long across the marble floor of Greystone’s great hall, turning the portraits to burnished gold. Footmen hurried to and fro with trays of candles, and the faint hum of violins drifted from the music room.
Christine was on her way to her chamber when a ripple of unease passed through the air, followed by hushed voices and the soft scrape of the front doors opening.
“Lady Gillray,” announced the butler, his tone polite but stiff.
