The silence between them stretched until she could hear the faint tick of the mantel clock. The trouble was that Christine knew the source of her anger was that she wished to deny, even to herself, how thrilled she felt at his defense of her. At his possessiveness. His claiming of her. It made her head spin and her knees tremble. Made her want to faint, or pretend to, just so that he would be forced to scoop her into his arms, so she could melt into his body.
He moved closer, the distance between them shrinking until she could feel his breath against her temple. “Do you truly believe I could spend this much time in your company and feel nothing?”
She swallowed. “I believe you feel many things. You simply measure their value before you allow them.”
For a long moment, neither spoke. Tristan exhaled, a sound that was almost a laugh but carried no amusement.
“You are sharper than is good for either of us.”
“Then tell me the truth,” she said. “What do you intend?”
He looked down at her, the mask slipping just enough to show the man beneath. Tired, conflicted, dangerously human.
“I told my solicitor to trace your brother,” he said, “he believes Charles will reveal himself if he thinks his sister has risen high enough to be useful again. A duke’s fiancée is bait no man like him could resist.”
“So I am bait.” The words landed like a stone in her chest.
His answer was soft, almost apologetic. “You are necessary.”
She turned away, voice trembling. “I suppose you are honest at that.”
“Too honest, perhaps,” he said, “I should have lied and said I wanted you for your beauty, your wit, your courage.”
She glanced back, startled by the rough edge in his tone. “But you do not?”
He stepped closer, gaze locked to hers. “I imagine those things every time I see you. What it would be like to be your husband in truth. To wake beside you, to see you smile because of me,” he hesitated, then added bitterly, “but I am a man who deals in facts, not fantasies.”
“Perhaps you should allow fantasy to have free rein. Just once.” Christine said boldly, “I have spent years living in fantasy because the real world was too terrible.”
Something changed in Tristan’s face. Something broke. A chain holding back the wolf. His arm went about her waist, and he claimed a kiss from her that left her breathless and desperate for more. But the stairs were speaking of intruders into their tryst, the sound of footsteps rapidly increasing. The Wolf moved swiftly in the face of danger. Seizing Christine’s hand, he strode across the hall and opened a small door in the shadow of the grand staircase.
Beyond was a small storeroom, the kind which only servants know the location of, beneath the notice of anyone else. They shared it with shelves of linen and the smell of lavender. Into that smell, Christine’s head was filled with the smell that was simply Tristan. His soap, his clothes, the tobacco from the after-dinner cigar that had infused the thread of his coat. The sharp musk of his cologne.
Primal. Outdoor and masculine. Painfully masculine. Christine found her back pressed against the door. Tristan placed her hand over the doorknob.
“Hold this for your life and reputation. Do not allow it to be opened,” he whispered.
“I will not…” Christine began to reply but stopped, words failing her as she felt the tender roughness of his lips on her neck.
He wrenched the neckline of her dress from his path. His hands kneaded her breasts as though he owned them and savored the sampling of his possessions. Christine’s hand on the doorknob tightened, the cold metal stinging her palm. She clamped herteeth tight shut around a moan of pleasure, hearing someone outside.
Tristan’s hands left her breasts and splayed across her stomach as though trying to touch her through the fabric of her dress. She wished it would just melt away, along with his. Her skirts pressed inward around her loins by insistent fingers, and she squeaked. That kind of touch was so…indecent!
Tristan was looking at her, a smile on his face, knowing what he was making her feel. Enjoying the helpless weakness he was causing her. His other hand, as mischievous as the first, found her bottom and squeezed hard. The two worked in concert, touching her in a way that she was not sure that even a husband would be allowed. One rubbed the other squeezed, and Christine’s head whirled. She wanted to close her eyes, concentrate on the pleasure, but she wanted to see him just as much. Sounds reached her through a fog of pleasure. Conversation, orders given to servants, passing footsteps. Christine used her free hand to gag herself as something built within her.
Tristan was looking at her again, seeing in her eyes what she was feeling.
“Was this a fantasy you ever inhabited?” he whispered.
Christine shook her head wordlessly, feeling her eyes go wide as the feeling within her broke free like a volcano.
“Then welcome. We are to be married, and such a life will not be terrible. Fantasies such as this might be your waking life.”
Christine nodded, eyes finally closing tight. She collapsed against him, but with her hand still holding the door tight shut. Time slowed. Became eternity. Finally, they opened the door a crack, and when the coast was revealed, they stepped out and apart. Tristan kissed her hand.
“Do not let that odious woman poison you. There is more hope in your life than you think, and being a she-wolf is not so terrible, is it?”
Christine watched him go, the echo of his words twisting through her mind. Facts, not fantasies. And yet when he had spoken of being her husband, the fantasy had sounded terribly, achingly real.
