Page 47

Tristan ran his fingertips repeatedly over his cufflinks for reassurance that he was not sleeping and living a nightmare.

But nothing changed. He was still here.

Approximately four hours and twenty-three minutes had passed since his arrival at Redcliff Manor.

He’d spent an hour in the parlor with the women before realizing he was trapped there.

Afterward, he had toured the shabby estate for two hours, took an hour-long warm bath, and then spent several minutes waiting for supper to be ready.

“Your Grace, do join us,” Lady Wetherby requested as she came around. “We do not need such formalities here.”

Yet she stares at me like I am a stain on her floors. Floors that have seen much, much better days.

What an odd place this is. Threadbare for the most part, and yet this lady wears countless gems. Does she hold a tight purse? I cannot imagine she is cruel, although she is… strange.

“Allow me,” he said, offering her his arm.

When she caught him looking behind them, she reassured him, “My niece shall be here soon. Most likely, she is in the kitchen. She oversees everything.”

“She answers the door for guests as well,” he noted. “I have only met one servant thus far.”

“Such an astute man. One might almost suspect you came here intentionally to sniff us out. Tell me, Your Grace, is it simply land contracts that brought you to our esteemed doorstep?” she asked as they walked into the dining room.

It was a large room, dominated by a rectangular table in the center. It could fit a grand supper party. However, only a corner was set up with candles and plates with three trays of food.

As Tristan paused to take in the simple setting, Lady Verity walked in with a fourth tray laden with soup bowls. She glanced at him for only a moment, her lips pressing tightly together, before she concentrated on getting to the table.

The tray was too heavy for a young lady. But Lady Wetherby tightened her grip on his arm when he took a step forward.

“Don’t,” she muttered quietly.

Perplexing. And I don’t like feeling perplexed.

Perhaps Lady Verity, whose name and status as the sole child of the disgraced Marquess he had since learned, didn’t hear them.

She set down the stay. “Please, sit. It will be a simple evening with a simple fare, Your Grace. But I assure you that you shall not go hungry.”

That was certainly true.

They were soon seated and dishing out portions. Tristan tasted everything, discovering that she had meant her words, as all of the dishes were delicious.

“Our groom returned with news,” Lady Verity said after a pause, then turned to him. “Ernest was inquiring after the tenants. The rain has eased off, but I’m afraid the bridge leading back to Halewood is flooded.”

Tristan froze. “I beg your pardon?”

Lady Verity nodded, seeming just as cheerful as he felt. “It is most unfortunate.” She even looked him in the eye, the cheeky lady. “Returning home may be dangerous.”

“Which is why he will remain here,” her aunt interjected, which made her pause.

They’d all known this, though no one said a word since the storm had begun. Tristan had clung to the hope of an escape as long as he could. But now, he could no longer ignore the inevitable.

“I understand the concern, but surely…” Lady Verity hesitated, looking between them.

She’s just as uncomfortable as I am about my remaining here.

This is hardly proper. There may be folks talking already about the local Duke gadding about.

I do not need people talking, just as I do not need to spend more time in her presence.

Having my name tossed about is not something I wish to entertain.

Still, there was no way to avoid the situation now. At least for tonight, Tristan was trapped at Redcliff Manor.

He would be given a guest room in the old wing. The space echoed, Lady Wetherby warned him, but he would be safe and warm.

Nodding along, Tristan considered the evening ahead of him. The comforting food. The uncomfortable hosts. The unfamiliar walls.

It was strange being here. He had rarely stayed the night in an unfamiliar space. Traveling farther north, he visited the same inns. He never even stayed with friends.

“Very well,” Lady Verity said at last in a huff. “Then you shall stay the night. The old wing will have to do. Come morning…”

“You needn’t worry,” he told her. “I shall take my leave as soon as the storm passes.”

“I’m not worried at all,” she said with a frown.

Earlier, he had tried to discern the color of her eyes. Now, he knew they were the color of the storm.

Had she called it herself?

Her grey-blue eyes were bright and sharp and bold. The gray matched the flowers on her dress, and the blue matched a summer sky they should have enjoyed today.

But they didn’t. Now, neither of them enjoyed each other’s company.

She blinked those expressive eyes of hers. So big like a little creature staring boldly into the world. Or rather, right into his soul.

Tristan found he couldn’t look away. His gut clenched. Slowly, he reached for some bread. He needed a distraction, and the bowl was the closest thing to him. Until he felt another’s fingers, and he jerked.

Hot tingles raced across his skin. His bones. It felt like lightning in his soul. Something had happened.

Lady Verity jumped at the same time. Tearing his gaze away from hers, he found that they had reached for the same loaf of bread. His breath stuttered. Realizing they were staring at each other’s fingers, he averted his gaze to the wall instead.

The rest of supper was uneventful; no one was interested in talking or drinking afterward. He excused himself to go to his chamber.

Though he meant to sleep through the night, the rain would not let up, pelting the windows mercilessly. Restless, he put on the borrowed nightrobe and decided to wander the manor in search of someplace quiet.

He wandered the dark and quiet until he found the library. The door was cracked, and a sliver of light spilled into the corridor, beckoning him.

Tristan stepped inside, turning left to follow the warm glow of firelight. Further inside he went until he came upon whomever the fire was lit for.

I should have known.

His stomach clenched at the sight of Lady Verity curled up on a velvet blue settee that partially faced him as well as the nearby fire. A sketchpad rested on her knees, her head bent over, a strand of her golden-brown hair falling loosely onto her cheek.

Tristan couldn’t breathe. He watched the firelight dance across her gentle features. Intrigued more than he cared to admit, he took a moment to study her angles and shadows. Minutes passed before he could gather his thoughts. He could not be caught like this.

Knowing he had to reveal himself first, he cleared his throat. “Do you ever rest, My Lady?”

She paused, never showing surprise, but she took her time to respond. “The house is loud now. I think the storm has begun again. Besides, it’s difficult to rest when your home becomes a temporary inn for grumpy aristocrats.”

That childish insult made his back stiffen. A vague memory flashed through his mind, of his friends telling him to relax, to smile, to enjoy himself. Then, a woman’s face followed. But he quickly pushed it away. There was only so much of the past that he wished to remember.

Tristan frowned and turned away, not wanting Lady Verity to know how she affected him. He went to the nearest bookshelf and noticed that it needed some dusting.

“You did not act so affected by my presence during supper.”

“I am practicing my indifference,” she explained. “An important skill, wouldn’t you agree?”

He trailed his fingers over the spine of a particularly intriguing book before pausing. When he looked back at her, he could swear the corner of her lips quirked up. So he asked in turn, “And how is that working out for you?”

Warmth spread across his chest when she finally looked up and met his gaze. “Not as well as I hoped.”

It almost felt like a smile. A connection.

He leaned forward, wavering on his feet, before he straightened up. Silence fell over them, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire.

Tristan nodded toward her charcoal-smeared hand. “What are you drawing this evening?”

“Do you assume that I draw every evening?”

“You are too comfortable here for me to believe otherwise. You sit there like you have always been here,” he observed.

Tristan couldn’t resist drawing closer. His feet wouldn’t stay still. Besides, he needed to see her work more closely. Vaguely, he reminded himself that the household was abed and that the door was open.

She showed him her sketch—a drawing of Redcliff Manor.

He’d seen it hours ago in the dreary weather.

Now, she drew it in a similar but rather haunting world.

The worn stone and ivy had grown to consume much more of the building.

One of the windows was hidden away, though there was plenty more to see.

He took another step forward to see it better. There was much more detail than what he would have expected. The sketch was only a glimpse into the manor, but he could see the life and the gaps.

Something was missing. Or rather, he sensed it for what it was—loneliness.

“I draw what I know.”

He blinked, looking at her before realizing he’d drawn close. He jerked up and took a step back.

He tried not to think about her words too much as he noted, “You’re very talented.”

Lady Verity squinted. “You sound surprised.”

His lips curled up. “Just because you prefer to be unsuspecting, My Lady, doesn’t mean I don’t see you.”

After a moment’s stare, she shook her head. “I should go.”

He moved back as she rose to her feet and closed her sketchbook. Charcoal streaked her hand, but she didn’t seem to mind.

“Good night, Your Grace.”

The scent of lavender lingered in the air as she took her leave. He couldn’t bring himself to move for some time after she was gone.

Already the fire was dying. The room grew colder the longer he lingered. Time ticked by. Outside, he could hear the storm continue to rage. It had indeed picked up again; the quiet after supper must have been temporary because the winds promised absolute chaos.

Which he didn’t like.

He wished he could control the weather—but already he wished for impossible things, like understanding strange young ladies.

Tristan didn’t keep track of the time like he usually did. He eventually made it to bed, though he hardly slept. Thoughts of Lady Verity kept him awake until dawn, making him wonder repeatedly how they could be so much at odds for mere strangers.

“I suppose we shall not be strangers for long,” she said the following morning when road conditions had not yet improved.

He had no way of going home, not yet. Which meant he would have to remain there, relying on her generosity.

“Can’t the bridge be mended sooner?” he asked, struggling to maintain his composure.

A restless night and wrinkled garments had left him uncomfortable and irritated.

Somehow, Lady Verity looked as tired as he felt. She was wrinkling her nose more frequently already. A charming, little look that he couldn’t take his eyes off, but he certainly tried his best. As for Lady Wetherby, she was humming in the corner while she worked on her embroidery.

Lady Verity gave him a stern look. “Roads and bridges take time, and the weather cannot be won over. Patience is required for a place like this.”

“I know. I was raised here for a time, although most often I reside further north in Scotland,” Tristan explained after a moment. “I am no stranger to living under the will of nature. Weather cannot be controlled.”

Lady Verity furrowed her brow. “I wouldn’t quite call it that—oh, there’s Daniel. Daniel Holcome,” she added with a small wave to the window.

A broad-shouldered man was trudging up to the house, his face pinched like something was wrong.

“My tenant?—”

“ My tenant,” Tristan corrected her.

“ Our tenant,” Lady Verity said neatly with a sharp smile, “needs help. Something must have happened to pull him away from his acreage.”

Tristan followed her to the hall to meet the man. Perhaps the man had some papers that would supersede anything that would be found under this roof.

“Then he comes often? Perhaps with complaints? How long have the Holcomes been coming here to your family?”

“I will not have you questioning my father, not in my house,” she warned with more sternness than he had expected.

It made him slow down so he watched her march over to the door, pulling it open to greet the tenant.

But she paused to look at him over her shoulder.

“I trust you can respect my experience in this situation?”

His jaw clenched. Did she have so little regard for him that she would easily assume him to be rude?

Gritting his teeth, he shook his head and stomped over to her.

“Our tenants deserve the best of their landlords,” he pointed out forcefully.

“Which I provide! My family always has. How dare you insinuate that my family has been anything else! We have always done our best. The Redcliff name always meant respect. Honor. Duty. We have done well by our tenants throughout the years.”

He crossed his arms. “And yet I am now receiving complaints and concerns, so perhaps something has been missed.”

Her cheeks reddened. “I would not do that to my people.”

“I didn’t say it was you.”

“And it wasn’t my father! He was no such criminal.”

Tristan huffed, stepping closer to her. “I didn’t call your father a criminal,” he pointed out.

She gripped the door with one hand and lifted her chin. They were close enough that he felt her shoe against his.

In her stubbornness, she discarded all propriety and glared at him. “He wasn’t a traitor either. He wasn’t.”

“Your Grace?”

Both of them froze, having forgotten that the door was open to welcome the tenant.

Daniel Holcome stood dripping wet from the recent weather and stared between the two of them with wide eyes.

Immediately, Tristan and Lady Verity sprang apart. He glanced her way, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. His heart pounded; he hadn’t been that close to another woman in ages.

It had been exhilarating. Improper .

And they could only hope that Daniel Holcome would say nothing of it. Even in the country, rumors could result in long-lasting consequences