Page 11

S taring at the fire, Tristan allowed his body to relax slowly.

His muscles slackened one by one. He rolled his neck and blinked heavy and long. His body was tired. Too long he had kept it restrained, stiff, and rigid, as was required from a gentleman.

Countless rules promised peace in Society. It was a notion he clung to for comfort. And yet the boundaries took a toll on him from time to time.

So he gave his neck a rub and sighed in the quiet, where no one could look upon him to judge.

In truth, it was just another evening. Another quiet night in his study. There was little reason that anything must change, though he was wed a second time around. Already he had confirmed this with his wife. They had not shared a meal together nor said a word since their union was made official.

We are the better for it, of course. She will have reasonable expectations for our future, and I will not be tethered to someone through tears or threats or pleas.

“How glorious it is to be wed to a duke,” sounded Cassandra’s lilting voice in the back of his mind.

He remembered every version of her, whether he wished to or not. Drenched in her family’s jewels for their nuptials, she wore too much lace and too much everything. Her cloying perfume had made him sneeze for most of the day. All she had done was laugh.

“All of London shall be envious, indeed. And what a lucky gentleman you are to have me on your arm. Many attempted to woo me, you know. My father might only be a baron, but I am a clever woman who can make anything happen. Isn’t there anything you desire?” she had asked him.

When he answered shyly that he desired peace and comfort, that he wanted to get to know her better, she had laughed.

Even now, the sound echoed in his study. Not even this room had been safe from her, though he had tried to bar her from it. Her keys let her in everywhere. Even when he changed the locks, she eventually found her way through. The woman was magic. A curse.

And gone—something I have to keep reminding myself of.

“Gone,” Tristan murmured aloud.

A few years had passed now since his wife had grown so tragically ill. The start of a house party he had not attended. By the time he received the news and rode back here, she had already passed away.

“Still gone.”

He studied the flames, wondering why they brought him so little warmth. Was the evening so cold?

Glancing toward his window, he frowned but did nothing else to warm himself. Instead, he studied the flickering light against the walls as though they might paint answers in the picture of their shadows.

A glass of brandy sat on the desk before him. It was untouched, along with the papers beside him.

While his wife would continue minding her tenants as she had before, he had offered to help her with the Holcome family.

No records could be traced back to their original tenancy agreement.

Handshakes were all the farmers remembered.

He would sort out their issues now for immediacy, and then Verity could continue on as she saw fit.

“Verity,” he murmured. The name sat unfamiliar on his lips. “Verity.”

What a gentle trill it made on his tongue. He liked the way it slipped between his teeth. It gentled the very nature of the woman who had no qualms about staring him down.

Fingers tapping on the desk, Tristan mouthed her name while he attempted to gather the energy to sort out the work once and for all.

I can sort out any manner of business within a reasonable amount of time. This is rather simple, isn’t it? And yet I cannot piece it together. I cannot concentrate, let alone think.

He hadn’t done more than shift the pages about on his desk since he had retired here for the evening. The quiet should have helped. His butler had left a tray outside the door; he’d heard and brought it in, but he hardly ate any of it in his state of disinterest.

She’s still on the other side of the house. Why do you think of her?

The west wing was cleaner and safer. Although he hadn’t given the exact order where to put her, he hoped she was on the ground floor. A fair room filled with elegant furniture and wonderful lighting.

Cassandra’s rooms had been on the same floor as his, only a few doors down. He’d thought it proper when they married. A decision he had spent a long time regretting.

He eyed the tray warily, wondering if his wife had gone down to supper. If she had enjoyed the food. If she had noticed he wasn’t there. If she had cared.

Questions and doubts flooded his mind. He didn’t care for any of them, convincing himself he didn’t even care for the answers.

This wasn’t a proper union. They didn’t care for the convenience, only that propriety was maintained. It wasn’t like anything could change. Just because Verity might be lively and warm—unlike Cassandra—did not mean things would be different this time.

Tristan kept reminding himself of that over the next couple of days. He kept to his study or the stables, keeping his head down and his gait quiet. Everything was going well until one morning, after his ride, he looked up on his way up the stairs to see Verity making her way down.

They both stopped.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” she greeted with a hesitant smile. Her eyebrow rose as if she was testing him.

He braced himself. “Good morning, Duchess. How do you do?”

After her big bright eyes raked over him, she lifted her head to look around the hall.

“Please call me Verity. I always thought it silly how those who lived together were nothing but strangers. Just as I was beginning to believe we might as well be neighbors in the same house, I find you here. I am doing well, thank you. And you, Your Grace?”

“Tristan, then, if we must dispense with the formalities.”

“Must?” she echoed curiously.

He gave a jerky nod. “As you request.”

“It was an invitation, not an order,” she pointed out.

He wondered if she rolled her eyes at him. Or maybe he was imagining things?

“Already we have agreed to be ourselves, have we not? And I believe you were riding. How is the weather?”

While she talked, she was also walking down the steps in his direction. He froze. He couldn’t help it. Clinging to the banister, he followed her every move. It took him a moment to realize she had asked him a question.

“Cold.”

She nodded. “Your cheeks are pink.”

He raised a hand to his face.

For some reason, the gesture made her smile. “And I trust you encountered our good neighbor, Mr. Highdale?”

He opened his mouth and closed it. “I asked him not to bother you.”

Tutting, Verity shook her head. She moved with grace and confidence. Her lithe figure was but a cloud in her morning dress.

What a proper lady he had married. Though her clothes were humble, her stature was nothing short of perfect.

“I am afraid you do not know Mr. Highdale very well. You see, he follows the orders of Mrs. Highdale and his two daughters, Eliza and Lucy. They receive money from their grandmother—a wealthy widowed baroness if you recall. The poor man can do little but give them everything they desire.”

“He invited us to a ball he’s hosting tomorrow,” he revealed, at last.

He’d been hoping to find an excuse. But on his ride this morning, Mr. Highdale had accosted him on the path to request the presence of the Duke and his new Duchess.

Verity nodded slowly, her smile faltering. “And you don’t wish to go. Will we decline his invitation?”

“I don’t believe so,” Tristan replied. He didn’t understand why she seemed disappointed. From what he understood, she rarely attended social events. “Mr. Highdale is very persuasive like the rest of his family.”

“Indeed.”

Silence fell between them, growing too loud for them to say another word. He swallowed and clung to the banister. Verity studied him without moving her lips.

“I should go,” he muttered suddenly.

He hastened past her up the steps before she called for him. “Tristan.”

He stopped. How long had it been since someone called him by his Christian name?

It wasn’t a secret. Before now, he’d never even considered it sacred. But something about the way it rolled off her tongue made him wonder.

He turned back, his face betraying nothing. “Yes?”

“I think I shall order some dresses from London. I won’t have anything new for tomorrow, of course, but since you’re my husband now, I wanted to know whether you have any preferences.”

His mouth went dry as he thought about the colors he would like to see her in. But then he pushed such absurdity away.

“Do as you desire; the bills will be paid,” he told her and climbed the rest of the stairs.

He moved slower, wondering if she might call for him again. Except she didn’t.

Only after reaching his rooms did he realize that the servants had indeed put her in the west wing—and in the nearest possible corner to him. Cassandra’s old bedchamber.

The realization hung over his head like a dark cloud well into the morrow as he handed his wife into the carriage and they took off for the ball.

He avoided looking at her on the ride over, though he noted the neat blue dress with added lace. It was simple even for the country but elegant, and it accentuated her curves very nicely.

When they arrived, he climbed out before turning back to help her down.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

He tightened his grip on her when she stumbled on a step.

She gave him a sheepish grin. “Oh, bother. Thank you. I’m afraid I’m rather nervous. I haven’t been to a ball since my first Season,” she admitted. “I’ll be myself tomorrow, but right now, I hardly know who I am.”

Glancing at her gloves and then up at her face, the wrinkles around her eyes when she smiled toward the open doors, Tristan felt a strange flutter in his stomach. It left him almost as unbalanced as her.

“Do not tell me this will not do,” Verity said crossly at his scrutiny. “The silver ribbon is new. My maid found it for me. And the lace was mended. But if it’s not befitting a duchess, I suppose I can return home so you can attend the ball alone.”

“No,” he said hastily. “No, you look very well.”

She slowly lifted her gaze to his, a skeptical expression on her face. “I did not ask you whether I looked well, did I?”

Tristan shook his head, his lips twitching. “You didn’t. You asked how you looked. And I should answer you appropriately. You look beautiful this evening, Duchess. Verity.” Her eyes widened when he used her name.

“Thank you,” she mumbled after a minute.

And on they walked to the front doors. She took his arm before he could brace himself.

Inhaling deeply, Tristan tried to set his head straight. He needed to think. To focus. There was no need to let a woman, especially his wife, distract him on such an occasion.

They reached the warm glow of the ball, where people danced and made merry. Their hosts stood closest, beckoning them in.

Tristan braced himself. He needed to be prepared for everyone here. They all wanted something. They all had different ideas about him and for him. Not a soul was to be trusted, not even his beautiful wife.