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W ith a deep breath, Verity braced herself upon entry into the grand country estate of one of their many neighbors.

Mr. Highdale had an early start in commerce—a merchant who sold his textile business shortly after his marriage to the third daughter of a viscount. They had three estates, two daughters, and a penchant for showing off to everyone in the vicinity of their lives.

She knew of the family and had even received the occasional invite to their events, but she had never attended. There was always one excuse or another to give. But the main concern had always been money. She rented the occasional carriage and mended her own gowns.

Like this one. It was the best dress in her wardrobe, one she tried not to touch.

Though her aunt had suggested it for her wedding, Verity had declined.

She wore it now in the hopes of looking like a bride.

Like a duchess. And yet she saw the sparkling gems and bright ribbons everyone else wore, certain that her garments were out of date and too dull.

“Oh, dear heavens, you’re here.” Mrs. Highdale reached for her, taking her hand. “Welcome! What an honor you do us. Both of you. When we heard about the wedding—oh, I could hardly believe it. Pray tell, is this the first time you have ventured out since then?”

Verity offered a polite nod before withdrawing her hand. Kindly and warm, their hostess was also very robust and loud. It was a lot for Verity to face at once.

She had spent all morning trying to prepare herself for this evening. She’d hardly been able to believe it when Mr. Highdale approached her about the affair, and the fact that her husband had accepted was nothing short of a surprise. But she’d managed well enough until now.

Reminding herself that she was a lady and had attended extravagant balls once in London, she thanked her hosts for the invitation before allowing Tristan to lead her into the ballroom.

Golden lights bathed the room. She stepped in to find it a few degrees warmer. Bodies moved and swirled in cohesion as if they were a river moving over stone. Straining her ears, she recognized a classic country tune beneath the chatter and laughter.

However, the noise died down as she stepped further inside with Tristan. Heads twisted, and eyes stared.

It felt as though she had walked into a wall of ice. All warmth faded. Her hand tightened on Tristan’s arm, and he rested his other hand over it. She tensed at his touch. They glanced up at each other wordlessly.

I run a household by myself, an estate with tenants all within my might; I should not be so anxious. Already I nearly came undone in front of my husband. He cannot see this weakness in me again. I will be strong. I must.

Eventually, he nodded his head toward the left, and they started walking. Other attendees paused mid-conversation to watch them walk by, nudging one another to whisper.

The presence of a duke was excitement enough in a place like this, Verity supposed. She didn’t understand why it garnered so much attention until she heard their whispers.

“Can you believe it? The Duke finally comes out of hiding.”

“What a serious pair they make. What sort of union is it, do you think?”

“I don’t think it’s been long enough for the Duke to mourn. Has it? But scandals can force even iron to bend.”

“How simple she appears. Nothing like his first wife. Someone told me that he loved his first wife so dearly he fled England, since everything reminded her of him. How awful it must be to be bound to another.”

The whispers stung. Verity told herself they weren’t cruel. Honesty was never cruel, simply a dull hurt.

And yet her jaw tightened. Though she had been raised in this county, there were only so many faces she recognized. It was Tristan who knew more of them. He nodded but said little beyond the usual niceties to those who stopped to greet him.

Another dance began. The music started as servants came around with trays of champagne. Stuck in the crowd, Verity tried to block out the voices as they whispered again about the woman he loved.

One glance at her husband proved nothing. He didn’t even care to look at her. He just stood there like a statue. Never had she known someone with such perfect control.

She had to break through it, she decided, though she couldn’t say why. She gathered her courage and turned slightly to him.

“Is it true, Your Grace?” she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear. “Did you love her so dearly?”

“No.”

Waiting did Verity no good, since he didn’t appear interested in continuing his explanation.

“What about?—”

“I’m going to ask you for a favor, wife.” He tilted his head in her direction, but she supposed his eyes focused on her nose. “Do not ask about her. I won’t speak of any of it.”

So he does care about something. Or someone.

Blinking, Verity studied him for a long moment.

She wished he would explain himself. At least talk a little more about his first wife. Just to satisfy her curiosity until another topic came to mind. And yet already he turned away from her as if they had not even spoken.

Strangers in arms. She wasn’t certain she liked this.

Her curiosity grew further. There was no comfort in his words, no reassurance. Verity was used to asking questions and following the threads of belief and suspicions to find answers. Sometimes she didn’t like what she found, and sometimes she did.

Either way, it didn’t matter. Not now. She wasn’t about to coax any information out of her husband if that was the way he managed his conversations.

She shifted an inch away from him to put some space between them. It took a second before she freed her arm from his. That movement was enough for him to turn his head toward her, but then he caught himself and stopped like he didn’t wish to be caught.

Too late. But what is it, dear husband? What is on your mind? We are naught but strangers. Will we never know a thing about each other?

This marriage was only in name. On paper. She didn’t need anything from him, not really. She could spend the rest of her days alone if that was how she saw fit. They did not need to talk after this evening.

Still, her curiosity lingered. It threatened to consume her as the evening wore on. Listening to the music did little to help. Instead, it excited her. She felt the thrumming in her veins and began to recall the steps of the intricate dance everyone was enjoying that evening.

“Do you ever dance, Your Grace?” she asked.

Tristan didn’t mind her addressing him by his title in public. Most likely, it was his preference.

The realization made her tempted to do otherwise. But she fought the childish urge as he slowly turned his head to face her.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Dance,” she repeated, a note of impatience in her voice. “Surely you know the steps.”

There was a long pause as he stared at her without really seeing her. Her impatience grew.

Just as she was tempted to walk away in the middle of their conversation, he said, “I do not dance.”

She pursed her lips for a second until she remembered they were in public.

A glance around the room proved they had something of an audience.

So she put on a smile and told him, “You have made that obvious. However, I would like to socialize and dance. Do you intend to be a puppet on my arm, or would you like to amuse yourself elsewhere?”

With a short nod, he took a step back. “I’ll fetch you when I’m ready to leave.”

“Not too soon, I pray,” she said with a meaningful look.

Tristan grunted just loud enough for her to hear and turned around, offering a short bow before leaving her alone.

Not alone, but free.