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Feeling heat creep up his neck, he forced himself to speak the truth, though he was discomfited. He felt tightly wound as he defended his wife and marriage.

“It is. I find her very intelligent, lovely, and a proper young lady. I could not have found a better wife. Perhaps you will get to meet her very soon.”

And I haven’t said a word to her about any of this. How odd if I do. What if she uses it against me? No, dash such a notion. Perhaps she isn’t like Cassandra at all.

“Splendid!” Ronan clapped his hands, nearly dropping his stick. “I should like that very much.”

“And you will be respectful toward her,” Tristan warned.

Julian moved so Sebastian could take his turn, before crossing to the table and snatching his drink. “Are we ever anything else?”

“I mean it,” Tristan insisted. “She is…” Not like Cassandra. “She is a good person.”

She was trying to make their marriage work, whereas he would forget about her and everyone else if given the right distraction.

Feeling uncomfortable upon realizing how little he had tried to support her, he rocked back on his heels. “I suppose I’m quite fortunate.”

“We’ll be waiting for the invitation,” Sebastian told him.

“Perhaps I shall bring a lady of my own. Has anyone seen the newest soprano at the Crown House Opera?” Julian asked, his smile growing as he found a new distraction. “She’s already sent me a note, though we have yet to meet.”

Everyone groaned at the mention of another one of his conquests.

The conversation shifted to lighter topics as they began to playfully argue whether or not the singer was seeking a protector merely for money or because of Julian’s reputation. Either way, Tristan felt the tension slowly leaving his body.

How he could forget the fun they had together, he didn’t know. Life was filled with so many mundane troubles that he never felt like he could focus on pleasure because of how rarely it appeared in his life.

He was pondering this on his way back home several hours later, just as dusk was falling. His butler welcomed him in, letting him know that there was a young man in his study waiting for him.

“Good evening,” Tristan greeted as he stepped inside. “I wasn’t informed I had a visitor.”

Standing, the stranger promptly dropped the papers in his lap. “Your Grace! Er, beg your pardon.”

He scrabbled for the papers on one knee before awkwardly pulling himself up. His clothes had been resewn to somewhat fit him, and his hair needed a decent trimming, as it fell into his eyes.

“And you are?”

“I…” The man couldn’t be more than twenty. Setting the papers down and out of the way, he offered a short bow. “Jack Sharper at your service, Your Grace. I was interviewed by the lady of the house this afternoon for the position of steward.”

Tristan frowned. “The Duchess, you mean.”

“Er, yes. I meant nothing by it, Your Grace, honest. I’m only…” Sharper inhaled deeply. “It’s rather new. Talking to a lord. And a lady.”

“Then why are you here?” Tristan asked, tilting his head.

Sharper had paled considerably. But he didn’t faint. Instead, he muttered something under his breath, nodded, and then straightened his shoulders. His next words sounded practiced. “I have come to apply for the position of steward and would appreciate a final interview.”

“If I say no outright, what then?”

“Then… Well…” Sharper hemmed and hawed for a long minute, wringing his hands.

“Perhaps it’s not the right fit, Your Grace.

I beg your pardon. Only Her Ladyship—Her Grace, the Duchess—visited my father’s offices this morning.

They talked, and then she asked me all sorts of questions before requesting I dress in my finest and then come here.

I don’t want to be laughed at. I’ve not worked as a steward before.

But I managed my father’s shops until he remarried and my stepbrothers took over.

“They might do the heavy lifting, but I manage the accounts for all four shops and help our partners on the docks for extra pay during summer. I’m a hard worker, and I learn quickly.

Only I don’t know what it’s like in a place this grand.

I’ve probably left dirt somewhere. I only came in case I might better myself and be of service. If I can’t, I’ll take my leave.”

A grand speech, much too long, but it intrigued Tristan. He studied the young man for a long moment. What had Verity been thinking?

“Sit down.” He watched the young man do as instructed. Then, he rounded the desk, sat down, and handed over an unorganized pile of papers. “Tell me what you see here.”

It was a risk, he realized, handing over sensitive information. But his curiosity had won out.

Sharper only glanced the pages over for a minute before he began shuffling them about. Once sorted into separate piles, he delicately placed them on the desk one pile at a time.

“They were disorganized. This is an outstanding bill, here is a contract for a property purchase missing at least two pages detailing the relevant taxes for a commercial sale. And this is part of an accounting log. Judging by some of the prices noted here, like the one for the two cart horses, I’m assuming this file is at least three years old. ”

Tristan rose to his feet, towering over Sharper by a foot even when the young man rose. “How old are you?”

“One-and-twenty, Your Grace.”

“Do you consider yourself an honest man?”

“A man is only as good as his name. And I am sharp. And honest.”

“Be here tomorrow at ten. Don’t be late. You can see yourself out.”

Sharper gaped at him for a good minute. He only reacted when Tristan raised an eyebrow. Then, he was scrambling again. He collected his papers hastily while thanking Tristan profusely. It was almost enough to give him a headache.

And then he was gone and Tristan sat back down with a sigh.

He finally had a new steward. The boy clearly needed an education in etiquette and decorum, but he was keen and eager for more. Verity had been right. How she had found someone like Sharper and thought to bring him here confounded him.

When he brought his hand up to rub his mouth, he found his lips curled into a smile.

A soft knock at the door shrank it, however.

“Come in.”

Verity beamed at him as she entered, bearing a small porcelain tray laden with some sort of pastry. “You are here! I just saw Mr. Sharper take his leave. He left quickly, but I saw him smiling. Does it mean you have hired him? He was my favorite, actually.”

Favorite? Her favorite? She’s not supposed to have favorites.

Frowning, he rose to his feet. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Only that he made me think of you as a child,” she explained, coming closer. “Brilliant and eager for a challenge. All he needs is a place to thrive.”

There was something on her lips as she talked. It seemed to sparkle in the light. He leaned forward, curious. He froze when she licked her lips, that pink tongue of hers distracting him.

“Do I look like a mess? I did my best to wash up after my time in the kitchen. I was teaching your cook how to make my berry tart. He was annoyed about it being a French confection, but I do prefer the flakes and the sugar myself. Here, taste one.”

He blinked, jerking back when she lifted one from the tray. “I don’t think so.”

“You must be somewhat hungry. Supper isn’t for another couple of hours,” she reasoned.

It had been sugar on her lips.

Now that he realized what it was, now that she stood close enough to bring a tart to his mouth, he could see there was more sugar on her cheek. It felt like a childish, little secret. Her heart on her sleeve. A close look at the real her.

For all the tartness she liked to inject into her words, she could be sweet.

Sweet enough to eat.

“I don’t?—”

“I insist.”

She pushed the tart into his mouth as he was about to back up. Forced to accept the food, he grunted and hurriedly lifted his hands to catch the crumbs. She grinned triumphantly even as he gave her a stern look.

But then he had to taste the tart. Ripe raspberries covered in cream and sugar. A flaky crust that melted like butter on his tongue. A sharp sweetness that caressed his senses until he let out a small moan.

“Do you like it?” she asked hopefully, leaning in.

“It is rather sweet. I don’t care for sweets.” He caught himself when her face fell. “But this one is… It’s passable.”

He couldn’t think of a better word to say, his tongue growing knotted in the moment. Perhaps he should make amends. But Verity beamed like she understood what he meant.

“That’s practically praise from you,” she teased. “Will you eat the rest of it, then?”

“Yes, I suppose I will. Will you eat one with me?”

Her smile faded slightly before she shook her head. “I’m afraid I’ve already eaten too much. At least four. If I have another, I might burst.”

A short chuckle escaped him, surprising them both. He saw her eyes widen and her smile grow. But the sugar on her cheek remained.

“Hold still.”

“Why?” She froze as he lifted a hand to her face.

Unmoving, she studied his face while he gently swept his thumb across her cheek to wipe off the sugar. It had been quite a lot.

“Oh. Did you get it all?”

He continued watching her, though he couldn’t find anything else amiss with her face.

It was lovely. She was lovely, especially when she was happy. He wondered if she was happier here than in her old home.

Bringing his thumb to his lips, Tristan licked off the sugar. Sweet as ever. “I did. You should be more careful.”

A small squeak escaped Verity as she continued staring at him. Her eyes had widened, looking even bigger than usual. “All right.”

Then, she coughed and turned away. Or she jumped. It made him think of a rabbit running from a hare.

She crossed the room quickly, putting some distance between them. “I should… Perhaps I should wash up. I’ll take a bath. Supper time will be here before you know it. And I wouldn’t want to… to still be covered in sugar then. Would I?”

“I suppose not,” Tristan offered, uncertain how to answer such an odd question.

His heart stuttered as she gave a brief nod before disappearing.

Suddenly, there was a chill in the room, as if she’d taken all the warmth with her. He felt the cold and lonely. Sticky. Uncertain. Frowning, he glanced down at the plate she had left behind like it might give him some answers.

Instead, he could only replay the moment he had been so close to his wife, with only crumbs of sugar between them. The memory warmed him all over again. It did something funny to his racing heart.

Oh, bother. What am I doing?

Jarred by the strange feelings rising within him, Tristan sank down into his chair. This was a mistake. It had to be.

He could not be drawn to his wife, not again. He refused to be caught in this trap. She was hiding something. He was too distracted. The claws would come out eventually—most likely.

Cassandra had only waited until the day after their wedding. If Verity changed like that, Tristan didn’t think he could bear it.

He called for a footman and instructed him to inform the Duchess that he would not be able to join her for supper, after all.