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“ B ut you don’t know?”

“The Duke cannot be far from here.”

Verity bit her lip, then asked, “But he didn’t say when he might return? Not to anyone?”

The butler shook his head, the doubt in his eyes clear. He didn’t have a response.

That didn’t make Verity feel good. In fact, her stomach churned. It twisted. It dropped.

She stepped back to draw in a breath. “Oh dear. Oh, bother.”

This is what I deserve for moving too quickly. I didn’t think this through. It always happens whenever I’m with Helena. All the ideas come bubbling up, and suddenly I’m making mad dash moves with nothing to ground me. What have I done?

Part of her had thought this evening out, and perhaps that was the problem.

Just when she had been saying farewell to Helena in the doorway, her friend being determined to walk to her next appointment regardless of the weather, she had glimpsed a tall rider leaving the grounds. It could be no one else but her husband—which meant he had been home.

“Well?” Helena prompted.

“I’ll let you know how matters go,” Verity promised.

The doors had closed, she’d called over her housekeeper and butler, and had started planning. Her husband would return in time for supper if he was going out for a ride at this hour, she assumed, which meant she could finally share a meal with him.

This is still my life. My choices. He has given me free rein in this house and enough money to keep myself occupied. As selfish as this might sound, it’s not enough. I want more of a relationship than what he expects.

Although Tristan could avoid the meals she had previously invited him to, he couldn’t easily do it again if he didn’t receive the invitation until he was walking into the room.

Or so she had hoped.

It was close to ten already. There was a storm out there. She would see nothing beyond the tall thin windows if she glanced down the hall. Every now and again, a sliver of light flashed through it. Shadows and ghosts appeared in those moments, so she looked away, focusing back on the butler.

Even Mr. Philipson’s mustache seemed to be drooping.

She tried not to care. But with every passing minute, the bands around her heart grew tighter. No matter how she scolded her heart for caring, it didn’t seem to stop. She didn’t want to care for a man who was determined not to care for her.

“If he returns within the hour, then I believe this evening could be salvaged,” the butler offered supportively. “The food is being kept warm, the violinists are secured for the evening, and you look lovely.”

“Thank you so very much for all of your help today. Even if the Duke doesn’t return soon, then at least we’ve had fun trying, haven’t we?” Verity rubbed her hands together.

What a waste of effort this all was. I must have gone mad, haven’t I? I should have stayed hidden away in the country instead of trying to do anything more. No one cared for my reputation before Tristan visited Redcliff Manor.

She must have done something wrong, since even the butler regarded her with pity. Here she was, dressed in her best gown, having spent the afternoon planning out a wonderful evening for a man who had yet to make an appearance.

Perhaps her husband never meant to come home. She would never have a real marriage or friendship with anyone.

“Why don’t you take a seat and enjoy yourself?” Mr. Philipson suggested with a hopeful smile.

“Oh, if I take a seat, then?—”

She was interrupted by the low squeak of the front door opening. Immediately, she closed her mouth. She and the butler stared at each other for a moment, before they took a few steps to the left to look into the entrance hall.

Beyond the stairs were the double doors. One of them was pushed wide open to reveal a tall figure with broad shoulders. The hat came sweeping off. It was set aside, as was a heavy coat dripping with water.

Everything was dripping.

“Your Grace,” murmured a footman who moved forward with haste, closing the door.

Lightning flashed outside, highlighting the man walking in her direction. The footman collected his belongings and lingered behind as Tristan drew closer to her.

The man was forever imposing. She didn’t understand it. Bold and domineering in a quiet manner, though she couldn’t ignore him. No one could.

Verity couldn’t take her eyes off him. In the back of her mind, she begged him to look at her. The two of them were tethered. How it happened, she didn’t know. But they were connected. Bound together forever. Now, all he had to do was look at her.

He turned slightly toward the stairs and then paused. His hand settled on the banister, before he twisted slightly to face her.

Cast in shadow with the light behind him, Tristan looked at her, though she didn’t know what her face said. Her heart pounded in her chest.

Finally, her husband had come home. He was all darkness, and she hoped he would come to her.

“Wife.” Her heart leaped when he stepped away from the stairs and walked toward her. His gaze locked onto hers, never leaving even as he greeted the butler. “Philipson. Good evening.”

“Your Grace,” Verity said more breathily than she had intended. Swallowing, she tried to focus on her words. Didn’t she have a plan? Straightening her spine, she lifted her chin and told him, “You’re late for supper.”

He blinked slowly as a raindrop fell off his long eyelashes to strike his cheek. But he didn’t seem to notice. “Supper? My apologies, but I don’t recall agreeing to any plans.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” she reassured him. “Just around the corner. You’re late for supper. With me.”

Surprise flickered across his face. Surprise, not indifference.

His hesitation made her stomach churn, but at last, he nodded and looked her over. “You look lovely. I suppose this isn’t a meal I dare miss. Might you spare me a few minutes to dry off?”

“Certainly.”

After Tristan offered a stiff but gracious bow, he moved to the stairs and disappeared. She watched until he was gone.

The strange tether between them had yet to dissipate. Part of her yearned to follow him.

“Your Grace?”

“Oh!” Verity jumped and looked over at the sheepish butler. “Oh, Philipson, my apologies. You startled me. I was only…”

Only she didn’t have a good excuse for forgetting him, beyond being busy staring at her husband.

But the old man politely waved off her concerns before leading her into the smaller of the two dining rooms. There, she instructed the two violinists to begin playing, and she paused before the table to fix the flowers in the nearest bouquet.

“You really look beautiful.”

How long she had been standing there, Verity did not dare guess. But the flowers had been fluffed enough. She turned to see her husband with damp hair but dry garments. His gaze settled on the musicians only for a moment before flicking back to her.

Tonight, she’d chosen a new gown, though it was meant for an event where she might be seen rather than a quiet supper at home. Still, it was lovely, and her cheeks reddened with pleasure at her husband’s praise.

The green hue complemented her complexion, she had been told. And it happened to match an emerald ring he often wore.

“You look very well this evening,” she returned, hoping he didn’t hear the catch in her voice. She swallowed her nerves. “I’m glad you could join me.”

“Yes. Apologies for my tardiness. I was… detained.”

The two of them gazed at one another in the elegant room, the soft music playing nearby. Everything felt so warm and sharp at once. Verity had to remind herself to blink. To breathe. To think.

“Shall we?” Tristan waved toward the table. “I would hate to waste the effort you must have put in for the evening.”

Every word he said made her wonder what he really meant. She was trying to read between the lines and hear the secrets he didn’t share. But he was too clever. Too reserved. Although he seemed cold, there was a heat in his eyes that made her doubt everything she knew about him.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“To what do I owe the honor of tonight’s feast? Is there a celebration I should be informed of?”

She swallowed. “There is not. I only wished for us to share a meal together.”

Or so she told herself.

She smiled and then glanced toward the two footmen nearby, who opened an adjacent door to let in the other servants delivering their meal.

Why am I so nervous? Speak, Verity. You twit. This is your husband. This is what you wanted—a quiet supper with him. A chance to show him that you are more than what you look like!

Although Verity kept telling herself to use this opportunity to say everything she desired, she found it more difficult than she had expected.

“How was your afternoon ride?” she inquired during the first course.

“It was rather wet but refreshing,” he answered.

They spoke a little about the weather and their hope for more sunshine during the third course. Then, she mentioned Helena and how they discussed hosting a winter charity fair for the tenants’ families back in the countryside.

“They would appreciate that,” Tristan said. “I intend to be there for Michaelmas, and I’m sure the staff would enjoy helping you with the preparations.”

He answered her questions and occasionally commented on what she said, but he offered nothing more. No questions or anecdotes of his own.

What was he thinking? Part of Verity wished she could shake some sense into him just so she might understand him.

Dessert was served, but there was a sour taste on her tongue that wouldn’t quite go away.

“How strange it must be,” she said carefully, “returning to London with a new wife. I cannot imagine this is what you intended.”

He looked down at the fruit tart. “No, I suppose not.”

“Then why?”

“Why what, Duchess?”

She swallowed while setting down her cutlery. “Tristan, you could have refused. The rumors would have faded eventually, and you could have returned to Scotland. So why did you marry me, after all?”

Impressed as she was for keeping her calm while asking this question, Verity wondered if it would be enough.

Her heart thudded as he stopped moving. He set down his knife.

He stared at the table for a long minute before slowly lifting his head to meet her eyes.

His hair was drying quickly and had curled slightly over his forehead.

Though she adored the boyish look it gave him, it hardly seemed right for a moment like this.

“To protect your name, dear wife.”

What a simple answer it was. So simple and so clear and so final. He didn’t hesitate or apologize. He gave her nothing else but those words.

Such empty words they were, for she didn’t know what to do with them.

Verity held his gaze as she took a sip of her wine. That indifference she despised so much was making another appearance, after all. Had her question caused it?

Her appetite was gone, and she felt the room grow too warm and stuffy to stay there for another minute. She hastened to her feet.

“Please do excuse me,” she said, just as he rose from his chair, and then fled the room as a numbness spread through her.

Was this really what I wanted, after all?