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A shaky breath escaped Tristan the moment Verity left the room. He nodded to the two footmen and the violinists, requesting they depart.

Finally, he was left alone.

He slumped in his seat, losing his composure bit by bit. What a fool he was. He could still feel the tension radiating from the chair Verity had vacated only minutes ago.

The tension was everywhere. It was a heavy heat that climbed up his arms and tickled his scalp. He ran his fingers through his hair to ease the tightness but was unable to be free of her .

Man and wife. Bound together. That’s what we are. Isn’t that what she wished for? What did she want me to say?

Exhaling, Tristan struggled to keep his heart beating steadily. He thought he’d pulled himself together upon his return to the house. The rain had been a godsend for him, though he knew his countrymen cursed it.

All had been well until he had seen her.

“Wife,” he had said.

The only word he could think of after seeing Verity gowned like a goddess. Draped in a beautiful emerald-green gown.

The cut was in the height of fashion, he assumed, made just for her. He should have known how magnificent she would look in something grander than country florals.

Looking down at his emerald ring, he asked, “Did she do that on purpose?”

Candlelight glinted off the stone in way of an answer.

Of course, she did. Everything was so artfully arranged. The musicians playing my preferred symphonies, a mix of our favorite dishes, and that gown. She could have told me that she came straight from the heavens and I would have believed her in a heartbeat.

Maybe Julian was right. Tristan recalled his conversation with his friend only hours ago. The man had said he was out of sorts, and he could see that now. He didn’t know who he was or what he was doing. Especially when it came to Verity.

Seeing her in the hall upon his arrival, she had glowed gently like an early dawn in the midst of winter. Tristan saw her and had no choice but to move closer, as if he needed her to breathe.

He’d nearly dripped water on her. Ruining a masterpiece would have brought everlasting shame. When he went to his bedchamber to change into dry clothes, he’d debated coming back down. Already he had known he would disappoint Verity.

“So why did you marry me, after all?” she had asked him.

“Why do you keep asking me that?” Tristan had wanted to ask in return. “What answer do you desire? What do you want from me? Why do you act so differently from her?”

All he could do was give her the shortest, simplest version of the truth. He was meant to. He had to. A gentleman always righted his wrongs. Just one hint of a rumor would have him agreeing to marriage, knowing his honor requested it of him.

It was a union of necessity.

What their marriage meant now, however, Tristan wasn’t sure. He let out a shuddering breath and rose to his feet. Not certain where he was going, he left the dining room.

Wandering the halls of his townhouse, he eyed the pockets of darkness and shadows on the walls as he passed. He walked with his hands clasped behind his back, wondering if someday he would be nothing more than a painting on the wall as well.

Titles were supposed to mean something. But eventually, everyone was gone. Someone else would become the Duke of Halewood after him, just like someone had been the Duke of Halewood before him.

His walk had clearly done him little good if he was back where he had begun. Tristan feared he was going mad. He wanted to celebrate the effort Verity had put into supper that evening and wanted to run from her at the same time.

“So why did you marry me?”

Her words echoed in his mind.

She asked him with a laugh and in a shout and in a whisper, taunting him. For a moment, he thought she sounded like Cassandra, before realizing he wasn’t sure. Did he even remember what Cassandra sounded like?

She wouldn’t have worn a green gown, that he remembered. She only wore pale shades of pink and orange. He’d begun to despise them. And she had despised his preference for darker colors.

The moment she was able to stop mourning Oliver, she had done so with loud relief. Then, she’d poked and prodded at him for refusing to ever wear anything lighter than gray.

Verity wore green .

He glanced again at his ring, wondering if he could ask her what that was supposed to mean. A fleeting notion came to mind, that she aimed to connect with him. But he tossed it away at once.

She had looked so lovely. Calm, too, when she had asked that question. What she expected to hear, however, he still wasn’t sure.

He wondered how she would have reacted if she heard the part of him that meant to respond, “Because I want something real. Because I want to take one more risk. Because I think you could be that risk, that something real.”

But the truth often broke people. Knowing this from experience, he could only pull away from the present. Knowing his wife’s warmth and willingness, he couldn’t bear to get any closer in case he was burned.

Nothing was ever real with Cassandra. I hadn’t trusted my brother with her, but I hadn’t interfered because he was happy. And nothing was real until the day she died. I didn’t dare hope for anything real. But now…

As Tristan prepared to retire for the night, he reminded himself that the weakness would come and go. He was only human. The yearning would eventually fade away. No matter what Verity did, he couldn’t trust her.

And over the next week, he kept telling himself that again and again. He had to because suddenly she was everywhere.

She appeared in the hall no matter the hour he rose.

He heard the staff whisper about her outings.

He would often find her brushing her horse’s mane whenever he returned from his rides.

She even started bringing him her supper trays and lingering, asking him countless questions so he had to talk and eat until she took the tray away.

She was everywhere, worming her way beneath his skin until he could no longer help it. Two weeks passed and he found himself grudgingly looking forward to seeing her around supper time.

“You’re very much a homebody,” she noted when he was finishing the last of his carrots. “And yet I swear I never see you. One of these days, I fear you shall grow a mustache, and I won’t recognize you in the hall.”

“Then I shall be sure to warn you if I do,” Tristan said dryly.

Smiling like he’d made a joke, Verity nodded. “Much obliged, thank you, Tristan.”

Then, seeing as he finished eating, she collected the tray.

“We have servants who can handle this,” Tristan told her with a frown. He’d said it several times already, though she always ignored him. “You’re not a servant, but my wife.”

“I know. However, if this is the only part of the day where I can corner you into spending time with me, then I shall keep carrying the tray. It’s much easier when you eat everything,” she added with a playful wink.

His cheeks flushed, and he glanced away.

The first few trays he’d carried out himself, refusing to let her take them. But then he’d given in when she kept insisting. Part of him expected her to ply him with food to convince him to give her something. Money, clothes, horses—anything.

But she’s only asking for my time.

“Perhaps tomorrow,” he said while slowly rising to his feet, “we can do something more enjoyable. A stroll?”

“Shall we promenade?”

Her eyes lit up, as if he’d stoked a fire that brought her right to life.

He stopped to study her. He looked at those beautiful eyes of hers and tried to understand if this was a trap. If she meant anything by it.

Everyone in the ton only ever went on promenades in the Park to see and be seen.

“I haven’t been to Hyde Park yet, and I heard it’s lovely.”

Then it wasn’t much of a trap, he supposed.

“Very well. We can go early on the morrow, since I have supper plans.”

He didn’t. But it would provide an excuse to ensure that they left once people started staring at them.

Verity gave a nod. “Very well. Tomorrow afternoon, then. I shall meet you in the entrance hall.”

And then she was gone.

Moving to the space she had just vacated, Tristan inhaled the lingering scent of lavender. He’d seen her in the gardens that morning with their gardener, elbow-deep in the mud. The old man had made her laugh.

I forgot to ask her what he had said. Perhaps I can ask her tomorrow.

Although Tristan would have liked to remember such a detail the following afternoon, he could hardly think straight.

He paced about the entrance hall and checked his pocket watch for the fifth time in the last three minutes. Time must have slowed down because Verity was late. She had to be. He could cancel today’s plans because going out at the social hour was surely a terrible idea.

“I’m not late,” Verity called.

He jerked his head up, slipping his timepiece into his waistcoat, to see her coming down the stairs with a parasol in hand. She beamed and walked over to him, her dress brushing his pant leg.

“You’re not nervous, are you?”

He eyed her narrowly. “Why would anyone be nervous about a promenade?”

She tilted her head to the side. “Then is it business that has you watching the time? I had two minutes to spare, and I think your eye is twitching.”

Raising his hand to his eyelids, Tristan asked, “Which one?”

Her smile widened. “Does it matter? But never mind, my dear Duke. You have promised me a promenade in Hyde Park, and I will not let you dishonor yourself. I have been looking forward to this all day.”

“Why?”

“Because I shall have you on my arm, of course.” She chuckled as she fixed the bow on the bonnet that framed her sweet face so well.

The door behind them opened, and she motioned for him to offer his arm.

Obeying, Tristan said, “It is the other way around. I shall have you on my arm.”

“Are you certain about that?”