Page 29

T ristan glared at the Baron until the older gentleman blustered his way through an apology.

Not that the words particularly mattered.

The Baron Orlene tended to support every conspiracy theory and slapdash notion that came to his mind.

He believed rumors over the truth and carried little sense with him.

He’d attempted three times to divorce his wife or disown his children for absurd reasons, and…

Tristan knew he could go on forever about the faults of this man.

He didn’t personally need the apology, but he would not permit anyone to speak ill of Verity or her family. The Marquess was dead, and Verity would never hear what the Baron had said. Still, an apology was necessary.

And that disgusting mouth will never speak her name ever again.

“I beg your pardon,” said the Baron’s son, John Pinehurst. He shot his father a look, before resting a hand on his shoulder to silence him. “I’m afraid my father has indulged too much in his habits and curiosities.”

“And rumors,” Tristan added with more acid in his tone than he had known he could muster. “If I were you, Lord Orlene, I’d never speak the Redcliff name again for my own safety. Not unless you have my explicit permission. Do you find that acceptable?”

“Well, what if I find a newspaper that?—”

John interceded once again. “It is perfectly acceptable, Your Grace. My father will not bother you again about the past. Right, Father?”

The old Baron hemmed and hawed for a minute, shifting uncomfortably before wrinkling his large red nose. “Very well. Yes. What we were talking about first? We’re not done here. As I was telling you, those tenants’ houses you are seeking to sell, I am very much interested in them.”

Inhaling deeply, Tristan fought to stay still and not fidget. He could feel people looking in his direction. He’d come to this hall, thinking he might steal away to a quiet corner. At the very least, he could find a dark parlor to retire in and soothe the ache in his head.

But first, he needed to end this conversation.

So he declared, “I’m afraid I’m not interested.”

“They’re no longer for sale?”

“They are. But not to you. Perhaps,” he said tightly as he turned to John, “we can meet another time, should I change my mind.”

John was young, hardly twenty, but still intelligent. He wasn’t a fool. He nodded with a tight smile, before nudging his father toward the door. “Thank you, Your Grace. We understand. My father and I will take our leave. Again, my sincerest apologies for any disrespect.”

“Very good, thank you.” Tristan gave a sharp nod before turning in the other direction, where he could see a dimly lit parlor. It only took him two steps to enter, and a few more to move toward the sofa after confirming that the room was empty. “Blast it all?—”

“Tristan?”

He nearly jumped out of his skin. Jerking as if ice water had been dumped on him, he whirled back around to find Verity standing in the doorway.

Her hands clasped behind her, she stared at him, breathless. He saw the way her chest heaved and those big eyes of hers drank him in. It almost felt like she was pulling him toward her. But he stood his ground.

He wondered if the dim light made her eyes shine like that, or if something else was happening.

Not now. I cannot focus, cannot think with her near.

“Verity. I came here for some peace,” he said tersely. “What is it?”

The door thudded softly behind her as it closed, and she stepped forward. Her dainty hands moved to settle across her ribs. Her long gloves accentuated her graceful arms, and his eyes followed their movement until they returned to her face.

“I heard you,” she said in a low voice that made his blood hum.

There wasn’t an ounce of ire in her tone, unlike earlier. She wasn’t leaving him behind but coming toward him. It took him a minute to actually hear her words.

“You defended me. My father. Our name. You… I don’t know what was said, but the Baron isn’t alone in saying awful things.”

Tristan stiffened, his hands balling into fists. “Who else is saying such things to you?”

He had promised to protect her, had he not? It was in their vows. No one had the right to hurt Verity.

Anger coursed through his veins at the very notion of someone causing her harm. He was prepared to halt the ball if he must, to make amends for his wife.

After offering a short shake of her head, Verity stepped closer. “No one else. Not now, at least. Nothing was said to my face in some time. But there are whispers. Looks. Some consider him a traitor, after all, and not simply a radical. He said too much to simply be eccentric, I know.”

“You do not have to defend your father to me,” Tristan croaked.

If she told him everything, then he would feel inclined to do the same. And speaking Cassandra’s name again made his stomach twist. The two of them would certainly understand each other better, and then what? Open themselves to hurt?

He couldn’t open himself to another wound.

Verity closed the distance between them. His breath stuttered. He smelled her floral perfume, tinted with spice, and feared the world was spinning around him.

Her watery gaze steadied him in the next moment. “Thank you.”

She spoke in a humbled tone he hadn’t heard before. He wasn’t certain how he felt about it. She usually sounded stronger, more assured.

“You could have said anything. You could have ignored him. It isn’t as though you would be the first husband to dislike his wife’s family, after all.”

“I wasn’t going to do such a thing.”

“No one dared speak up for me like that before. My aunt never ventured out of the country, and hardly anyone brought it up once I settled out there,” she continued.

“That was so magnificent of you, Tristan. Hearing you defend my father, to defend me, it was as wonderful as a knight protecting a castle.”

A strange, unfamiliar warmth spread through Tristan, making him uneasy.

She was thanking him. She was happy about something he had done. Was that why he had done it? For her? But his mind was too muddled with her scent to think clearly.

She took a step closer and almost touched him. His breath caught, and he nearly choked.

“Thank you,” she repeated earnestly. “You don’t know what this means to me. All this time, I’ve been so anxious and afraid of what everyone might think of my family. Even you. But I shouldn’t have doubted you. No one has brought it up to me, and no one has cut me. Maybe it’s all because of you.”

He wasn’t used to this, especially from her.

“It was the right thing to do,” he offered.

There wasn’t much else to say. What sort of gentleman would let another speak ill of his wife or her family?

But he hadn’t done any of it to get this reaction.

She hastily wiped away a tear that had escaped. His fingers itched to wipe it all away for good, but he didn’t budge.

“My father was a good man,” she murmured.

“His ideas were strange, but he was a kind father and a decent man. He was only trying to help in his own way. His belief that class didn’t matter, that we’re all born equal, isn’t that strange.

He never hurt anyone. He never spoke ill of anyone.

Really, Tristan, you must believe me. Oh, he would have loved you?—”

Tristan felt the itch in his skin and the heavy weight in his lungs. He could survive when Verity walked away from him. But when she came to him, grateful and glad, he didn’t know what to do. Should he take her in his arms or push her away?

“That’s fine,” he muttered, needing her to stop and take a breath. So he could take a breath. “It doesn’t matter.”

The past is the past, is it not? We cannot decide the truth from those who have left us. And whether he would have liked me or not, it doesn’t change anything. The two of us are still married, and our parents have all passed away. The past doesn’t matter. It…

Maybe he had said it wrong, judging by her reaction.

She jerked back to gape at him. “What?”

He shifted as well, taking a step back in the hopes of clearing his head. “The past doesn’t matter. It’s over.”

“But I…”

Another step back, even as something told him that he was making a mistake. “Is that all you came in here to say?”

Her hands fell to her sides. “I suppose so.”

“Very well. You must not let this affect your evening. Here.” He offered her a handkerchief. “The matter is settled. Unless you are ready to retire for the evening?”

“But we were… You aren’t…” Verity glanced at the handkerchief and took a turn putting more distance between them. She pinched her nose, taking a deep breath. “Is that all you have to say?”

“Should I say something else?”

He had done something right only moments ago.

Tristan felt like an absolute ape. Maybe he should have let her keep talking, but it was too late for that.

“No.” Verity straightened up suddenly with a sharp smile that cut him in half. He couldn’t look away. “No, I don’t wish to go. I’ve apparently said more than enough. I only came to-to ensure that you were well.”

“I am. I came in here for peace and quiet.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Of course. Very well, I shall leave you to it.”

Off she went to the door. Tristan hesitated before following her. Perhaps he could explain some more, after all. Having her leave him twice in one evening didn’t bode well. He didn’t want this to happen. He didn’t want to have a repeat of the past.

Why can I not get her out of my head?

“Wait, Verity. Please.”

He winced as the door slammed shut. An uneasy silence fell over the room. The candlelight flickered.

Tristan sighed. Now he was alone in there, just like he had wished.

Only it seemed his wish was changing, though he didn’t know how just yet. He collapsed onto the sofa and rubbed his face.

Their encounter had left him more out of sorts than he had been before finding her there. Why had she even come to him? Now he might never know. She might very well never talk to him again.