Page 33

A lthough Verity meant to retire to her bedchamber, she found herself outside instead. The moon offered her enough light to see around their private garden. She’d explored the grounds often enough to walk around in the dark, which she soon had to do when the rain started falling.

It came without warning, like so many troubles in her life.

Never could I have predicted tonight. Or this marriage. Or my father’s death or the effects of his beliefs on the ton. Where do these storms come from to disrupt my life so drastically?

“Your Grace?” A footman appeared as she rounded a corner, offering her an umbrella. “Shall I cover you?”

“No, thank you. I wish to be alone,” Verity replied.

His eyes widened, and he looked like he might argue, so she turned the next corner to move on. She just needed some time to think.

The rain wasn’t so terrible. It had been a warm day, a chaotic evening, and it wasn’t as though she wished to save her gown.

It would be ruined like so many other parts of her life.

Could it all be me?

A shaky breath escaped her as she wrapped her arms around herself for warmth. Though a shiver ran down her spine, she ignored it to think over everything that had happened that evening.

What a whirlwind it had been. She couldn’t keep up with Tristan, she feared. Her husband preferred secrets and silence above all. The man was too contrary.

And yet remembering their almost kiss brought a flush to her cheeks that warmed her at once. She felt that rush of excitement and hope that had pierced through her very soul when his hand had touched her face.

He’d removed his gloves on the way home. He did that regularly, a fact she’d never paid mind to until she was thanking the heavens for it tonight.

Except nothing had happened. Not really.

He hadn’t kissed her. Their lips had been so close. She couldn’t move, didn’t dare breathe for fear of ruining the moment. And yet, somehow, she had. All she had done was try to close the distance between them when he stopped moving.

Had that surprised him? Perhaps ladies weren’t meant to be so forward. She wondered if he had even meant to kiss her.

“Your Grace?”

For what felt like the hundredth time, Verity pushed back damp hair from her forehead. She squinted to see Mr. Philipson moving toward her with haste, an umbrella over his head.

Water trickled down her spine, and the chill of it made her gasp.

As she looked around, she realized just how dark the evening had grown.

It would have to be past midnight by now.

And it was pouring so hard that her shoulders were starting to hurt.

She glanced down to see her gown plastered to her body.

“Your Grace, please, I must accompany you inside at once,” the butler told her. His wide-eyed, concerned look confirmed that she looked dreadful.

Swallowing, she forced a nod. Her arms tightened around herself. “Very well. I do believe it might be for the best.”

“The servants are worried about you, Your Grace,” he said, standing closer than appropriate in his attempt to keep her dry. But she didn’t mind, appreciating the cover as they started toward the house. “Is there anything I can do to assist you?”

“No, I’m all right,” she replied as her teeth started to chatter.

They were still chattering, hard enough to make her jaw ache, by the time they reached the terrace. She struggled to walk with her skirts sticking to her legs, her petticoats no longer able to do their job. Her hair fell limp around her face, as her coiffure could no longer resist the rain.

“Oh!” She took her first step inside and nearly slipped, her dancing slippers not fit for the slick ground after her troubled stroll in the gardens. She flailed her arms, and someone caught her.

Surprise rocked through her as she looked into dark eyes. She hadn’t expected to see her husband again this evening.

“Blast it,” Tristan growled in her ear.

Her body forgot the cold for one moment before he set her down, removing his arms from around her. He stepped back and snatched a thick linen towel from the housekeeper, who must have brought half the linen closet with her.

“What did you think you were doing out there in the storm?”

Glancing down at her shaking hands, Verity attempted to jest. “It’s not so very bad.”

He paused to stare at her. “Mrs. Heavensby,” he barked, “please have a hot bath prepared for the Duchess at once. Hot tea as well.”

Nodding, the older woman glanced between them before scurrying away, leaving Mr. Philipson to hold the linens.

The butler took a step back and pressed himself against the wall as if he didn’t wish to intrude.

On what, however, Verity wasn’t certain.

She didn’t know much beyond the fact that she was so cold. Everything felt like ice. She couldn’t feel her toes any longer. Just thinking about walking to her bedchamber for that bath felt impossible. Her jaw was almost numb, and her spine ached.

“Another, then,” Tristan growled, his stormy gaze making her stomach flutter.

She ignored the sensation but then froze as he pulled off his evening coat—the one he’d never taken off—and draped it around her.

“I’ll r-r-r-ruin it-it,” she stammered while pulling the heavy coat closer. It smelled like him. She could feel his body heat and nestled in.

Her husband closed the doors behind her before coming around to face her again, a heavy hand settling on her shoulder. He looked at her like he hadn’t just left her waiting on the stairs for a kiss that had never happened.

“What were you thinking?” he snapped.

She wondered if it was the dim light that made him look pale. Or perhaps he did care about her.

“Are you trying to catch your death?”

The harshness of his words made her spine stiffen.

“Would it matter?” she snapped back, unable to help herself.

Tristan flinched and stepped back, dropping his hand from her shoulder. The spot grew cold, and she shivered. They stared at each other for a minute as unease roiled through her.

“It would matter,” he said quietly.

While she wished more than anything to believe him, Verity remembered herself. Remembered their arguments. The distance he kept putting between them. The proof that he was lying to her now.

She pursed her lips. “Why?” she asked.

All Tristan did was stare at her, his brow furrowed and his jaw clenched. She could see in his eyes that he wanted to speak. To say something. But not a whisper escaped. His chest heaved much like her own, and she wondered why he had come down to help her when he clearly cared nothing for her.

Of course, he didn’t have a response, she told herself.

She tightened her grip on the coat and pushed past him. Her slippers slapped noisily against the floor until she stepped onto the carpet. Her clothes squelched with each step and clung to her body as she moved, making everything uncomfortable. She felt the water dripping down her clothes and body.

What a mess she had made. A bath would surely help.

But her husband wouldn’t. He followed after her—most likely for his coat, she told herself.

Neither of them said a word on the way to the stairs.

He stayed a step behind her, hovering and silent.

Verity could almost convince herself that he did it because he cared for her safety.

She could have sworn she felt his hand brushing against her waist when she slipped on a step, but then it was gone.

Finally, she made it to her chamber door. The entire walk, she had debated whether or not to turn around.

It wasn’t until she grabbed the doorknob with one hand, holding the linen towel and coat in the other, that she decided to turn around and face him.

He had already stopped. He was carrying a candle that cast a golden glow on his face, though much of his eyes remained in shadow. He watched her but didn’t say a word.

Would we ever speak if I didn’t keep opening my mouth?

The very idea left Verity too worried to test it out. She couldn’t imagine such a life. How lonely it would be. How lonely she already felt.

So she grasped her anger for courage and spoke up, daring him to remain silent even then.

“Why?” she bit out in the loud silence. “Why do you keep doing this? All you wish to do is ignore me, don’t you?

To leave me, to pretend that our marriage doesn’t exist. It only matters to you in the moments that you decide.

You’ll appear when you wish and disappear when it benefits you and no one else.

Why do you treat me thus? Do you care at all? ”

She silently begged him to reply, to say anything. He could even lie to her, so long as he would simply answer her.

They might not have been married for long, but she knew that Tristan was capable of goodness.

He had loyal friends and servants. She had seen the accounts—he paid well and treated his tenants fairly.

The man had served in the military because he cared about justice and unity.

And he had married her to protect her name and honor.

Is that all a lie as well? He confuses me, and it hurts me to my soul. It is as though he has closed a door in my face without ever giving me a chance.

Tristan offered her no answer. She thought she saw a glimpse of something in his eyes. Hope or sorrow or anger, she could not tell. The man was made of too many mysteries. And she was cold—so cold—and had nothing else to keep her there.

Her heart begged her to give him more time, to wait a little longer, but she couldn’t stay there forever, waiting for her husband to make up his mind.

“That’s what I thought,” she murmured with a sigh.

It was her turn to close the door in his face.