Page 34

T ristan dropped his hand from the closed door, unsure how long he had stood there, listening to his wife on the other side.

He could hear her teeth chattering for a while. The housekeeper had indeed drawn a hot bath for her, and two maids were currently there, assisting her. He heard murmurs, but they were muffled.

Eventually, everything quieted. Side doors for the servants opened and closed, leaving his wife alone. Leaving him alone.

He still wasn’t sure about what had just happened.

If only I could get her words out of my head.

Perhaps it was better that she was there instead of Cassandra.

That realization made him step back. In fact, Verity was there more often, of late.

Turning around, Tristan marched to his bedchamber, where he paced back and forth to stew over this discovery.

While he had his disagreements and concerns with his wife, Verity wasn’t a manipulative witch like Cassandra.

“Do you care at all?”

Those last words echoed in his mind. He tugged at his hair, running his fingers through it repeatedly as he considered the answer. He didn’t seem to know his mind nor his heart nor any part of himself of late.

But what if I did? What if I could know? A man cannot be lost to himself, not forever. In an effort to block out the past, I’ve severed myself from the future—even the present.

“Your Grace?”

Tristan nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Blast it!” Holding his heart, he stared at his valet, who stared back with wide eyes. “What is it? The hour is late.”

“I only thought to come attend to you, if you wish to retire.”

“No.” He swallowed, leaning back on his heels. Tristan pulled himself together with a short nod. “Thank you, but go to bed. I shall manage by myself this evening.”

His valet eyed him uneasily before offering a short bow. “Of course, Your Grace. Only call if you need me.”

He wouldn’t. The man slept like the dead once he closed his eyes. Besides, Tristan wouldn’t call for him at a late hour.

He checked his pocket watch. His vision blurred from exhaustion. Had they really attended a ball this evening? It felt like a lifetime ago.

Closing the pocket watch, Tristan set it on the bedside table before taking off his jacket, cravat, and waistcoat. He grabbed his dressing gown on the way to the door and then wandered the darkened halls.

He felt the walls closing in on him. He walked faster, not knowing where he intended to go until he stepped into the library.

The quiet room, filled with musty books and thick ink, had always brought him some calm. He moved slowly through the dark to find himself a candle before moving to the fireplace.

He hadn’t thought his experience in the army would be so useful when he returned to manage the dukedom, but he’d enjoyed the quiet peace that independence brought him. Even a skill like building a fire afforded him such peace.

Of course, the library has become Verity’s refuge while I hid away in my study. But she always found me there. Will I find her here tonight? Or will she rest easy, freeing herself of thoughts of me?

Tristan tried not to think about his wife.

Soon, warm flames flickered to life. They crackled a greeting as he moved back to his feet.

Rubbing his hands together to ward off the last of the chill, he turned to a partially closed curtain. Sunlight would damage the books. With so many cloudy days in London, it hardly needed to be checked on here. He grabbed the curtain and studied the darkness for some sign of life.

“Only more darkness,” he muttered to himself.

The storm may never end. That is how it always feels, for I always find myself surprised when the sun returns.

He rubbed his face. “Now I speak to myself in riddles. Splendid.”

Off he went to another corner to pour himself a glass of brandy.

The familiar motions brought him comfort.

He raised the glass to his lips but stopped, not interested in the rich taste.

It would do nothing for him now. So he sighed, setting it on the table before the fire and staring into the flames.

What was he going to do now?

Tristan mulled over the events of the evening. He still could not believe the gall of Halbridge. The man had been a pestilence for as long as he could remember. And now Halbridge dared reach out to Verity? He couldn’t be trusted.

But how could Tristan explain this to his wife?

If I explain Halbridge, I have to explain Cassandra. If I explain myself, I have to explain Cassandra. She must be laughing in her grave about the power she still holds over me. How did I ever think I was free of her? Is it even possible to escape?

Rain pattered noisily against the glass to his right. He leaned against the mantel, staring into the flames. The darkness hung all around him like a chilly shroud.

It felt empty of late, this house. This life. He didn’t like feeling empty. The only time he didn’t feel empty was when Verity?—

He didn’t think he had heard her, not really. But he caught his breath all the same when he sensed her near.

Something about her presence was seared into him, as if she had reached into him and claimed part of him, holding tight. No one had been able to do that to him, not for years. Not since Oliver had passed.

“Verity.”

Tristan dropped his gaze to stare at his boots. His eyes slowly adjusted to the light as he listened. Not to the crackling flames or pattering rain, but to the soft padding of his wife’s slippers.

When he glanced back up, able to see her figure emerging from the dark, he could even hear the soft brush of her fingers against the books nearest to her.

She carefully avoided his gaze. Her steps were slow and hesitant as she stroked several spines with such gentleness that he found himself envious of the inanimate objects.

Still, Verity said not a word as she came to a stop, her nightgown and dressing gown hanging around her feet. Her gaze flitted to his and then away so quickly that he nearly missed it. But the way his heart reacted—like it had burst into flames—told him that it hadn’t been in his imagination.

He dropped his arm from the mantel with the thought of going to her, before stopping himself. Her long hair began to curl about her waist. Still damp. He looked her over to check for any signs of shivering. All this time, neither of them said a word.

A quiet breath escaped Verity, making him wonder if she had been holding it in. She wavered on her next step until she started walking forward again. Not toward him, but toward the nearby chaise, where she gathered her garments neatly like they were fragile things and sat on the edge.

Still, she said nothing. She didn’t even ask him why he had intruded on her space, on one of the few rooms in the house he knew she treasured.

Maybe it was because she said nothing that he finally opened his mouth.

“I had a brother. Oliver.” He met her gaze for a fraction of a second before turning away, unable to bear it.

“Cassandra loved him. She always had. I never… She was never mine. Not in heart, not in promise, only in the eyes of the law. He died in an accident. I came home from the war, and she came to me.”

Tristan would never forget that evening. He’d only just returned, still healing from minor injuries and jarred from the realization that he was truly alone. He had never felt so lost or confused.

Then, in walked the most dazzling woman like she owned the house. Everyone knew her. He had met her once, even danced with her a time or two. But she had changed. They all had. Time changed people. And he hadn’t realized it until it was too late, blinded by grief.

“Cassandra knew…” Tristan worked his jaw for a minute. Then, he rubbed it as though it ached. “Oliver was in some trouble he refused to share with me. Only her. I couldn’t let the ton hear of it, and she knew it. I married her to protect him. Well, what was left of him—his name.”

Women weren’t meant to attend funerals, as they were too delicate. Or so Society decreed. It was madness. Tristan had attended the procession in silence until everyone left him at the grave site, where he wept until his friends pulled him up and took him home.

If he recalled correctly, Cassandra had spent the day drinking with unsavory company. But he had been drowning in grief, and he had tried to convince himself it was her way of grieving as well. That things would change when they married.

Bitterness weighed him down. His shoulders drooped. He wanted Verity to say something. Except she didn’t interrupt. She simply listened.

“It was a bargain,” he said thickly. He tried to hold the emotion at bay. “That’s what she called it. We would both be protecting Oliver together. A blasted bargain that she made sure I will never forget.”

Releasing all the breath in his lungs, he boxed the pain away yet again. He tried to find the words to explain to Verity the damage that had been done, the eroding belief in marriage, and the never-ending suspicions that plagued him. He turned around to face her, to explain himself.

But she stood there in the firelight, and he couldn’t speak.

The expression on her face arrested him. She wasn’t shocked. Perhaps she had expected such a story. She didn’t seem to pity him either. There was a gentle crease in her brow and a soft pouting to her lips.

She tilted her head slightly, and he realized what she was saying. That she understood.

He thought he could very well stop breathing. Instead, he felt warmth flood through him. He could blame it on the crackling fire, but new strength rushed through him now. Courage. The look in her eyes encouraged him to take a step toward her.

Though she blinked, she stayed put. She didn’t so much as budge.

His wife let him slowly close the distance between them. Soon, he could feel her breath fan the opening of his shirt, no longer hidden by his cravat.

“Am I like her?” Verity whispered, her eyes slowly sweeping over his face like a caress. His heart thudded so loudly he had to read her lips. “Is that what you think?”

He watched her lick her lips before lifting a hand to gently brush away a strand of hair that clung to her cheek. It went neatly behind her ear. A small, perfect ear that he had never noticed before.

Then, his gaze returned to her compassionate eyes, and he soaked in the moment. The fire was no longer behind him but inside him.

He lifted his hand back to brush his fingertips across her cheek. Her eyelashes fluttered and cast shadows on her skin. He swallowed hard.

“I think,” Tristan murmured, “you are worlds different from anyone I could have ever imagined.”

Her eyelashes fluttered neatly against her cheek once again. He thought of flowers swaying in the breeze on a spring morning.

Everything about her seemed to draw him in.

Unable to fight the pull, Tristan closed the distance between them. Verity leaned in too, and their lips met in a surprising heartbeat.

It was a tentative kiss. A slow kiss. He silently asked her permission, cupping her cheek in his hand.

Verity melted against him. She tilted her face up to his. He felt her hand press against his chest, sliding up to fist in his shirt as though to steady herself.

Unable to resist the lure, Tristan deepened the kiss.

She tasted of sherry and rain, tantalizing and tender. He lingered in the moment as he felt layers of restraint falling all around him. Walls he had spent years erecting were crumbling at his feet with every breath they shared.

He could have stayed there with her forever. But there was the real world around them.

As the storm raged on, as they tried to catch their breath, Verity brushed her nose against his cheek and pulled away. Not far, however, for he rested his forehead against hers. He watched her as he tried to breathe in deeply. Her lips parted on short gasps as she gazed at him in amazement.

The world remained still. Were they finished?

Tristan ignored the questions niggling at him as he glanced down at her lips again. Plump and bruised. He wished to care for them.

But then a loud knock at the door snapped him out of his reverie.

He stepped back sharply, feeling the spell break between them. Verity stared at him with wide eyes. She reached out a hand like she could feel the distance growing between them.

He couldn’t help it. The world was there, right outside a kiss, and he couldn’t let it happen again. It was too risky. Verity was more dangerous than he could have ever realized.

“Tristan, wait,” she croaked.

He shook his head, fearful that daylight would never be enough. That darkness was too temporary for anything to last. “I should go.”

“Tristan!”

He picked up his pace, weaving through the shelves to take his leave. Pulling open the door, he barely spared his startled housekeeper a glance on his way out.

Away Tristan went with the knowledge that he had left Verity very much alone.

What he didn’t know was what might happen next for them. He reached his study, his haven, with heavy feet and a heavier heart.