Page 36

The paper was thick and of good quality.

Starch white, with dark ink curled neatly in handsome letters.

Someone of note had written her this message, whatever it might mean.

She thought that might have offered some comfort, but her stomach twisted as she set the note aside to see what else was included in the parcel.

“Letters,” she mused, unsurprised.

When she lifted one to the light, she indeed saw the rosy hue. The faint scent of roses wafted in the air when she moved it.

Good paper, once again. Beautiful hand and fine ink. But this paper, along with the rest, had been folded many times over what must have been an extended period.

Then, she noted that only one side of the papers, once unfolded, had an uneven cut. She felt along the edge and flinched when she received a paper cut.

A drop of blood pooled on her fingertip. Frowning, Verity cleaned her finger neatly with a handkerchief before returning to the papers she had left in their original order.

“Not letters. Perhaps they are from a journal,” she murmured.

The anticipation was growing by the second.

Verity had put off looking closely at the words. Once she looked, there was no going back. But didn’t she have to know? Someone had delivered these to her. Someone wanted her to read them, to do something. And she wouldn’t know until she read them all.

Verity exhaled. She nodded to herself and then read the paper.

There was no address on the back, but there was a date.

She thought about that for a moment. It went back nearly five years ago. Her lips curled downward in confusion before she forced herself to begin reading. And once she started, she couldn’t stop.

Only three of the eight papers included dates. All of the dates were before she met Tristan, back when he would have been married to Cassandra.

“Cassandra,” Verity muttered as she spotted the signature left on two of the papers.

The rest of the papers were incomplete, with lines bleeding away onto pages that she didn’t have. She double-checked and tried to piece them together, but the sentences didn’t line up right. Someone had sent her eight separate pages for her to read, to learn something in between the lines.

And she learned them with a heavy heart as several lines stuck out to her, that she stared at for short bouts of eternities.

How dreadful it is out in the country. I wish I were in London. There are days I wonder if he married me just to own something that once belonged to his brother.

What sort of man claims love to a dog, let alone a whelp? The Duke is strange, and I cannot help but doubt his feelings for me. He might love a three-legged pup but has never told me that he loved me. Does he? Could he? Why can’t he love me?

Tristan won’t touch me. I think he’s decided to ignore me. How awful he treats me. Whether or not I am here or in London, it is the same.

He resents me. I know this now for certain. He must. He hates how I live while his brother rots in the ground. Oh, Oliver. Why did you leave me? Some days I worry that the Duke would rather see me under the ground as well. Not even a duchess is safe.

I made it to London! Everyone asks after him, the perfect Duke. They all think him so noble. So brave and endearing for facing war and losing his family. But they don’t know the truth.

What heartache I bear. No one knows what Tristan is really like behind closed doors. They don’t know what it’s like to be kept away in a house in the middle of nowhere. To be ignored. I would have died, suffocated out there, and I don’t think he would have cared. However will I go on?

Verity’s hands began to shake so badly that she could no longer keep reading the words before her. The papers floated to the floor when she let go. Every part of her body felt as though it were floating away and shriveling into nothing as those words echoed in her mind.

What had Cassandra gone through while she was married to Tristan?

Verity blinked hard as she remembered the blame he tossed about last night. But the dead could not defend themselves. Not really. Not without something like their private journals.

A shaky breath slipped between her lips as she rose to her feet. Clasping her hands together under her chin, Verity began to pace. She could still hear the words echoing in her mind.

Cassandra hadn’t said that Tristan did anything wrong, not exactly. She had made no explicit mention of a crime or wrong he had done her. A husband, after all, had every right to his wife.

Verity struggled to make sense of the little she knew about her husband and the words of a poor woman long gone.

What if Tristan had lied to her? What if he had hurt Cassandra? If he had hurt her, what would he do to Verity? Hadn’t he already started ignoring her and tried to keep her in the country like he had done to his first wife?

The pattern was too clear to be ignored.

But he looked so honest, so open last night when he talked…

Doubt bled heavily through her thoughts until she couldn’t take it any longer, refusing to be alone in this.

“Proof,” she told herself in the mirror. “That’s all I need. Proof.”

Verity couldn’t bear the thought of not knowing the truth. Already she had lived under a roof with a husband who was a stranger. But a husband who was a liar? A cruel man? She couldn’t bear it. All she needed was for Tristan to tell her otherwise.

She picked up the papers and left the room with a heavy heart and light feet.

The empty halls towered over her. A beautiful home where she had made improvements. But now, it felt all wrong. The portraits watched her as she felt like an imposter, replacing another duchess in a cycle of silence and cold.

What if she had it all wrong? His stories could be lies, his kiss could be a trick. Maybe she didn’t really know an honest man when she saw one. Did he only wish to possess her, to control her, instead of protecting her? Or perhaps he thought it was all the same?

“Where is he?” she asked a passing footman in a clipped tone.

The young man started in surprise. He bowed before pointing toward the nearby gallery.

After she nodded to him, she pushed open the door and stepped inside. More paintings of people that stared down at her. Some teased her, some mocked her, and some ignored her. But none of them had thought to warn her.

There were a few sculptures she walked around and a few trees in large plots to offer some greenery. She had added them recently, thinking it was a lovely change to the room. Now, she swatted at the leaves that brushed her shoulder and found Tristan at the far end of the room.

In the corner was a small table laden with supplies for painting and sketching. While her skill was often wanting, she had enjoyed it on occasion. And the supplies had all been here. She hadn’t seen any reason to change that until now. Now, she wondered if it was all there because of Cassandra.

Tristan stood at the edge of the table, leaning his hip against it with one hand on the windowsill. The rain appeared to have started up again. A small tree swayed in the wind nearby, branches outstretched and struggling to stay up. To stay alive.

Tristan sighed as she drew near, clearly able to sense her.

She was still considering her words when she neared him. But then he glanced over his shoulder at her. His gaze landed on her hands, and he did a double-take, blinking several times and squinting down when she carefully laid out the pages.

Once they were presented neatly on the table, Verity took a step back and watched Tristan steadily.

“Well?” she prompted quietly, refusing to raise her voice.

Other words stuck in her throat. She couldn’t get them out. Clasping her hands together so they wouldn’t shake, she watched her husband for his reaction.

His gaze shuttered like it always did. The sight made her heart stutter. Even when he looked over the pages, he hardly reacted. He picked up one—the most recent of them—and paused. She held her breath until he set it back down on top of the others in a casual but careless manner.

He doesn’t care. He won’t defend himself because why? Because it’s true?

Verity rocked back a step, feeling as though she had been struck. She hadn’t realized how much she had held onto the hope that this wasn’t the truth and that Tristan would tell her this was all a lie.

Except he did nothing. Already he turned back to stare at the storm again, as if she wasn’t there any longer. As if she didn’t matter, never had, and never would.

Letting out a slow, measured breath, she blinked several times to hold back the tears. There was a storm inside her now. It raged and shattered her to pieces over and over with every passing second Tristan didn’t turn to acknowledge her. She felt suffocated at that moment.

“Very well.” Verity collected the papers and forced herself to walk away.

She held her head up high, refusing to cry over this any longer. To cry over him .

Perhaps Cassandra and I are alike, after all. We will leave Tristan in order to stay alive.