Page 37

T ristan stewed over the lines for some time, leaning more heavily against the window to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Even now Cassandra wouldn’t free him.

A clever move he could never have anticipated. But he should have.

Cassandra used to write daily—one of the few things in her life she had been loyal to.

He had never paid it much mind. Their correspondence over the last couple of years had always been done through his solicitor, since it was usually about her requiring more money or Tristan noting that they would be closing one of their properties soon—and he didn’t care for those she used to write to.

You can find a lie in anything. Lips, dreams, and letters. Or journals, perhaps. Cassandra could not write from the grave, could she?

Tristan wasn’t entirely confident of the answer. It seemed the woman could do anything, particularly when it came to dashing every single one of his hopes.

Not that I had any hope for Verity. She would never listen to me. Never trust me. I should never have kissed her, thinking some things might change.

“No, no, don’t be silly,” he thought he could hear Verity speaking in the hall. “I shall manage very well with what I have. There is nothing else here that I would need.”

Tristan supposed he could have said something, but he preferred action over words in a tense moment. Soldiers were trained to react, but no war could have prepared him for the monster that had been Cassandra.

And what would he have done with Verity? He had never really deserved her. Their union wasn’t intentional nor wanted.

He watched a branch break from the sapling outside the window. He had been afraid that would happen. They’d planted the tree just a few years ago, and he had been hopeful for its growth.

Deciding he would leave a note in his study for his gardener on the morrow, he walked away from the window.

Voices murmuring in the hall reminded him that he was never alone in this estate. They’d all moved further down to the entrance hall, and he looked.

And saw her.

Verity was fixing a straw hat on her head. She’d changed into something plainer but still looked beautiful. Caught in a ray of sunshine, she appeared immortally golden.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t blink. And then she looked at him.

“I’ll rest assured that you have your maid’s company,” Mrs. Heavensby was saying. “One shouldn’t journey alone. Are you certain about leaving now?”

“Yes,” Verity responded while looking at him.

Tristan couldn’t read her expression from this far away. Normally, it felt like she was trying to tell him something. That she wanted his attention or didn’t care to be near him. Now, it felt like she had shut him out.

“I must take my leave at once.”

She’s leaving?

Tristan stiffened. He felt his body turn to lead as he realized what was happening. Verity wasn’t just leaving the house. She was leaving him . That was what she was saying with those stunning blue eyes of hers.

Beyond that, she said nothing to him. She wasn’t one to weep or cry over too much excitement. The woman had nearly made herself ill just from wandering in the rain last night.

Tristan stared, feeling the distance between them grow. A lump formed in his throat.

So she is leaving, after all. Like Cassandra. What was I thinking? Of course, she would believe those papers, wherever they came from. She never believed me. She never wanted me.

And he, Tristan told himself, wasn’t meant to have her.

Verity turned away. She lifted her chin and strode out of the hall, out of his sight. He heard footsteps and the front door closing. The moment that happened, he stormed back into his study and closed the door with all his might.

Something might have splintered. He didn’t care. He paced, stewing over this for some time before drowning his despair with brandy.

Eventually, he managed to slow his heartbeat. He slowed his breathing and sank into his chair. He attempted to focus his attention on important matters that weren’t buried inside his mind or the depths of his chest. Except even the silence was too much.

The door opened, and he jerked his head up before realizing that he had been expecting to see Verity there with his supper tray. Instead, Mrs. Heavensby offered a tentative smile.

“Good evening, Your Grace. I know you didn’t ask, but I thought we might…” She gingerly crossed the threshold to bring a familiar tray over to the edge of his desk. “We have your favorites. In case you’re hungry.”

He wasn’t. But he accepted the meal and nodded to the woman as she exited the room.

Though Tristan attempted to take a bite, he couldn’t seem to taste anything. He couldn’t focus on his work either. He’d scribbled nonsense in the ledger, so he gave up, stalking out of the room.

It was quiet in the manor. He liked the absence of people, but it felt too empty. And that didn’t feel right. Every time he glanced around, he thought he might glimpse Verity in her bright colors and her cheery smile. Or her smirk. Or her hair bouncing whenever she skipped.

He didn’t even know if she knew how often she skipped. Whenever she thought she was alone, she often did so in the hall, like she still wished for those childhood moments that brought one a surety of delight.

Not that she would have found it here. With me.

Moving to the library, Tristan knew his actions were in vain, even as he walked around the room before ending up before the fireplace. He stared at the emptiness, and it haunted him in return. Everything was too dark or too bright. Too still. Too quiet.

Her absence filled every corner of the house, as well as his heart. Tristan attempted to squash it but couldn’t. He thought of her laughter while easing himself onto the chaise. Was that her perfume still lingering in the air?

“You absolute miscreant,” he muttered to himself, before dropping his head in his hands. “What have you done?”

There were so many things Tristan had done wrong in his life. He’d survived it all. Losing his parents, his brother, his friends in the war, and a wife he had never loved. Surely losing Verity couldn’t hurt.

Yet there was an ache in his heart he couldn’t ignore. He didn’t recall anything else hurting like this.

“Very well,” Verity had said.

Her last words to him. The conclusion she needed with those letters in hand.

He winced at the memory of Cassandra’s words, glad he would never see them again. But Verity was another matter.

It was for the best, surely. She never wanted this. Never wanted me. I closed out one wife, so of course I could do another. Except… Verity was never like her. Why didn’t I see that in time? Could I have stopped her if I had known?

A lump formed in his throat. Tristan liked being alone. But loneliness was an uncomfortable cloak that weighed heavily on him at the moment, leaving him feeling more raw and vulnerable than he wished to admit.

Maybe he should have stopped her. Maybe he could have said something to dissuade her about the letters.

I have always chosen silence. People can think what they like about me.

I am a duke, and my name, my title, carries me far enough.

For so long, I have refused to care what anyone thinks of me.

After losing Oliver, it hardly seemed to matter.

But in the moments I spent with Verity, it felt like she could care. Until I showed her otherwise.

Most likely, she would have cared. She would have listened and cared, and she might have even done more, had he let her.

It was an unbearable thought.

Tristan huffed as he felt the war within him growing. He couldn’t bear this forever. When would this torture end? He couldn’t have told Verity. Already he had said enough. A bright woman like her didn’t deserve to be dragged down into the darkness of his past.

Cassandra made me give up everything I cared for to protect the memory of my younger brother. When will her hold on me cease? Is my soul not ruined enough?

If only that woman could stay buried. If he could pick a ghost, he would have chosen Verity, for she had never meant him ill will.

She had tried, doing more in three months than Cassandra did in all the years they were married. Though Tristan saw every mistake he had made clearly, he knew there was no going back in time to make amends.

He didn’t want Verity to be tortured as he was, which meant this was where he belonged.

He grabbed a pillow in a fit of agitation, throwing it into the fireplace. Standing, he moved away to begin pacing again.

Discomfort slithered through his veins. He hated feeling like this. He hated this part of himself, so determined to be callous and absent and alone.

If only he had realized this sooner.