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“There is no betting,” Tristan started, before realizing Verity was upon them.

He stiffened, and the wrinkle in his brow faded. Beyond that, however, she could not read a single thought in his mind.

“Duchess.”

She stumbled, realizing she had a new title now.

It was Ashcombe who caught her hand, putting it on his arm. She stared dumbly as he winked. “Careful, my dear. We can’t have you twisting your ankle on such a lovely and special day. Northcott, how could you? I’ve found another problem you have not fixed: this awful ground.”

“One cannot mend every hole in the ground, especially when there are gophers,” Tristan muttered, before clearing his throat and focusing on Verity. He gave her a steady look. “Yes?”

She pulled herself together. Fixing her cloak around her throat as the day continued to grow chillier, she gave him a small smile. “The day is over, and I’m afraid my party wishes to be on their way. I don’t believe you cared for the feast?”

“Not particularly.”

“I did,” Ashcombe protested.

Tristan had already stepped forward to separate them. He firmly clasped her hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm, freeing her from his friend. “Your carriage is waiting for you, and I’m sure your aunt is dying to hear about today. You may go.”

“Oh, that’s not…” Verity started, feeling uncomfortable between them.

When she looked at Ashcombe, he winked. “You’ll learn to appreciate him as we do.

And he’s not wrong. What rake interrupts a wedding party?

I shall have my fun elsewhere beyond torturing my dear old friend.

Should we meet again, Duchess, I do look forward to seeing your cheery smile and our ever-grumpy Duke. Good day and good luck.”

“Thank you,” she muttered, frowning as she watched him take his leave.

Though she turned to her husband to ask about their friendship, she couldn’t find the words.

He led her to the queue of carriages, where she said farewell to her aunt and best friend. Promising to write and visit soon, Verity allowed herself to be escorted to her husband’s carriage so they might take their leave.

A very fine carriage, she found, with comfortable seats and wheels that didn’t squeak with every move. There was padding for her back and shoulders on the side. The Duke even offered food and drinks, though she wasn’t hungry.

Soon, they took off. Verity shifted in her seat, glancing at her husband, who seemed disinterested in her existence. Silence settled awkwardly between them as the wind howled outside.

The new bridge would ensure they reached his estate before nightfall.

It wasn’t long before they reached Halewood. She had never come this way, and she needed a moment to take it all in, seeing how well-maintained the estate was compared to her own.

Envy surged through her. If she had the funds, she might have been able to keep her home in good order.

But it would never be as cozy here as it was at Redcliff Manor.

This was an intimidating estate cast against the stormy sky.

The silhouette alone was quite striking, sharp and imposing.

Very much like the man she had just wed.

Stone walls greeted her alongside a tall door that opened for them when they reached it.

She glanced at Tristan—her husband, how strange—who nodded, allowing her to take the lead.

She stepped inside to find the servants all lined up for their arrival.

She stopped. Though she knew of this tradition—of the new lady of the house needing to be introduced to the household—she was still taken aback.

There were twenty-two servants. Each of them was wearing a perfect and clean uniform, all perfectly arranged and silent.

She stared at a maid for a moment, just to make sure she was breathing.

Tristan then stepped forward, nodding to the two servants at the end of the line. “Take the Duchess’s belongings to the west wing. We’ll have supper as usual. No changes.”

And then he walked away without looking at her.

Ignoring the knot in her stomach, Verity also resisted the urge to scowl as she looked at the two servants.

Mrs. Burns was an experienced housekeeper who looked neat and prim. The butler was an elderly gentleman, with a reassuring and beaming smile, and he offered to show her to the west wing.

“It receives much of the sunlight, Your Grace, and I do believe you will grow to like it very much,” Mr. Philipson promised.

He spoke loudly over the echo of the marble floors beneath their feet until they finally stepped onto a wide rug.

While he pointed out countless aspects of her new home, Verity considered the cool air and sparse furnishings.

The house was comfortable and well-maintained, but it was not overcrowded with beautiful art everywhere like most residences of the nobility.

Stopping by the door to her bedchamber, the butler bowed and allowed her entry. “I hope you will enjoy it. I’m sure His Grace will allow you to redecorate, should you desire it. The whole household hopes you will be happy here.”

The final words surprised Verity. She looked again at the butler, seeing truth in his smile. He meant every word. He was glad to have her here.

A strange feeling, she mused. Warmth soothed some of the aches in her heart. She smiled and thanked him, before he closed the door.

Finally left alone, Verity looked around her new room. The chamber was large, with three sections. Large windows occupied the far wall, letting in the light. Moving further into the room, she eyed the four-poster bed at the center. It was made of a dark wood that matched the heavy curtains.

Everything she looked at had to be made of some of the finest materials in the world. And yet there was no life in them. No character.

She hesitantly touched her new belongings, wondering if she would be able to do anything about that.

Before the butler brought her here, the housekeeper had mentioned how the Duke preferred quiet evenings. “Supper is always a private affair. We’ll bring you a tray in precisely three hours.”

Perhaps no one will come to me, then. I didn’t bring any of my servants here, so there is no one to help me undress. Will that be a problem for the Duke if he prefers a proper presentation?

And yet why would he mind? He doesn’t wish for my existence to affect him. I could see it in his eyes. In his every move. If he could forget about me, his life would be much better. As would mine.

Sighing, Verity sat on the edge of her bed and studied the crackling fire. The room remained somewhat chilly.

“What a blessing it is,” she mumbled to herself, “that I am used to the silence.”