Page 9 of Ruined By the Northern Duke

Which he didn’t like.

He wished he could control the weather—but already he wished for impossible things, like understanding strange young ladies.

Tristan didn’t keep track of the time like he usually did. He eventually made it to bed, though he hardly slept. Thoughts of Lady Verity kept him awake until dawn, making him wonder repeatedly how they could be so much at odds for mere strangers.

“I suppose we shall not be strangers for long,” she said the following morning when road conditions had not yet improved.

He had no way of going home, not yet. Which meant he would have to remain there, relying on her generosity.

“Can’t the bridge be mended sooner?” he asked, struggling to maintain his composure.

A restless night and wrinkled garments had left him uncomfortable and irritated.

Somehow, Lady Verity looked as tired as he felt. She was wrinkling her nose more frequently already. A charming, little look that he couldn’t take his eyes off, but he certainly tried his best. As for Lady Wetherby, she was humming in the corner while she worked on her embroidery.

Lady Verity gave him a stern look. “Roads and bridges take time, and the weather cannot be won over. Patience is required for a place like this.”

“I know. I was raised here for a time, although most often I reside further north in Scotland,” Tristan explained after a moment. “I am no stranger to living under the will of nature. Weather cannot be controlled.”

Lady Verity furrowed her brow. “I wouldn’t quite call it that—oh, there’s Daniel. Daniel Holcome,” she added with a small wave to the window.

A broad-shouldered man was trudging up to the house, his face pinched like something was wrong.

“My tenant?—”

“Mytenant,” Tristan corrected her.

“Ourtenant,” Lady Verity said neatly with a sharp smile, “needs help. Something must have happened to pull him away from his acreage.”

Tristan followed her to the hall to meet the man. Perhaps the man had some papers that would supersede anything that would be found under this roof.

“Then he comes often? Perhaps with complaints? How long have the Holcomes been coming here to your family?”

“I will not have you questioning my father, not in my house,” she warned with more sternness than he had expected. It made him slow down so he watched her march over to the door, pulling it open to greet the tenant. But she paused to look at him over her shoulder. “I trust you can respect my experience in this situation?”

His jaw clenched. Did she have so little regard for him that she would easily assume him to be rude?

Gritting his teeth, he shook his head and stomped over to her.

“Our tenants deserve the best of their landlords,” he pointed out forcefully.

“Which I provide! My family always has. How dare you insinuate that my family has been anything else! We have always done our best. The Redcliff name always meant respect. Honor. Duty. We have done well by our tenants throughout the years.”

He crossed his arms. “And yet I am now receiving complaints and concerns, so perhaps something has been missed.”

Her cheeks reddened. “I would not do that to my people.”

“I didn’t say it was you.”

“And it wasn’t my father! He was no such criminal.”

Tristan huffed, stepping closer to her. “I didn’t call your father a criminal,” he pointed out.

She gripped the door with one hand and lifted her chin. They were close enough that he felt her shoe against his.

In her stubbornness, she discarded all propriety and glared at him. “He wasn’t a traitor either. He wasn’t.”

“Your Grace?”