Page 10 of The Duke Who Dared Me (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #31)

“And you said if someone heard us?—”

“I did.”

“Then perhaps we should be very quiet,” she said, lifting her chin, “so no one suspects we’re trapped in here together, with my dignity on the floor and your infernal buttons to blame.”

His mouth twitched. But he said nothing.

Verity turned away from him, pressing her back against the door, but there was nowhere to go in the cramped space. Her body felt strange, as though humming with an energy she couldn’t name. Her breasts ached, and she had the maddening urge to step closer to him instead of away.

Was this what it meant to desire a man? To crave his touch even when you despised him for it?

“Verity.” His voice was softer now, almost careful.

She kept her gaze fixed on the wooden shelves, anywhere but his face. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say my name like that. Don’t look at me like…” She swallowed hard. “Just don’t.”

The silence stretched between them, heavy and charged. She could hear his breathing, feel the warmth radiating from his body in the small space. Every nerve ending seemed alive, aware of his proximity.

And that terrified her more than being discovered ever could. It was becoming dangerously clear that she was softening. And she'd be damned if she'd give the Duke of Tunstall the satisfaction of knowing it.

* * *

Alistair stared at the door. Then at Verity. Then back at the door, as if it might spontaneously open out of sheer frustration.

“I’ll yell,” she threatened again, arms folded across her chest. “If you so much as breathe suggestively, I’ll scream bloody murder.”

“Very well,” he said tightly. “I’ll just stop breathing altogether. See if that makes you happy.”

“It might.”

God help him, he wanted to laugh. Or touch her. Or kiss her again and damn the consequences.

He’d only ducked in here to avoid Lady Clara’s nonstop commentary about the weather and his hobbies, and then Verity had burst through the door like she was fleeing the hounds of hell.

The darkness of the closet wrapped around them, but he could just make out her profile of sharp chin, round cheeks, the stubborn tilt of her mouth.

“You’re glaring at me,” she muttered.

“I’m not.”

“Are too.”

“I’m thinking . ”

“About what? Whether to strangle me or seduce me?”

“Both,” he said honestly.

Her breath hitched. Barely. But he heard it.

She shifted back a step, but there was nowhere to go. Her shoulder brushed against the wall, releasing the faint scent of orange blossoms. He hated how well he knew her perfume now. Hated more how he found himself craving the smell of it in her absence.

“This was a mistake,” she said stiffly. “I can’t believe you locked the door.”

“I didn’t lock the bloody door , Verity! It shut on its own.”

They both went still. Breathing hard. Too close. Always too close.

She was studying him now, lashes lowered. “You’ve been different lately.”

He frowned. “Different how?”

“You used to spar for sport. Now it feels like we’re playing with fire.”

Alistair was quiet for a moment before finally caving and admitting the truth. “Maybe we are.”

She laughed, soft and bitter. “Since when do you admit to anything?”

“Since you started driving me mad,” he said before he could stop himself.

Silence.

He regretted it the moment he said it. He could’ve blamed the thin air, or the fact that he could still feel the phantom warmth of her palm pressed so close to an inconvenient cockstand. That didn’t change the truth.

She did suit him in ways he hadn’t allowed himself to admit until recently.

Since kissing her? It was like her lips were poison, and he had willingly sipped until he fell headfirst over the best riding boots, and there was no chance of a recovery.

He woke and thought of her, spent his day riding or visiting clubs, and still her memory haunted him.

But the worst of it was at night, when he finally lay in bed and tried to sleep, and his body burned for another touch of her, desperate for a kiss and the knowledge of what the privilege of bringing about her pleasure would be like.

He couldn’t say that. Certainly couldn’t admit it. Most of the time, he was convinced they both still loathed one another.

“Why did you say that?” she asked, her voice careful.

“Because it’s the first thing I haven’t lied about in weeks.”

Her lips parted, and she swayed ever so slightly toward him.

He stepped closer until there was barely a breath between them.

“You keep saying you hate me,” he said quietly. “But you kissed me back.”

Her chin lifted. “You kissed me first.”

“And you slapped me.”

“You deserved it.”

He smiled, but there was no humor in it. “I deserve worse.”

“I could arrange that.”

“You already did,” he murmured. She had killed him in a thousand tiny ways since that kiss. The silence, her avoidance, the way she would divert her glance if he dared make eye contact.

Another moment stretched between them.

He reached for a stray curl beside her ear, letting his fingertips brush her skin just once before pulling back.

“I’m not what you want. I know that. I’ve never been good with…”

“With what?” she whispered.

“Wanting someone. Needing someone.” He glanced over her shoulder. “I don’t want you to marry Brookhouse,” he said suddenly, meeting her gaze once again.

Her breath caught.

And that, right there, that honest, awful truth, was what undid him.

Because it was Verity. Of all women. Verity Baxter, with her sharp tongue and wicked smile, and a heart too wild for any man to tame.

She wasn’t what he’d planned. She wasn’t even what he thought he liked.

But somehow, the thought of her choosing someone else was… Well, he’d rather be ruined.

Verity scoffed. “He’s kind to me.”

“He’s an idiot.”

“Well, at least he’s not you, Ali.”

Silence again. Heavy. Searing.

Then footsteps passed in the hallway. They both froze as the latch wiggled.

Verity’s eyes went wide. “Don’t let them open it. If they see us…”

He rushed forward, bracing one hand above her shoulder, pressing her gently back into the pile of coats. The door creaked open a few inches until a sliver of light poured in. They stayed pressed together, hearts racing.

“I hate you,” she whispered.

“I know.”

His mouth hovered a breath from hers. And if she leaned up, if she closed the space between them…

He would’ve let her.

Instead, she turned her head and cleared her throat. “We should leave,” she said hoarsely.

“We should.”

Somewhere in the house, a door slammed. Voices echoed down the hallway. Soon, someone would come looking.

But neither of them moved.

Alistair finally understood what it meant to want something he couldn’t have. And it was going to destroy him.