Page 14 of The Duke Who Dared Me (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #31)

“Do you want one?” Percy held out another cigar that Alistair refused. “Listen, your silly wager with her has been too much of a distraction. My financial situation is worse, and I don’t know if I can have her finish out this Season.”

“It’s March. There are only a few months left.”

“Between you and me, I needed her married at the start. But somehow she’s snagged the attention of Brookhouse, and we both know he’s not going to help. He’s only after a dowry, and I suspect his attentions will stop when he learns she doesn’t have one.”

“No dowry?” He set down his glass with deliberate care, fighting the urge to vault from his seat. “I know your parents didn’t see to a lot of practical things, but I thought they would have set aside something for their only daughter.”

Percy shrugged. “It’s bad, Ali. I’m going to do what I can to keep this house, but my father’s debts keep spilling out of all corners of England. Just when I think I might have a handle on everything, I’m notified of another.”

“I can help. Tell me what you need. I’ll provide her with a dowry if it means she has better odds of finding a suitable husband. I’ll place money on the bet at White’s to gain more interest.”

“I’m waiting for you to find her a suitable husband.” Percy’s voice took on a hard edge that was unfamiliar to Alistair. “But you’re too distracted with Lady Clara. I didn’t think you even wanted to get married. Haven’t you spoken with the Duke of Cranbrook?”

Ahh , yes, the Wayward Dukes’ Alliance. Yes, well, in theory, there was an excellent network established to assist dukes wishing to avoid marriage. “Mother has other ideas.”

Percy slumped forward, lighting his cigar from the lamp on his desk. “Verity won’t listen to me. She never has.”

“You think she’ll listen to me?”

“I think you have always managed to find a middle ground with Verity. Though God knows, that’s always a moving target.

All I mean is, I need you to put an end to this wager between you.

All of London is gossiping now, and she’s no closer to being a bride.

I can’t support her any longer. I know Verity hates me, thinks I’m a giant villain, but I know my Aunt Francis.

Verity thinks she’ll be independent, but at the greater cost of what?

Our aunt has nothing and lives a simple, devoted life.

She’ll expect the same of Verity, even if it means breaking her spirit day after day until she listens. ”

His heart hammered against his chest. It didn’t matter because he had arrived this morning, determined he wouldn’t give weight to what happened last night with Verity. And now, he was left holding her very life in his hands. No matter what he did, she would hate him.

“As much as I want to avoid my mother, it’s time I head to Mayfair. I’ll take your words to heart, but Percy, I will help if you need my help.”

“I couldn’t accept that. You’ve done enough already.”

This had always been a tired argument between them, and as bad as it was, he didn’t have it in him just then to put up a fight.

“You should try for some sleep yourself. You look terrible, Musford.” He rose quickly, ready to return home to a bath and his bed and maybe spend another night at his club, where he didn’t have to think about…

Verity was walking from the library with a book tucked against her chest.

“Returning or reading?” he asked.

She glanced up at him, her eyes red from lack of sleep. He swore she swayed there on her feet.

“Thank you for escorting me back to London, Your Grace.” She quickened her pace, but Alistair was in no mood for pretending right now.

“About Lady Clara…”

“I don’t care,” she said.

“Verity.”

She turned, a line creased between her brows. “I said I don’t care. I’m not looking for promises, Alistair.” She dropped her voice, leaning around him to quickly check the hallway. “I asked for one night, and I meant it.”

The ache in his chest doubled.

“I care,” he said quietly.

She blinked.

“I care that you think I could walk into a ballroom with another woman on my arm after last night. I care that you believe I’d pretend none of it happened.”

“You said we’d pretend,” she whispered.

“I lied.” He reached for her hand, fingers brushing hers. “I don’t know how this ends. I don’t have a tidy answer. But I’m not sorry, Verity. I’ll never be sorry for you.”

She stared at him like she didn’t know whether to kiss him or slap him.

He understood the feeling well.

At last, she gave him a weary smile. “I’m reading. I wanted to rest but needed something new to read, but instead of something new, I found an old favorite.” She opened the book, revealing a page of pressed flowers.

Fragile, brittle flowers, long past their glory in a garden, but still all the more treasured.

He nodded, stepping away as footsteps approached on the stairs. He bid her farewell, then stepped outside, and collapsed against the closed door.

He wanted her.

Not just for a night.

He wanted all of her. That spitfire temper, stubborn mouth, and soul-deep vulnerability. And no matter what came next, no matter how much society whispered or what Lady Clara expected, he wasn’t ready to let Verity go.

Not yet.

* * *

Lady Clara was discussing embroidery. Again.

Alistair cut through his mutton with careful attention and nodded at the appropriate moments. Her voice was almost lulling as he swiped his fork through a stack of glazed carrots. It was pleasant. The kind of voice that would never raise itself in anger or passion or debate.

“I must be boring you, Your Grace. I apologize.”

He swallowed. Guilt swelled into a neat knot in his throat. “No, no,” he insisted. Before he could make a fool of himself further, he stuffed another bite of mutton into his mouth, mindful to avoid staring at the woman seated across from him.

It had been the longest week since last seeing Verity outside her library, clutching a book on the principals of permaculture.

“The weather has been fine for riding, don't you agree, Your Grace?”

“It has.”

“I’ve heard you enjoy a ride every morning in Hyde Park. In fact, I have it on great authority that you have a wonderful stable at your estate in Kent.”

Alistair turned, peering down at Lady Clara and her smile. It was so… unoffending .

From across the table, Verity’s laugh rang out as she argued with Lord Rackham about agricultural reform. Her cheeks were flushed.

He was furious with himself for noticing. Or how, after she sipped her claret, her lips drew his mind to thoughts of kissing her. Of tasting her.

“A woman can’t possibly understand such matters, Miss Baxter,” Lord Rackham said. The older man cleared his throat, then nodded to Alistair, as if looking for a sign he agreed.

“I find your position rather narrow, my lord,” Verity replied. “Perhaps you could explain which feminine deficiency prevents me from understanding crop rotation.”

Christ, she was magnificent.

Alistair studied his plate in an attempt to hide his grin, before returning his attention to Lady Clara discussing the stable at her family seat in Yorkshire.

He nodded along, trying his best to remain focused on her and not on the conversation escalating across the table.

All the while, he was trying to imagine thirty years of this.

Thirty years of pleasant agreement. Of never being challenged or surprised.

Of never feeling his pulse quicken at the very sound of her voice.

He caught Verity’s eye just then from across the table. Her look could have flayed him alive, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking.

He hated himself for it.

“Crop rotation presents soil depletion,” Verity continued. “Any competent farmer knows that. Gender has nothing to do with understanding basic agriculture.”

Lord Rackham’s cheeks brightened to a fearsome red. “Miss Baxter, really…”

“Mis Baxter is quite right.”

The words tumbled out of Alistair’s mouth before he could stop himself. Every head at the table turned his way, his mother carefully observing him under her cool blue stare.

“I’ve implemented similar methods on my properties in Kent and have been met with a lot of success.”

The silence stretched, and Lady Clara’s smile faltered.

Verity stared at him, something unreadable flickering across her face.

“How progressive, Your Grace,” Lady Clara finally added to break the awkward hush over the dinner crowd. “Though I confess such matters are quite beyond my understanding.”

That didn’t sit well with him, how quickly she made herself small to please others.

“Perhaps it needn’t be,” he said quietly.

Mrs. Asquith cleared her throat. “Have I mentioned how much I enjoyed Miss Farthington’s performance at the opera? I visited last week and thought the whole spectacle was delightful.”

Thankfully, the conversation shifted, and Alistair returned to his mutton. But the damage was done. He’d shown his hand.

And from the way the other guests kept glancing between him and Verity, everyone knew it.