Page 15 of The Duke Who Dared Me (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #31)

When a porcelain figure is mended, is it a gesture of courtship, or a warning that hearts, like figurines, do not always survive unscathed?

- The Polite Observer

The problem with almost firmly being on the shelf was that, after one’s first Season, they all became the same endless, boring parade of dinner parties and teas and balls.

Her patience for it all had dried up years ago.

Tonight’s dinner with the Asquiths was no different.

Verity kept her chin high, even though her chaperon might have been London’s oldest woman.

At least that had been a small mercy. It was bad enough she was forced to endure the whispers and sly glances about her wager with the duke before dinner.

It was no longer shock which rippled through London, but rather giddy expectations.

It was clear that Lady Clara had landed herself a duke.

Or so they insisted.

But then Alistair had defended her. Right there at the dinner table, in front of everyone. When Lord Rackham tried to put her in her place, when the whole table went silent waiting for her to be properly shamed, Alistair had spoken up.

Maybe she should have been grateful. But honestly, she was more confused than ever. He’d spent the entire evening studiously avoiding her gaze, nodding along to Lady Clara’s endless chatter about horses and riding. Then he’d thrown propriety to the wind to defend her knowledge of agriculture.

What was she supposed to make of that?

Whatever it was between them now was larger and messier than one night. It was a whole host of unspoken truths and feelings, and she was beginning to suspect she loved the perfectly infuriating man.

Even if that were true, and she was suspecting it was, he hadn’t made any effort the rest of the week to assure her. But then again, it wasn’t as if she had any expectations.

What she needed was a bath and a brandy, and she would write to him and finally share everything. She couldn’t do whatever they were doing any longer.

As the carriage rumbled to a stop in front of Briggs Hall, she nudged her elderly chaperon and thanked her for a fine evening.

The woman adjusted her feather headpiece and sighed, roughly patting the fat pug in her lap.

“Every evening can’t be successful, dear.

We can try again another night. Someone must want to marry you. ”

Not likely, she thought to herself.

Verity stepped inside, peeled off her gloves, and waved the maid away. Her only thought was reaching her room without incident until she heard hushed male voices from the sitting room.

Curious, she followed the murmur of conversation, halting just outside the open doorway.

“Lord Brookhouse,” she said coolly, stepping into view.

He rose, smiling. “Good evening, Miss Baxter.”

Her brother stood near the hearth, glass in hand, jaw tight.

“Have I interrupted something?” Verity glanced between the two men, then at the clock on the mantel. Why did men always insist on making everything difficult? She only wanted her bed after a long evening out.

“How was the dinner?” Hugh cleared his throat. “I was hoping to speak with you.”

She arched her brow. “It’s past midnight. You could have called…”

He smiled again, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You were out of town, and then I’ve been preoccupied with family matters. I needed to speak with you.”

Percy turned to her. “He insisted it was urgent. I thought it only fair to let him in.”

She ignored the prick of dread crawling over her skin. There was only ever one pressing matter with Hugh. Her brother, though? That was curious. Was he arranging a match or there to watch it unravel?

“I hardly find it appropriate to have any discussion after midnight.” She gripped the paste necklace at her chest, determined to remain composed, but it was beginning to feel like her favorite wool shawl with a thread loose. If she must endure one more pull, she too would unravel.

“I’ll give you two a moment.” Percy glanced toward Verity. “I’ll be right outside in the hallway.”

She opened her mouth to object, but she was met only with his back, and Hugh jumped to his feet to pace before the fire.

“I don’t know what couldn’t have waited,” she said with a small laugh.

This all felt ridiculous. “I’m much more pleasant after a cup of tea rather than another stuffy dinner where I had to sit and nod and make small conversation, as though I matter in a room where I am the source of all their jaded jokes. ”

“When have you ever cared about that?” He was trying for charming, but it only came off desperate. Her stomach soured.

“I’ve always cared, Lord Brookhouse.” She stressed his title to appease her brother lingering outside in the hallway, but what she wouldn’t give to be bitter for a moment and toss out a cold “Hugh.” Maybe then he could be a better judge of her mood this evening.

“I’m not without feeling, not without wants or desires of my own.

And I am certainly not about to stand here and pretend I don’t know what you’re doing here when my entire Season has felt… ” She sighed.

Hopeless.

Alistair hadn’t arranged for her to meet any suitors as he originally instructed her he would.

Maybe he couldn’t find anyone, or maybe it was more than one would consider after the scandal of their wager.

Either way, she was left with little option since living with Aunt Francis no longer sounded like the escape to freedom she was once determined to achieve.

“I think you would make an excellent wife.”

Verity scoffed. “Why exactly? I hate being told what to do. I can never hold my tongue. Is it because you mistake our friendship for convenience? You think I will be relieved to be done with the marriage mart and turn a blind eye to your extracurriculars?”

“I need a wife, Verity,” he said, his voice bordering on the edge of pleading. “My sisters are about to be sent away.”

“I will help how I can, but I can’t marry you, Hugh. I’m sorry.” She shrugged. “Everyone is in such a rush to see me wed, but I can’t agree only so I can be less of a problem. Silly, I know. But somewhere in these past few months, I have figured out I have worth.”

Hugh’s sad smile was enough to signal he knew he had lost. Not that it was ever a battle. But at least he knew there would be no winning the battle. “I thought you’d want to win the wager.”

Frustration bubbled up until she was laughing. She was closer to unraveling than she originally feared. “I don’t love you.”

He swallowed, narrowing his eyes at her. It was then she noticed he must have been well into his cups by the way he leaned to the left. He gripped the chair for support. “If this has anything to do with Tunstall…”

She lifted her chin, challenging him to continue. She didn’t want to speak of Alistair, no less during a failed marriage proposal.

“You’re going to lose. Lady Clara has all but secured the title of duchess.”

“Good evening, Lord Brookhouse. My brother will show you out.” She blew out a breath as she stepped out into the hallway.

Verity glanced at Percy, who looked into his glass, then proceeded up to her room where she pushed open the door, shut it behind her, and dove onto her bed.

She screamed into her pillows. Better to have that drowned out than to wake Colin or draw concern from Percy.

She screamed until the air burned in her lungs, then sat up, and nearly screamed again.

A man was at her window.

A booted leg swung awkwardly over the sill before a mess of dark hair, a muttered curse, and a very familiar coattail caught on the latch.

“Criminy!” Verity wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry or laugh at this point in the evening. “Why are you climbing into my bedroom?”

Alistair huffed and yanked his coat free, finally setting both feet onto her rug. “I wasn’t about to knock. I came to speak to you, not Percy. The trellis looked sturdy enough.”

“You’re mad.”

“Probably.” He straightened, brushing leaves from his sleeves. “Whoever planted that rose beneath your window was a decidedly wicked genius. The thorns must be an inch long. I may never walk again.”

Despite herself, her lips twitched. “What are you doing here?” she asked, softer now.

He didn’t speak at first, only studied her. She wasn’t sure when it happened exactly, but suddenly she could prescribe a hundred different words to the way he looked at her and felt the answering warmth in her chest once she recognized he truly saw her.

“I just came from rejecting a marriage proposal. I think.” She kept her voice low, waiting for Percy to knock on the door. It would be the perfect way for this evening to end if she knew her luck.

“You think?”

“Hugh never really asked. I think he assumed I would agree.”

He straightened, his blue eyes suddenly cold again. “Did you?”

“How can I agree to something when I was never asked?”

He raised a brow.

Fine, she was being difficult on purpose. “No.”

“That’s a great answer.” His smile was slow, tugging up one side of his mouth. For a moment, he looked like a complete rogue, and she loved him a little more for it.

She crossed her arms. “Why are you here?”

He glanced at her, the door, then motioned for the lock. She shrugged, then quietly turned to lock her door.

“Better?” she whispered.

He shook his head, then crooked his finger.

This time she smiled, stepping closer, but stopping short.

He reached forward and tugged her by the netting on her skirts until she was flush against his body.

His hand curved around her cheek, relief sweeping over her.

He pressed his thumb under the bottom of her chin, brought her lips up to his, and kissed her slowly.

“Now I am,” he whispered against her ear when they finally broke apart.

“You defended me against Lord Rackham tonight.”

He exhaled, nearly hiding the low growl in his throat. “The man’s an arse.”