Page 6 of The Duke Who Dared Me (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #31)

Word to the wise: never argue with your enemy near a hedgerow. You might trip. Or fall. Or kiss them so thoroughly that your cravat (and heart) never recovers.

-The Polite Observer

Verity leaned forward, pressed her lips to what she was certain was the world’s cutest toes, and was rewarded with her favorite smile.

She sat with Colin on a blanket in the library, basking in the morning sun pouring in through the windows. His eyes were still brilliant blue, and she wondered if, with time, they would change to hazel or brown.

“Let’s keep these feet covered, love. It’s chilly today.” She wrapped a small blanket over the baby’s muslin dress, then tickled Colin’s nose.

He cooed and wiggled, not yet able to sit up unassisted.

She was certain he would roll over any day, which was exactly what she was practicing with him after tea this morning.

The rest of the household was quiet, and there was an uneasy tension in the air now that all of London seemed to have a vested interest in Verity’s wager with Alistair.

“There you are,” her brother said, striding into the room. “Marina was looking for Colin. She’s been worried.”

Verity shrugged. She had asked Marina if she could take Colin to the library with her only an hour earlier.

These sorts of interruptions were happening more and more, and if she were honest, it felt like she was fledging about to be shoved out of the nest. Fitting, given her age, but still nonetheless easier.

She didn’t even particularly like her brother. And Marina tolerated her. It was only that since her parents had passed, she felt unmoored in life. She clung to what was familiar, and there wasn’t much left of the life she knew.

He bent down and picked up his son. “You don’t need to trouble yourself with him, Verity. You have more important things to occupy your time.”

“Yes.” She sat up on her knees and gathered the blanket into her arms. “Like finding a husband?”

“Exactly.”

She rolled her eyes. It wasn’t as if she could forget.

“It’ll be good for you to have a household of your own to manage.”

Verity nodded again, folding the blanket up, keeping her protests quiet. It didn’t matter anymore. They had made up their mind and seemed more than eager to be rid of her. And she wanted to leave, but there was so much uncertainty about her future. That was the issue.

That, and the ton’s dismissal of her. They had made up their minds years ago, it seemed.

“Well, if you don’t need me, I think I’ll take a ride in the park.” She crept closer to Colin, who held his arms up for her. Verity kissed his hand and walked out of the room with her head high, even if tears brimmed in her eyes.

An hour later, Verity spotted Alistair riding through Hyde Park long before he saw her.

She hadn’t spoken to him in a week. Not since the ball or since gossip spread like wildfire about their wager. Not even at dinner the evening before.

Alistair sat tall on his perfect black stallion, one hand relaxed on the reins, the other resting on his thigh as he rode off the path, no doubt eager to find a spot of privacy.

She shouldn’t seek him out, but last evening at a dinner with the Stonehams, when he pretended as though she wasn’t seated across the table from him, was a slight too much.

Yes, she was aware that many who knew her considered her excessive.

She was reminded time and again since coming of age how she should strive to be admired, not heard.

She could tolerate the disinterest from the rest of London, but as hard as it was to sit with the truth, it was never the same with the infuriating duke.

Alistair had always acknowledged her. He seemed to be the only one who held the remarkable ability to make her feel seen.

Verity kept her chestnut mare at a careful trot as she approached. She relaxed her features, sure boredom would prick his interest more satisfyingly than irritation.

“Out for a ride, Your Grace?” she called.

Alistair turned, one brow arching, pinning her with that burning gaze of his. “Shouldn’t you be busy charming half of London into marriage proposals, Verity?”

“I thought I’d let them rest. They're only human.”

His gaze swept down her navy-blue riding habit, lingering just long enough to make her stomach flutter. When his eyes met hers again, his expression shifted to something darker, more intent.

“Lady Clara seems to occupy much of your time lately,” she said, adjusting her gloves.

“Lady Clara?” He sighed. “What about her?”

“You’ve seen her three times in the last fortnight. Is she to be your duchess?”

“Worried you’re about to lose our bet, Verity?”

She squared her shoulders. “You’re so certain you’ve secured her, but you’re forgetting you must be in love with her.”

“Have you ridden out here just to harass me?” Alistair ran a hand down his stallion’s neck, calming the beast.

Verity couldn’t look away, fascinated by the power of his touch. Strong, calming…

“She seems sweet. Gentle,” she said with a swallow. It made no sense why the idea of him with someone else, of being gentle, kind, less guarded, set her teeth on edge. “You’ll ruin her.”

“All of London knows she’s on the quest for a title. Gentle?” He chuckled, his laugh tight and annoyed, before he turned in the saddle to face her more fully. “You think you’d be better suited to the title?”

“Certainly not.” Verity clutched the reins, pulling up high in her seat, mortified at such a suggestion. “I’d bury you under the floorboards before our wedding night.”

She blinked, startled by her own words. The image of her walking toward Alistair to be wed came too easily. It was as if her mind and heart were years apart, and she was too foolish to catch up and make sense of the man who glared at her.

“Confessing now seems an odd choice,” he drawled. “I’ll leave a note before I head to the altar…”

“You’re impossible!”

“And you’re too pigheaded to admit I’m going to win. Afraid to lose?”

She was. Desperately. It wouldn’t only be a matter of pride.

She would lose the last grip of independence she had over life.

If she could not find a husband, her brother would.

This time next year, she would likely be married, locked away in some crumbling family seat, heavy with child, to a man she didn’t care about. All because she was deemed a burden.

Independence was everything, and she had so little already.

“I’m not,” Verity lied.

“You rode out here this morning to insult me?”

“I came to warn you.”

He snorted. “About what?”

“Mr. Nethercott intends to call on me this week.”

It was a lie. She had received a few letters from Lord Brookhouse since their first dance, but he had been detained on family business. Still, his disbelief pricked her pride.

Alistair went very still. “Does he?”

She tilted her chin. “He’s charming. Handsome.”

Alistair’s jaw ticked, and his hands gripped the reins. Good, her prodding was working.

“He’s a rake and a cad.”

“So are you.”

Again, her mouth rushed forward. Alistair Rutley, the Duke of Tunstall, was a lot of things, but he was no rake. Now a cad, yes, but she thought he could at least admit that much about himself.

“I don’t compromise women and install a string of bastard children in the countryside before fleeing the continent.”

“Not anymore, maybe.”

He urged his horse closer until their knees nearly brushed. “Don’t test me, Verity.”

“Why not?” She laughed, a cold, heartless chuckle that hid the anger bubbling up within her chest. “You seem eager to test me. For years now. Every ballroom. Every card game. Every morning ride we’ve ever shared. I can’t even find a husband without being tangled up in a wager with you.”

“First, we haven’t ridden together in years.” Alistair scratched his cheek, surveying the other riders in the distance of the park. “And you proposed, then agreed to that wager.”

“You’ve made a mockery of it. Now all of London is cheering for me to lose.” The tide of anger twisted inside of her to something sadder, more vulnerable. “They already think so little of me.”

He leaned down slightly, voice low and rough. “I’m not mocking you.”

“You think I can’t land an offer on my own. That I’m unlovable. Unworthy. For once, just say it instead of marching around, trying to make me feel small.”

“God, Verity,” he growled, eyes blazing. “Your brother asked for my help. That’s not what I?—”

She nudged her mare forward, cutting across his path. “You don’t want to win because you want a match, or even to prove you’re capable of finding someone to tolerate you. You want to win simply so I will lose. So you can lord it over me like everything else, you pompous sapscull.”

“No. I want you to lose so I don’t have to watch you fall for the wrong man. Again.”

The air squeezed out of her lungs as she struggled to string together the men behind the marriage proposals she had turned down over the years. They hadn’t hurt her. They’d shown interest and praised her beauty. They were eager to make her a wife, and a few, like Lord Farish, had even kissed her.

They weren’t wrong; they just hadn’t been right.

Alistair’s horse shifted beneath him, restless as the cool winter breeze coiled between them.

Verity narrowed her eyes. “What do you know about those men?”

His jaw ticked again. “Too much.”

She hated his control then. Was desperate for some sign of emotion. Instead, he was motionless, his face otherwise void of reaction. He was hiding away again. She hated that, too.

“You don’t get to say that to me, Ali.”

“I do ,” he bit out. “Because I’ve watched you throw yourself at half the bloody ton , looking for someone who doesn’t flinch when you speak your mind. Who doesn’t ask you to dim yourself down just to fit in with the rest of the debutantes.”

Suddenly, it was difficult to swallow.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he dared, his eyes burning now.