Page 7 of The Duke Who Dared Me (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #31)

She couldn’t because, somewhere deep down, she wanted someone— anyone —to see her.

To really see her and stay. And up until now, that had always been Alistair.

Like how he had seen to a new wardrobe for her debut.

That was a detail she found out later from Marina one evening.

Percy would never admit as much, and Alistair would never accept her gratitude.

Still, he had no right to be concerned with who was courting her, especially before their wager.

“You haven’t earned the privilege to pretend you care about me now. Not after years of endless teasing or treating me like a child, like an irritation.”

“I haven’t thought of you as a child in years,” he said sharply. “That’s the problem.”

Verity’s heart slammed against her ribcage. No, she hadn’t heard that correctly. He had always… she had always…

He was breathing hard now, eyes dark with something she couldn’t name. Not anger. Not quite. Before she could ask what, Alistair reached for her reins, grabbed the collar of her riding habit, and pressed his mouth against hers.

It wasn’t a soft kiss, or civilized, or careful, or anything resembling rational. It was heat and fury, years of frustration rushing forth.

Her mouth opened beneath his in a soft gasp, allowing his tongue to brush hers. She melted forward, leaning into his touch as his hand slid and twisted into her curls. Her fingers fisted the lapels of his coat before she could stop herself, afraid to let go in the madness of it all.

The horses shifted, snorting, their heads tossing, but neither of them pulled back. Not until breathlessness won out. Verity finally wrenched away, her lips swollen, her chest heaving, and her brain…absolutely useless.

He stared at her.

She stared back, her shoulders heaving as she struggled for air. And just as the world came back into view, she reached across and slapped him. Hard.

Verity gripped the reins and turned her horse, riding away as quickly as she could.

“Damn it, Verity,” he called out after her.

She winced, certain someone would hear him call out her name. It was bad enough they were always in the gossip rags since the scandal of the wager broke.

But now?

Her hand ached, and her heart drummed in her ears as she fought the urge to gallop home. That would draw too much attention, so instead, she maintained a ladylike trot, smiling and nodding to the others in the park, hoping her lips weren’t too red or her hair wasn't too mussed.

Verity was furious with him. Or she had been until he kissed her and ruined everything, including the certainty she could hate him forever.

* * *

Alistair didn’t move.

The echo of her slap rang loud in his ears.

He sat there, stunned, reins limp in his fingers, staring at the space where she’d been seconds ago. Her mare was already back on the gravel path in the park, the wind carrying the scent of orange blossom behind her like a bloody banner.

He scrubbed his hand down his face, searching through the ring of ancient elms for the navy flash of her riding habit.

What the hell had just happened?

The urge to kiss her had torn through him without warning.

One moment, he'd been staring at her, furious and breathless from their argument, and the next, he’d reached for her reins, collar, anything to bring her closer.

His gaze had caught on her mouth, soft and slightly parted as she struggled for words, and something inside him had simply snapped.

When did her mouth become so distracting?

The thought should have been sobering. This was Verity. Verity. The realization should have stopped him cold. Instead, it only made him more desperate to taste her, to silence whatever cutting response was forming on those lips with his own.

Before his mind could catch up to his body, he'd closed the distance between them. The next moment, her mouth was beneath his, and he couldn't breathe.

Her taste. The feel of her beneath his touch. Her.

What had he done? This wasn’t some debutante he could charm and forget.

Verity was the woman who once dumped a bowl of pease soup in his lap at dinner because he wouldn’t agree that unicorns were real.

Who’d challenged him to a race down the main hall of his estate when he was twelve, which ended with him concussed and her laughing so hard she snorted.

She was Verity Marie Baxter. The sole bane of his existence since he was five years old.

And he had just kissed her like his very soul depended on it.

Worse, he’d liked it. More than liked it.

The damn taste of her had lit something within him that felt too dangerous to name and too consuming to ignore.

Alistair turned his horse in a slow, stunned circle, trying to physically shake the madness from his skull. The morning air did nothing to cool the fire still burning beneath his skin.

She was infuriating. Reckless. Entirely too bold for any decent man's peace of mind.

She was also soft in his hands, and warm, and heaven help him, he wanted her again. Even now, with the sting of her palm still blazing across his cheek, he wanted to pull her back into his arms and finish what they'd started.

“Hell and damnation,” he swore, his voice rough in the crisp air. He kicked his horse into motion and cut back toward the main path, his pulse still thundering like hoofbeats in his ears.

He didn’t allow himself to think. That would only lead to madness.

Instead, he followed at a careful distance, knowing she was likely headed back to the stable where she could plot her revenge in private, or seek out her brother to torment, or whatever other delicious trouble occupied that sharp mind of hers.

He kept well behind her retreating figure, unsure what he intended to do when he caught up to her, knowing only that he had to do something.

Apologize?

Demand she explain the way she’d kissed him back before that damned slap?

Kiss her again until she forgot every reason why she shouldn't want him.

He didn’t know. He only knew he would allow that stolen moment to be the end of whatever fire had sparked between them. Not when it threatened to consume him entirely.

He found her at the stable, nuzzling her chestnut mare as the stable hand waited. The sight of her disheveled hair catching the early afternoon light, her gloved hands gentle against the horse's neck, sent another jolt of want through him that he couldn't name.

“Your Grace.” The stable hand rushed forward, bowing low. “How may I help you?”

Alistair dismounted with a leap, his eyes pinned to Verity, unwavering. “See to my horse. And make yourself scarce.”

The younger man stammered in agreement, taking the reins and disappearing deeper into the stable. Alistair stepped into the dim interior, shadows swallowing him, before he turned to Verity in the doorway.

“You’ve lost your mind,” she snapped, half whispering, half yelling. “What are you doing here?”

“Likely.” Alistair pressed against a stall, keeping his distance. There was no need to be hit again.

She brushed back her hair and tilted her chin. “You kissed me.”

“You kissed me back.”

Verity erased the distance between them, finger pointed at his chest. “Because you ambushed me!”

“I didn’t…” He yanked off his gloves, running a hand through his hair. He glanced up at the low ceiling, the smell of freshly mucked stalls and hay heavy in the air. “I didn’t plan on kissing you!”

“No? You couldn’t help yourself and needed to kiss your best friend’s little sister in the middle of the day?”

He flinched. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what, Ali?”

He wished she’d stop using his nickname. Something about it made him possessive and angry, and damn it… it was a good kiss.

“Don’t use Percy like a shield. This has nothing to do with him.”

Her mouth dropped open. “It has everything to do with him. You agreed to help him find me a husband by the end of the Season. You agreed to the wager.”

The words hit him worse than her slap had in the park. Alistair's shoulders went rigid, his jaw clenching as the full weight of what he'd done— what he’d promised —crashed over him. He’d wagered on her future. On finding her a suitable match. And now...

Alistair stepped closer. “Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy that kiss.”

Verity’s dark eyes widened before she scoffed and shoved at his chest.

He fell back a step, willingly.

“You arrogant, pompous?—”

Alistair raised his brow, fighting back the smirk tugging at his lips. Let her be angry if it meant…

This time, it was her mouth that crashed into his. Her fingers tangled in his hair, her body pressed close. Like with everything involving Verity, the kiss was chaos—frenzied and angry and impossibly hot.

Alistair groaned against her lips, gripping her hips, pulling her flush against him like a man starved. She tasted like tea and raspberry jam and fury, and he didn’t care what it meant. Didn’t care if she was wrong for him. That she was the opposite of everything he ever told himself he wanted.

She was right here , real and unforgiving. Punishing.

It wasn’t about the wager. It wasn’t even about the kiss. It was the terrifying sense that she was already inside his head and wouldn’t leave without tearing something loose.

They broke apart with a gasp.

He was breathless. She looked murderous.

“That never happened,” she said, yanking herself from his grip. She blinked hard, then brushed her hands over her dark-brown hair, and cleared her throat.

“But it did. Twice now,” he said, his voice barely steady. “Either that was my imagination, or…”

“Neither kiss happened.” Her words came too quickly, breathless. “It won’t happen again. It can’t. You understand?”

Her hands were shaking as she smoothed her skirts, and there was something wild in her eyes, like she'd surprised herself as much as him.

“Can’t?” he demanded, his voice ragged. “Am I supposed to convince myself I tripped and fell against your lips?”