Page 8 of The Duke Who Dared Me (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #31)

She pressed her back against the stable wall, as if she could disappear into the wood itself. “It was a mistake. An accident.” Her voice caught, barely a whisper. “I allowed my feelings to cloud my better judgment.”

Feelings. The word echoed in his mind like the abbey bells at Westminster. She had feelings. For him?

And God help him, watching her struggle against whatever was building between them, seeing her so utterly undone by her own actions, was the moment he knew he was lost. Completely and irrevocably lost.

She could deny it all she wanted. Could call it a mistake or an accident until her voice went hoarse.

But he’d felt the way she’d kissed him back, desperate and hungry.

Had seen the shock in her own eyes afterward, as if she couldn't quite believe what she’d done.

Verity was all fire and determination, and still, he wanted to beg for more.

“Don’t,” she cut in. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you mean to say it. Like you, like I might…” She trailed off, pressing her lips together.

He stared at her, waiting, but when she didn’t continue, he turned on his heel and stalked toward his horse. He didn’t say another word. Didn't look back. Didn't let himself admit he already wanted to kiss her again.

And they weren't finished. Wager be damned.

* * *

An hour later, he strode into his Mayfair residence, Bisham House, his boots muddy and his mood darker than the gathering storm clouds.

It smelled like snow. All he wanted was the sanctuary of his study, a stiff brandy, and the luxury of reliving every second of Verity’s mouth against his without interruption.

Instead, he found his mother.

The Duchess of Tunstall sat in his drawing room, her dark hair perfectly arranged, her pale-blue eyes sharp like a frigid February morning. The china tea service spread before her might as well have been weapons of war with how she studied her son.

“Alistair, darling.”

He hated the careful cadence of her speech. If one ever wondered where his preference for control came from, they need look no further than the small woman seated in front of him.

“Sit down. We have rather a lot to discuss about your recent... activities.”

Bloody hell, she knew about the wager.

Years of experience had taught him to nod and let her speak. That way, he never had to admit to the full truth. Whatever her concern, he would address, but he wasn’t about to tell her he kissed Verity Baxter this morning.

Twice.

“Sit, won’t you? Before you continue to track mud…”

“I’ve been riding, and I’ve business to see to.”

“You’re a duke, darling. The world waits for you. Sit .”

Alistair tugged on his vest, biting back his frustration. “I wasn’t expecting you in London.” He walked around to sit opposite her and the tea service.

“I never miss the best gossip, Alistair. The world might wait for you as I mentioned, but it works because of duchesses like myself. It’s our power as women in this world, and our only currency other than beauty.”

He reached for the teapot, but his mother playfully slapped his hand away.

“Don’t you dare.” He allowed her to pour, then added a splash of cream and sugar.

“I would have written, but this was something which needed to be addressed before you made a grave mistake. And I think you are making a mistake.”

Alistair reclined back into his chair, knowing full well it would upset his mother. She glared at him, but he refused to budge.

“Of all the women in London, how did you manage to become entangled with Lord Musford’s sister?”

He nearly choked on his tea. Entangled was an interesting word choice given the past few hours.

“We’re hardly entangled.”

“That’s not what The Polite Observe r suggests. Did you think I wouldn’t hear the gossip from Kent?”

“Since when do you hold that gossip rag in esteem, Mother?” He leaned forward. “Percy only asked if I could help her find a husband. And being that Miss Baxter…”

“That girl is impossibly headstrong and questions everything.”

He set his tea down, careful not to pinch the fine porcelain between his fingers too hard for fear it would crumble. “Verity only needs a husband who can appreciate her spirit.”

“And you’re qualified to do that?”

His patience snapped, and Alistair shot to his feet. “I have a stack of ledgers on my desk that need my attention, Mother. I’m in no mood for an interrogation.”

His mother glanced up at him, a small smile on her lips. “Interesting.”

“What is?”

“Oh, don’t be stubborn, darling.” She waved him off.

“I came to remind you that your father and I had an arranged marriage. It wasn’t terrible.

I was blessed with you, eventually. But don’t let duty eclipse the possibility of genuine affection.

I never knew great love, Alistair. Perhaps you shouldn’t settle for less.

You’re young yet. I think you can find someone who will challenge you, to push you to see the world in a new way. ”

“What does this have to do with Miss Baxter?”

“You called her Verity a moment ago.”

“Mother,” he huffed. Yes, he called her Verity. The damn woman had clawed her way under his skin, possessed his mind, and stole his better judgment with that sharp, lush mouth of hers. Kissing her was only the incredibly frustrating and bewildering start.

“I won’t keep you any longer. But whatever you do, don’t mistake duty with love. Lady Clara is perfectly lovely, and she’d make an adequate duchess. But marrying her in the name of duty alone will cost you everything that truly matters. Yes, you will have a wife, but will you have happiness?”