Page 9 of The Duke Who Dared Me (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #31)

If proximity breeds contempt, and contempt masks desire, then what should one make of a rumor concerning a certain spirited lady and duke locked in a linen closet?

- The Polite Observer

Verity’s stays felt impossibly tight as the circle of matrons pressed closer, their voices rising above the din of pre-dinner conversation.

“A woman your age cannot afford to be particular,” Lady Quinlan declared, adjusting her silk gloves with authority.

“You need a husband, my dear, and children. Nothing else will bring you true happiness.”

“Indeed,” Lady Dagnell nodded sagely. “The joy of motherhood is a woman’s greatest blessing.

You simply cannot find fulfillment otherwise.

” She leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

“Lord Brookhouse may turn your head with his charm, but what you need is a respectable gentleman who will see you settled properly. He’s fickle, and I’ve heard murmurs that his debts are not being settled. ”

Verity forced a polite smile, her gloved hands clasped so tightly her knuckles ached. She could hardly breathe, and the blasted clock must be broken because each minute felt like an eternity.

Her gaze drifted helplessly toward the far corner of the room, where Alistair moved through yet another turn about the floor with Lady Clara. The woman’s devoted smile never seemed to falter.

“I suspect we’ll hear news of an engagement soon,” Lady Quinlan said in a hushed whisper. “They are a perfect match.”

The sight made her stomach clench with something she refused to name.

“The duke seems preoccupied this evening, don’t you think?” Lady Dagnell added. “You might still have a chance yet, dear, to best him.”

For the rest of society, their wager seemed to be a silly game. And maybe it had started that way for Verity, but after kissing Alistair, everything had turned upside down for her.

She nodded along as the two older women spoke and giggled, hiding behind their fans to gossip and make light of Verity’s marriage prospects as if she weren’t there beside them.

For all their advice, no one had ever asked what she wanted from life.

“Please excuse me,” she said, forcing a smile and finally slipping away.

Verity rushed out into the hallway, deciding to follow a maid down into the west wing of the large home. She needed to breathe. A break. If she was allowed a moment to gather her peace, she could return with a smile and laugh and play cards and pretend as if her life wasn’t falling to pieces.

She walked quickly, her worn silk slippers scuffing against the polished floor, until she found herself in the dimly lit corridor near the library, where the sounds of conversation were thankfully distant.

The flickering candlelight from the wall sconces cast shadows between the doorways, making it difficult to distinguish one entrance from another.

Spotting what she assumed was a sitting room, she slipped inside. But instead of a settee, she found herself surrounded by the musty smell of wool coats and leather trunks.

A storage closet. Perfect.

At least it offered a chance at solitude, even if it wasn't quite what she’d intended. She sagged back against the stack of storage, finally allowing her shoulders to drop.

“Verity?”

The voice came from the shadows, deep and unmistakably male.

She spun. “Oh, for….”

Alistair was pressed back in the opposite corner of the small closet, his cravat slightly crooked.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded. She’d spent the better part of two weeks avoiding him. She was furious her streak would be over after this encounter.

“I saw you leave the drawing room suddenly.” His voice was carefully measured, but she caught the underlying concern. The irritating scoundrel.

“So you hid in a closet?”

“I was looking for you. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

The admission made her stomach flutter with panic. Since when did he care for her well-being?

“I’m perfectly fine.” Her voice came out higher than intended.

When he didn’t say anything, she continued, “I didn’t want to be interrogated any further.

Lady Quinlan was asking if I would consider a call from Mr. Forsythe again.

Apparently she thinks his preoccupation with embroidering pillows for his cats will subside if he can find a wife. ”

“Or he would expect you to join him?”

He attempted to dodge her hand before tripping, his hand splaying on the wall beside her ear, bringing them close enough to touch.

A swoosh of air swept past her, carrying the musky scent of his cologne. She opened her mouth to deliver something biting, but before she could, the door swung shut behind him, bringing them into darkness save for the small strip of light at the bottom along the floor.

Verity clasped her hand to her chest, stuffing down the urge to cry out.

Alistair twisted the handle, then cursed softly under his breath.

“What was that?” she asked, dread sinking into her stomach.

“It appears we’re locked in.”

“No,” she said flatly. “No, no, no! Open the door.”

“I would,” he said tightly, “if it weren’t bolted from the outside.”

She rushed forward and banged on the door. “Hello? Is someone out there? We’re… There’s been a mistake!”

Alistair exhaled through his nose. “Don’t shout.”

“We are locked in a closet. Together. We’ll miss the call to dinner, and everyone will know. Of course, I’m shouting!”

Finally, he looked up from the door, turning so he could face her, pinning her there in the dark with his disappointed stare. “If someone hears you, they’ll come.”

“That’s the point.”

“To find us alone, in a closet, in the dark? After everything the scandal sheets have published about us…” His voice dropped. “You’ll be ruined.”

“And you'll be forced to marry someone who despises you,” she shot back, her voice rising again. “We'll both lose…”

His hand clamped over her mouth, warm and slightly rough against her lips. “Verity, please don’t?—”

She bit down on the fleshy part of his palm, not hard enough to truly hurt, but enough to make her point.

He jerked his hand back with a sharp intake of breath. “Did you just bite me?”

“You’ve always told me I have a sharp tongue. Just a reminder, my teeth can do the job as well.” She twisted away, scanning the cramped space, feeling slightly more in control but only just. “Help me find something to loosen the hinge.”

She turned toward the set of shelves on the wall, then sank, crouched beside a trunk.

The comb in her hair slipped, and a few curls escaped, cascading over her shoulder.

Verity reached to tuck the curls behind her ear, but in doing so, lost her balance and leaned forward a little too far on the balls of her feet.

She heard it before she felt it.

A soft catch, then a snag.

Verity tilted her head, but pain seared at the base of her skull. It was no use. Her curls, it seemed, had found the precise edge of a brass button on Alistair’s buckskins.

Dear Heaven. Her eyes shut as frustration rippled through her. “No.”

“I believe…”

She didn’t look up. “This must be a mistake.”

“No, this is just as bad as you think the situation is.”

“Wonderful,” she scoffed. “My hair is snagged on the button fly of your buckskins.” She reached back gingerly, fingers brushing the soft fabric stretched tight across his muscular thighs. “Stand still.”

“I am standing still.”

“Well, stand still-er .”

He made a low sound in his throat. Possibly a groan. Possibly muttered a prayer to the Holy Trinity. If she weren’t locked in a closet with him, physically attached to his waist, then it might even be an attractive sound.

She tried again. Her fingers slipped, fumbling with the cursed button. His thigh was warm. Firm.

“Would you stop breathing like that?” she snapped.

“I’m not. You’re the one nearly panting.”

“I’m panicking, panting would imply something else entirely.”

She tugged again, attempting to free herself, and recognized a moment too late just how difficult this was for Alistair.

Verity could feel him through his buckskins. This close, with her hands braced against his thighs to hold steady, she was acutely aware of him. All of him .

He cleared his throat. “You do realize, if anyone opens that door, they’ll find you kneeling at my feet.”

She froze.

His voice was low. Tight. “Told you I’d have you kneeling eventually.”

The roughness in his tone sent an unwelcome flutter through her stomach. She'd never heard him sound so strained.

She tilted her head, turning it upward slowly so she could meet his eyes.

“Finish that sentence,” she said, “and I’ll break your perfect nose as soon as I can stand.”

A heavy silence followed before he leaned down, his lips barely brushing her temple. “Still sounds worth it, Bug,” he whispered.

His warm breath danced against her skin, and she could feel the slight tremor in his hands as they hovered near her shoulders as if afraid to touch her.

Verity exhaled sharply. “Don’t you dare flirt with me right now, Your Grace.” She pressed against his chest to so as not to fall backwards. Beneath her palm, his heart was racing. The steady thrum matched her own frantic pulse.

“Do you want to be caught?” she hissed. “If my reputation is ruined, you’ll have better odds of winning the wager. No one will marry me.”

“I don’t care about the wager right now.”

“You’re entirely too?—”

She finally yanked her hair free, stumbling upright, and shoved back her curls with a triumphant noise. “Hazzah.”

When she looked up, he was staring at her.

“What?” she snapped.

“Your bodice is crooked,” he said carefully.

Her hand flew up.

“And I am…” His voice trailed off. He cleared his throat. “I am not only thinking about kissing you again.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lower, lingering on the disheveled neckline of her gown before meeting her eyes again. The hunger there made her knees weak.

Neither of them moved. She wished that musky cologne of his didn’t make her want to taste him.

“You said we shouldn’t shout.”

“I did.”