A chill permeated the air.
He exhaled quietly, forcing himself to unclench his fists.
What was she thinking?
He couldn’t bring himself to ask. The silence was too tightly wound; he feared breaking it. Once he did, she would surely make him leave. She had come so far to avoid him. And he wouldgo if she asked, knowing he would never see her again after all the hurt he had caused her.
CHAPTER 32
The rain had stopped.
Verity stared at Tristan, unsure what she should say. The rain had stopped falling when he entered the room like an angry god from Greek mythology, ready to tear this world apart.
It had been so frightening to see him here. Frightening for so many reasons.
How he had known to come here to rescue her, she didn’t understand. Had he expected Lord Halbridge to do something? If so, had he come for Lord Halbridge or her?
How swift her husband had been, defusing what could have been a dangerous fight. That first punch from Lord Halbridge could have surely toppled someone. But Tristan had moved with absolute grace until he’d had absolute control over the villain.
Shivers ran down her spine as his threats echoed in her mind.
He was protecting me. He came here to protect me. Now that the rain has stopped, what will he do?
Only he wasn’t saying anything.
Verity licked her lips, silently willing him to talk. She noted vaguely that Lord Halbridge had left—the danger was over. But what remained? What lingered between her and her husband?
Surely this changed things. But what, she couldn’t be certain.
Then, she couldn’t bear the tortuous silence any longer.
“Your Grace,” she muttered and took her leave.
There was no curtsy, no nod, no warning. It was all she could think to say before turning her back on Tristan. Her husband. The man who had rescued her from whatever Lord Halbridge might have had in mind.
Did he? Did he truly mean me harm? What would he have done?
Shivering, Verity wrapped her arms around herself as she walked. Her legs led the way. She passed behind the stairs and down the hall toward the small back door by the kitchens. A familiar spare shawl hung there still, so she wrapped it around her shoulders as she went outside.
Everything was still damp after the morning rain, and it smelled fresh and beautiful. The earth was reborn. Yet her chest was still tight. Her steps wavered on the path until she finally found a spot to drop to her knees.
“Gardening,” she huffed under her breath as she stared. “That should help.”
At least it should be a distraction.
And what a perfect spot she had found. A little corner that wasn’t as well tended as the rest of the flowers or vegetable garden.
Frowning, she leaned forward and braced a hand in the dirt so she could use the other to pull out the small weeds daring to intrude among the potatoes.
She threw herself into the work, pulling weed after weed after weed. Dirt burrowed under her nails, and her forehead grew damp with sweat despite the cold. But she needed to move. To do something. To do anything but think.
Then came the inevitable sound of footsteps on the gravel path. Too heavy to be her aunt’s and too steady to be the gardener’s. She paused, closing her eyes to take a deep breath, and then resumed her work as the feet neared her enough to come to a stop.
She could sense her husband’s steady gaze on her. But even now, he said nothing.
Verity felt a hint of fear. Not of his anger or violence. She hadn’t feared for herself once in the parlor. No, she feared what he might say. What he mightnotsay. She wasn’t ready for anything to change or happen. She couldn’t bear it.
“If you’re going to simply stand there,” she said at last, “you should make yourself useful. Or leave.”
