“Verity,” he murmured. The name sat unfamiliar on his lips. “Verity.”
What a gentle trill it made on his tongue. He liked the way it slipped between his teeth. It gentled the very nature of the woman who had no qualms about staring him down.
Fingers tapping on the desk, Tristan mouthed her name while he attempted to gather the energy to sort out the work once and for all.
I can sort out any manner of business within a reasonable amount of time. This is rather simple, isn’t it? And yet I cannot piece it together. I cannot concentrate, let alone think.
He hadn’t done more than shift the pages about on his desk since he had retired here for the evening. The quiet should have helped. His butler had left a tray outside the door; he’d heard and brought it in, but he hardly ate any of it in his state of disinterest.
She’s still on the other side of the house. Why do you think of her?
The west wing was cleaner and safer. Although he hadn’t given the exact order where to put her, he hoped she was on the ground floor. A fair room filled with elegant furniture and wonderful lighting.
Cassandra’s rooms had been on the same floor as his, only a few doors down. He’d thought it proper when they married. A decision he had spent a long time regretting.
He eyed the tray warily, wondering if his wife had gone down to supper. If she had enjoyed the food. If she had noticed he wasn’t there. If she had cared.
Questions and doubts flooded his mind. He didn’t care for any of them, convincing himself he didn’t even care for the answers.
This wasn’t a proper union. They didn’t care for the convenience, only that propriety was maintained. It wasn’t like anything could change. Just because Verity might be lively and warm—unlike Cassandra—did not mean things would be different this time.
Tristan kept reminding himself of that over the next couple of days. He kept to his study or the stables, keeping his head down and his gait quiet. Everything was going well until one morning, after his ride, he looked up on his way up the stairs to see Verity making her way down.
They both stopped.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” she greeted with a hesitant smile. Her eyebrow rose as if she was testing him.
He braced himself. “Good morning, Duchess. How do you do?”
After her big bright eyes raked over him, she lifted her head to look around the hall. “Please call me Verity. I always thought it silly how those who lived together were nothing but strangers. Just as I was beginning to believe we might as well be neighborsin the same house, I find you here. I am doing well, thank you. And you, Your Grace?”
“Tristan, then, if we must dispense with the formalities.”
“Must?” she echoed curiously.
He gave a jerky nod. “As you request.”
“It was an invitation, not an order,” she pointed out.
He wondered if she rolled her eyes at him. Or maybe he was imagining things?
“Already we have agreed to be ourselves, have we not? And I believe you were riding. How is the weather?”
While she talked, she was also walking down the steps in his direction. He froze. He couldn’t help it. Clinging to the banister, he followed her every move. It took him a moment to realize she had asked him a question.
“Cold.”
She nodded. “Your cheeks are pink.”
He raised a hand to his face.
For some reason, the gesture made her smile. “And I trust you encountered our good neighbor, Mr. Highdale?”
He opened his mouth and closed it. “I asked him not to bother you.”
Tutting, Verity shook her head. She moved with grace and confidence. Her lithe figure was but a cloud in her morning dress.
What a proper lady he had married. Though her clothes were humble, her stature was nothing short of perfect.
