“I am afraid you do not know Mr. Highdale very well. You see, he follows the orders of Mrs. Highdale and his two daughters, Eliza and Lucy. They receive money from their grandmother—a wealthy widowed baroness if you recall. The poor man can do little but give them everything they desire.”
“He invited us to a ball he’s hosting tomorrow,” he revealed, at last.
He’d been hoping to find an excuse. But on his ride this morning, Mr. Highdale had accosted him on the path to request the presence of the Duke and his new Duchess.
Verity nodded slowly, her smile faltering. “And you don’t wish to go. Will we decline his invitation?”
“I don’t believe so,” Tristan replied. He didn’t understand why she seemed disappointed. From what he understood, she rarely attended social events. “Mr. Highdale is very persuasive like the rest of his family.”
“Indeed.”
Silence fell between them, growing too loud for them to say another word. He swallowed and clung to the banister. Verity studied him without moving her lips.
“I should go,” he muttered suddenly.
He hastened past her up the steps before she called for him. “Tristan.”
He stopped. How long had it been since someone called him by his Christian name?
It wasn’t a secret. Before now, he’d never even considered it sacred. But something about the way it rolled off her tongue made him wonder.
He turned back, his face betraying nothing. “Yes?”
“I think I shall order some dresses from London. I won’t have anything new for tomorrow, of course, but since you’re my husband now, I wanted to know whether you have any preferences.”
His mouth went dry as he thought about the colors he would like to see her in. But then he pushed such absurdity away.
“Do as you desire; the bills will be paid,” he told her and climbed the rest of the stairs.
He moved slower, wondering if she might call for him again. Except she didn’t.
Only after reaching his rooms did he realize that the servants had indeed put her in the west wing—and in the nearest possible corner to him. Cassandra’s old bedchamber.
The realization hung over his head like a dark cloud well into the morrow as he handed his wife into the carriage and they took off for the ball.
He avoided looking at her on the ride over, though he noted the neat blue dress with added lace. It was simple even for the country but elegant, and it accentuated her curves very nicely.
When they arrived, he climbed out before turning back to help her down.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
He tightened his grip on her when she stumbled on a step.
She gave him a sheepish grin. “Oh, bother. Thank you. I’m afraid I’m rather nervous. I haven’t been to a ball since my first Season,” she admitted. “I’ll be myself tomorrow, but right now, I hardly know who I am.”
Glancing at her gloves and then up at her face, the wrinkles around her eyes when she smiled toward the open doors, Tristan felt a strange flutter in his stomach. It left him almost as unbalanced as her.
“Do not tell me this will not do,” Verity said crossly at his scrutiny. “The silver ribbon is new. My maid found it for me. And the lace was mended. But if it’s not befitting a duchess, I suppose I can return home so you can attend the ball alone.”
“No,” he said hastily. “No, you look very well.”
She slowly lifted her gaze to his, a skeptical expression on her face. “I did not ask you whether I looked well, did I?”
Tristan shook his head, his lips twitching. “You didn’t. You asked how you looked. And I should answer you appropriately. You look beautiful this evening, Duchess. Verity.” Her eyes widened when he used her name.
“Thank you,” she mumbled after a minute.
And on they walked to the front doors. She took his arm before he could brace himself.
