I think.
CHAPTER 12
While Verity was not particularly thrilled to spend all day in a carriage, she couldn’t wipe the smile off her face as she waved farewell to their housekeeper as they drove away from the estate.
And off to London we go!
She rubbed her cheeks, but her smile still wouldn’t fade. They had ached over the last couple of days as she packed for London. While Tristan wanted to leave the day prior, she’d reminded him of the possibility of staying longer, and that had required further preparations.
“You don’t have a full staff at your townhouse, so we will need to take a few servants with us. They will have to pack as well, and we need carriages for them and anything they will bring. And what of other supplies? What might we need on the journey there? It’s three days of riding, which means we’ll also need someone moving ahead to secure lodgings each evening,” she had argued.
It must have given Tristan a headache, the way he rubbed his forehead. “Very well, I will give you one more day. But I am taking my leave on Friday, whether you are ready or not,” he warned her.
How busy the days had been. Verity had scurried about the house to manage everything, the rush keeping her excited and eager.
Her aunt had visited the following evening for supper at her request. It had been a short meal, but Verity had been glad to see the woman before she left.
“I do hope you stay in London for the Season. You never belonged in the country, not like this,” Eugenia had told her, before clicking her tongue. “I don’t care how well you manage a house or a garden. You have always loved life too much to live in a corner. But do remember to write, to keep your chin up, and to not take any man seriously. They’re fools with their tongues.”
Remembering her aunt and the recent chaos around her strange life kept Verity lost in thought much of the day.
Evening fell before she knew it, bringing the carriage to a slow roll in a quiet village. She saw Tristan’s shadow on his steed—he had not stopped once to join her in the carriage, a mixed blessing—crossing to the front of what must have been a small inn. A crooked sign hung above the door, though she couldn’t read it from this angle.
She climbed out of the carriage with the help of their driver, an eager young man who smiled a little too much. He seemed ready for the journey and London. She nodded to him before making her way to the front door, where Tristan just turned around to face her.
The wind blew suddenly, ruffling his hair. The sight of him disheveled contrasted sharply with the immaculate gentleman she knew. She appreciated it more than she cared to admit, nodding as he came to stand before her.
“We have rooms for the evening. Bathtubs shall be brought up. They’re at the top of the stairs. You and your maid will have the chamber to the right, and I the left,” he explained.
So succinct. He cares more for business than pleasure.
Choosing not to dwell on the fact that he offered no proper greeting, Verity started to nod. But then she realized what he meant. Separate chambers. Not just rooms, but chambers, so they wouldn’t have to interact.
Her shoulders stiffened after hours of being cooped up in the carriage. She wondered if the innkeeper noticed this. If he cared. If anyone else had overheard.
Rooms were not cheap, especially for a whole party, meaning Tristan was willing to pay extra simply not to be close to her.
She blinked several times and considered talking to him about this matter. But then she saw a flicker of something in his gaze. Was he waiting for her to react? Was he mocking her?
Good Lord, does anyone in this world understand this man? I cannot fathom a single thing about him. I hate it. How I wish to despise him. But hating my husband hardly seems a good way to spend my time. At least he is taking me to London, is he not?
Putting on a smile, Verity nodded. “How wonderful. I would very much enjoy a bath. Will a tray be brought up for me afterward? I fear I am famished.”
Something about him changed. Perhaps it was his shoulders, no longer tense and squared, or perhaps it was his jaw, no longer tight and clenched. A long line formed in his brow as he studied her. If she was any good at guessing, her husband seemed somewhat… irritated by her reaction.
“Yes, a tray has been ordered and shall be delivered after the bath. Good evening, Duchess.”
“Good evening,” she returned coolly.
Then, they parted ways, giving her the evening to mull over matters. She ate and chattered with her maid after bathing, then retired to spend half the night awake, replaying every interaction she had with Tristan.
By morning, she was rather cross with him. Or so she finally admitted to herself. She’d been grateful for the ball and relieved that he agreed to take her to London, and that was all the goodwill she decided to afford him. Anything else would be for naught.
Why should I do more for him if he does not care for me? Ridiculous man. The only intimacy we allow is the occasional use of our Christian names. Beyond that, he is hardly bound by any manners or constraints that I can make sense of in our limited time together. He acts like a perfect gentleman but is always moody and terse. He would do better as a surly captain or a grumpy professor, I wager.
But Verity didn’t mind. She knitted across from her maid in silence, watched the landscape, and ignored her husband as much as possible. After all, he was determined to do the same.
“Whatever are you doing?” he was forced to ask when she stopped the carriage on a steep hill on their last leg of the journey. “We should be in London before nightfall.”
