And then off he went, a quiet storm and absent husband.
Huffing, Verity fell back into her chair. “It is a union most women would dearly appreciate,” she mused. “So why do I want more?”
She sat there quietly for some time until Mr. Philipson came to check on her, urging her to retire for the evening.
As Verity readied for bed that night, she replayed her conversation with her husband. However, more than anything, she thought of his laughter.
CHAPTER 15
“Well done,” Tristan told Mrs. Heavensby as they walked down the hall. He nodded toward the updated painting near the corner. He’d always hated it and was relieved it was gone. “The landscape was a wise choice.”
The housekeeper beamed. “Isn’t it? Her Grace has a most excellent eye for decor.”
His steps almost faltered as he tried to mask the surprise on his face.
Should he be surprised? Tristan wasn’t certain. Verity didn’t particularly seem focused on fine fashion or decorations. Her manner of dress and her home in the country had been fine but rather plain.
“Hm,” was all he could offer.
“We’ll be selecting new curtains and a rug for the eastern parlor this week. A catalog just arrived for her,” Mrs. Heavensby added, oblivious to his inner turmoil. “She has a good eye, Your Grace.”
“How glad I am to hear it,” he muttered. Nodding to the footman at the door, he finished his instructions to her before adding, “I don’t care what the Duchess does to this house. But I don’t want to see any bright reds or oranges. Understood?”
She nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. I can let her know. Is there anything else?”
Hesitating with one foot out the door, Tristan glanced around the entrance hall with mild distaste. He didn’t particularly care for anything here. He hadn’t spent much time in the house, often finding an excuse to stay out once Oliver passed. This had been the place where his brother preferred to live. To thrive. To laugh and gamble and woo and breathe.
He exhaled loudly. A heavy weight settled on his chest, but he tried to ignore it. “That will be all, thank you.”
Off he went to town to meet with his solicitor.
He should keep looking for a new steward, temporary or permanent. It wasn’t like he had time to do all the work himself. He had conducted at least eight interviews, but he hadn’t cared for any of them. All of them were just a waste of his time.
He had mentioned them last night to his wife while they were playing dominos.
“If you need assistance, I can be of service,” she had offered.
“That couldn’t possibly be reasonable.”
Except Verity was not particularly interested in bowing. She was a strong-willed woman bent on beating him in dominos and generally invading his life.
It was a strange war to wage, one he kept forgetting he was losing ground on. As she recounted the many interviews she had conducted in the past, Tristan had been forced to acknowledge that she had a keen mind and was more than capable of hiring a decent steward.
“I shall send out a new request in the morning and have one hired in three days,” she had promised him.
It had almost made him laugh in the moment. Having given her a list of eight requirements, Tristan didn’t think that likely. Even now, he held back a chuckle at the idea.
She’s bold and capable, but I’m not a fool. I haven’t had that much luck, and I doubt she will find anyone half-decent or clever enough to manage my estates. And yet I cannot help but wish that she succeeds. A steward is badly needed.
Tristan arrived at his solicitor’s offices and spent much of the day discussing the very contract that had driven him to London. There was work to be done, but he saw a glimmer of hope by the end of their four-hour discussion. He decided to spend a short time at his club in celebration.
I assume it would be my club. I haven’t been here in almost five years.
They let him right in, taking his hat and cane. He found himself a strong whiskey at the top of the stairs. He was going to browse through the available books for reading before he stopped in his tracks at the sight of three men playing billiards.
He turned his back to them in order not to be seen.
“Halewood, old boy!”
