He blinked slowly as a raindrop fell off his long eyelashes to strike his cheek. But he didn’t seem to notice. “Supper? My apologies, but I don’t recall agreeing to any plans.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” she reassured him. “Just around the corner. You’re late for supper. With me.”
Surprise flickered across his face. Surprise, not indifference.
His hesitation made her stomach churn, but at last, he nodded and looked her over. “You look lovely. I suppose this isn’t a meal I dare miss. Might you spare me a few minutes to dry off?”
“Certainly.”
After Tristan offered a stiff but gracious bow, he moved to the stairs and disappeared. She watched until he was gone.
The strange tether between them had yet to dissipate. Part of her yearned to follow him.
“Your Grace?”
“Oh!” Verity jumped and looked over at the sheepish butler. “Oh, Philipson, my apologies. You startled me. I was only…”
Only she didn’t have a good excuse for forgetting him, beyond being busy staring at her husband. But the old man politely waved off her concerns before leading her into the smaller of the two dining rooms. There, she instructed the two violinists to begin playing, and she paused before the table to fix the flowers in the nearest bouquet.
“You really look beautiful.”
How long she had been standing there, Verity did not dare guess. But the flowers had been fluffed enough. She turned to see her husband with damp hair but dry garments. His gaze settled on the musicians only for a moment before flicking back to her.
Tonight, she’d chosen a new gown, though it was meant for an event where she might be seen rather than a quiet supper at home. Still, it was lovely, and her cheeks reddened with pleasure at her husband’s praise.
The green hue complemented her complexion, she had been told. And it happened to match an emerald ring he often wore.
“You look very well this evening,” she returned, hoping he didn’t hear the catch in her voice. She swallowed her nerves. “I’m glad you could join me.”
“Yes. Apologies for my tardiness. I was… detained.”
The two of them gazed at one another in the elegant room, the soft music playing nearby. Everything felt so warm and sharp at once. Verity had to remind herself to blink. To breathe. To think.
“Shall we?” Tristan waved toward the table. “I would hate to waste the effort you must have put in for the evening.”
Every word he said made her wonder what he really meant. She was trying to read between the lines and hear the secrets he didn’t share. But he was too clever. Too reserved. Although he seemed cold, there was a heat in his eyes that made her doubt everything she knew about him.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“To what do I owe the honor of tonight’s feast? Is there a celebration I should be informed of?”
She swallowed. “There is not. I only wished for us to share a meal together.”
Or so she told herself.
She smiled and then glanced toward the two footmen nearby, who opened an adjacent door to let in the other servants delivering their meal.
Why am I so nervous? Speak, Verity. You twit. This is your husband. This is what you wanted—a quiet supper with him. A chance to show him that you are more than what you look like!
Although Verity kept telling herself to use this opportunity to say everything she desired, she found it more difficult than she had expected.
“How was your afternoon ride?” she inquired during the first course.
“It was rather wet but refreshing,” he answered.
They spoke a little about the weather and their hope for more sunshine during the third course. Then, she mentioned Helena and how they discussed hosting a winter charity fair for the tenants’ families back in the countryside.
“They would appreciate that,” Tristan said. “I intend to be there for Michaelmas, and I’m sure the staff would enjoy helping you with the preparations.”
