Not that the words particularly mattered. The Baron Orlene tended to support every conspiracy theory and slapdash notion that came to his mind. He believed rumors over the truth and carried little sense with him. He’d attempted three times to divorce his wife or disown his children for absurd reasons, and… Tristan knew he could go on forever about the faults of this man.
He didn’t personally need the apology, but he would not permit anyone to speak ill of Verity or her family. The Marquess was dead, and Verity would never hear what the Baron had said. Still, an apology was necessary.
And that disgusting mouth will never speak her name ever again.
“I beg your pardon,” said the Baron’s son, John Pinehurst. He shot his father a look, before resting a hand on his shoulder to silence him. “I’m afraid my father has indulged too much in his habits and curiosities.”
“And rumors,” Tristan added with more acid in his tone than he had known he could muster. “If I were you, Lord Orlene, I’d never speak the Redcliff name again for my own safety. Not unless you have my explicit permission. Do you find that acceptable?”
“Well, what if I find a newspaper that?—”
John interceded once again. “It is perfectly acceptable, Your Grace. My father will not bother you again about the past. Right, Father?”
The old Baron hemmed and hawed for a minute, shifting uncomfortably before wrinkling his large red nose. “Very well. Yes. What we were talking about first? We’re not done here. As I was telling you, those tenants’ houses you are seeking to sell, I am very much interested in them.”
Inhaling deeply, Tristan fought to stay still and not fidget. He could feel people looking in his direction. He’d come to this hall, thinking he might steal away to a quiet corner. At the very least, he could find a dark parlor to retire in and soothe the ache in his head.
But first, he needed to end this conversation.
So he declared, “I’m afraid I’m not interested.”
“They’re no longer for sale?”
“They are. But not to you. Perhaps,” he said tightly as he turned to John, “we can meet another time, should I change my mind.”
John was young, hardly twenty, but still intelligent. He wasn’t a fool. He nodded with a tight smile, before nudging his father toward the door. “Thank you, Your Grace. We understand. My father and I will take our leave. Again, my sincerest apologies for any disrespect.”
“Very good, thank you.” Tristan gave a sharp nod before turning in the other direction, where he could see a dimly lit parlor. It only took him two steps to enter, and a few more to move toward the sofa after confirming that the room was empty. “Blast it all?—”
“Tristan?”
He nearly jumped out of his skin. Jerking as if ice water had been dumped on him, he whirled back around to find Verity standing in the doorway.
Her hands clasped behind her, she stared at him, breathless. He saw the way her chest heaved and those big eyes of hers drank him in. It almost felt like she was pulling him toward her. But he stood his ground.
He wondered if the dim light made her eyes shine like that, or if something else was happening.
Not now. I cannot focus, cannot think with her near.
“Verity. I came here for some peace,” he said tersely. “What is it?”
The door thudded softly behind her as it closed, and she stepped forward. Her dainty hands moved to settle across her ribs. Her long gloves accentuated her graceful arms, and his eyes followed their movement until they returned to her face.
“I heard you,” she said in a low voice that made his blood hum.
There wasn’t an ounce of ire in her tone, unlike earlier. She wasn’t leaving him behind but coming toward him. It took him a minute to actually hear her words.
“You defended me. My father. Our name. You… I don’t know what was said, but the Baron isn’t alone in saying awful things.”
Tristan stiffened, his hands balling into fists. “Who else is saying such things to you?”
He had promised to protect her, had he not? It was in their vows. No one had the right to hurt Verity.
Anger coursed through his veins at the very notion of someone causing her harm. He was prepared to halt the ball if he must, to make amends for his wife.
After offering a short shake of her head, Verity stepped closer. “No one else. Not now, at least. Nothing was said to my face in some time. But there are whispers. Looks. Some consider him a traitor, after all, and not simply a radical. He said too much to simply be eccentric, I know.”
“You do not have to defend your father to me,” Tristan croaked.
