“Oh!” She took her first step inside and nearly slipped, her dancing slippers not fit for the slick ground after her troubled stroll in the gardens. She flailed her arms, and someone caught her.
Surprise rocked through her as she looked into dark eyes. She hadn’t expected to see her husband again this evening.
“Blast it,” Tristan growled in her ear.
Her body forgot the cold for one moment before he set her down, removing his arms from around her. He stepped back and snatched a thick linen towel from the housekeeper, who must have brought half the linen closet with her.
“What did you think you were doing out there in the storm?”
Glancing down at her shaking hands, Verity attempted to jest. “It’s not so very bad.”
He paused to stare at her. “Mrs. Heavensby,” he barked, “please have a hot bath prepared for the Duchess at once. Hot tea as well.”
Nodding, the older woman glanced between them before scurrying away, leaving Mr. Philipson to hold the linens.
The butler took a step back and pressed himself against the wall as if he didn’t wish to intrude.
On what, however, Verity wasn’t certain.
She didn’t know much beyond the fact that she was so cold. Everything felt like ice. She couldn’t feel her toes any longer. Just thinking about walking to her bedchamber for that bath felt impossible. Her jaw was almost numb, and her spine ached.
“Another, then,” Tristan growled, his stormy gaze making her stomach flutter.
She ignored the sensation but then froze as he pulled off his evening coat—the one he’d never taken off—and draped it around her.
“I’ll r-r-r-ruin it-it,” she stammered while pulling the heavy coat closer. It smelled like him. She could feel his body heat and nestled in.
Her husband closed the doors behind her before coming around to face her again, a heavy hand settling on her shoulder. Helooked at her like he hadn’t just left her waiting on the stairs for a kiss that had never happened.
“What were you thinking?” he snapped.
She wondered if it was the dim light that made him look pale. Or perhaps he did care about her.
“Are you trying to catch your death?”
The harshness of his words made her spine stiffen.
“Would it matter?” she snapped back, unable to help herself.
Tristan flinched and stepped back, dropping his hand from her shoulder. The spot grew cold, and she shivered. They stared at each other for a minute as unease roiled through her.
“It would matter,” he said quietly.
While she wished more than anything to believe him, Verity remembered herself. Remembered their arguments. The distance he kept putting between them. The proof that he was lying to her now.
She pursed her lips. “Why?” she asked.
All Tristan did was stare at her, his brow furrowed and his jaw clenched. She could see in his eyes that he wanted to speak.To say something. But not a whisper escaped. His chest heaved much like her own, and she wondered why he had come down to help her when he clearly cared nothing for her.
Of course, he didn’t have a response, she told herself.
She tightened her grip on the coat and pushed past him. Her slippers slapped noisily against the floor until she stepped onto the carpet. Her clothes squelched with each step and clung to her body as she moved, making everything uncomfortable. She felt the water dripping down her clothes and body.
What a mess she had made. A bath would surely help.
But her husband wouldn’t. He followed after her—most likely for his coat, she told herself.
Neither of them said a word on the way to the stairs. He stayed a step behind her, hovering and silent. Verity could almost convince herself that he did it because he cared for her safety. She could have sworn she felt his hand brushing against her waist when she slipped on a step, but then it was gone.
