“I only thought to come attend to you, if you wish to retire.”
“No.” He swallowed, leaning back on his heels. Tristan pulled himself together with a short nod. “Thank you, but go to bed. I shall manage by myself this evening.”
His valet eyed him uneasily before offering a short bow. “Of course, Your Grace. Only call if you need me.”
He wouldn’t. The man slept like the dead once he closed his eyes. Besides, Tristan wouldn’t call for him at a late hour.
He checked his pocket watch. His vision blurred from exhaustion. Had they really attended a ball this evening? It felt like a lifetime ago.
Closing the pocket watch, Tristan set it on the bedside table before taking off his jacket, cravat, and waistcoat. He grabbed his dressing gown on the way to the door and then wandered the darkened halls.
He felt the walls closing in on him. He walked faster, not knowing where he intended to go until he stepped into the library.
The quiet room, filled with musty books and thick ink, had always brought him some calm. He moved slowly through the dark to find himself a candle before moving to the fireplace.
He hadn’t thought his experience in the army would be so useful when he returned to manage the dukedom, but he’d enjoyed thequiet peace that independence brought him. Even a skill like building a fire afforded him such peace.
Of course, the library has become Verity’s refuge while I hid away in my study. But she always found me there. Will I find her here tonight? Or will she rest easy, freeing herself of thoughts of me?
Tristan tried not to think about his wife.
Soon, warm flames flickered to life. They crackled a greeting as he moved back to his feet.
Rubbing his hands together to ward off the last of the chill, he turned to a partially closed curtain. Sunlight would damage the books. With so many cloudy days in London, it hardly needed to be checked on here. He grabbed the curtain and studied the darkness for some sign of life.
“Only more darkness,” he muttered to himself.
The storm may never end. That is how it always feels, for I always find myself surprised when the sun returns.
He rubbed his face. “Now I speak to myself in riddles. Splendid.”
Off he went to another corner to pour himself a glass of brandy. The familiar motions brought him comfort. He raised the glass to his lips but stopped, not interested in the rich taste. It woulddo nothing for him now. So he sighed, setting it on the table before the fire and staring into the flames.
What was he going to do now?
Tristan mulled over the events of the evening. He still could not believe the gall of Halbridge. The man had been a pestilence for as long as he could remember. And now Halbridge dared reach out to Verity? He couldn’t be trusted.
But how could Tristan explain this to his wife?
If I explain Halbridge, I have to explain Cassandra. If I explain myself, I have to explain Cassandra. She must be laughing in her grave about the power she still holds over me. How did I ever think I was free of her? Is it even possible to escape?
Rain pattered noisily against the glass to his right. He leaned against the mantel, staring into the flames. The darkness hung all around him like a chilly shroud.
It felt empty of late, this house. This life. He didn’t like feeling empty. The only time he didn’t feel empty was when Verity?—
He didn’t think he had heard her, not really. But he caught his breath all the same when he sensed her near.
Something about her presence was seared into him, as if she had reached into him and claimed part of him, holding tight. No onehad been able to do that to him, not for years. Not since Oliver had passed.
“Verity.”
Tristan dropped his gaze to stare at his boots. His eyes slowly adjusted to the light as he listened. Not to the crackling flames or pattering rain, but to the soft padding of his wife’s slippers.
When he glanced back up, able to see her figure emerging from the dark, he could even hear the soft brush of her fingers against the books nearest to her.
She carefully avoided his gaze. Her steps were slow and hesitant as she stroked several spines with such gentleness that he found himself envious of the inanimate objects.
Still, Verity said not a word as she came to a stop, her nightgown and dressing gown hanging around her feet. Her gaze flitted to his and then away so quickly that he nearly missed it. But the way his heart reacted—like it had burst into flames—told him that it hadn’t been in his imagination.
