Page 35 of The Duke Who Dared Me
“Returning or reading?”he asked.
She glanced up at him, her eyes red from lack of sleep.He swore she swayed there on her feet.
“Thank you for escorting me back to London, Your Grace.”She quickened her pace, but Alistair was in no mood for pretending right now.
“About Lady Clara…”
“I don’t care,” she said.
“Verity.”
She turned, a line creased between her brows.“I said I don’t care.I’m not looking for promises, Alistair.”She dropped her voice, leaning around him to quickly check the hallway.“I asked for one night, and I meant it.”
The ache in his chest doubled.
“I care,” he said quietly.
She blinked.
“I care that you think I could walk into a ballroom with another woman on my arm after last night.I care that you believe I’d pretend none of it happened.”
“You said we’d pretend,” she whispered.
“I lied.”He reached for her hand, fingers brushing hers.“I don’t know how this ends.I don’t have a tidy answer.But I’m not sorry, Verity.I’ll never be sorry for you.”
She stared at him like she didn’t know whether to kiss him or slap him.
He understood the feeling well.
At last, she gave him a weary smile.“I’m reading.I wanted to rest but needed something new to read, but instead of something new, I found an old favorite.”She opened the book, revealing a page of pressed flowers.
Fragile, brittle flowers, long past their glory in a garden, but still all the more treasured.
He nodded, stepping away as footsteps approached on the stairs.He bid her farewell, then stepped outside, and collapsed against the closed door.
He wanted her.
Not just for a night.
He wanted all of her.That spitfire temper, stubborn mouth, and soul-deep vulnerability.And no matter what came next, no matter how much society whispered or what Lady Clara expected, he wasn’t ready to let Verity go.
Not yet.
* * *
Lady Clara was discussing embroidery.Again.
Alistair cut through his mutton with careful attention and nodded at the appropriate moments.Her voice was almost lulling as he swiped his fork through a stack of glazed carrots.It was pleasant.The kind of voice that would never raise itself in anger or passion or debate.
“I must be boring you, Your Grace.I apologize.”
He swallowed.Guilt swelled into a neat knot in his throat.“No, no,” he insisted.Before he could make a fool of himself further, he stuffed another bite of mutton into his mouth, mindful to avoid staring at the woman seated across from him.
It had been the longest week since last seeing Verity outside her library, clutching a book on the principals of permaculture.
“The weather has been fine for riding, don't you agree, Your Grace?”
“It has.”
