Page 14

Chapter Fourteen

S he was walking toward him.

Robert’s breath caught. Not that he let it show. His jaw remained firm, his hands clasped behind his back, and his spine like iron. But inside, something raw and feral surged to life.

The chapel was quiet, reverent. The morning sun had dared to pour its light through the high stained-glass windows, catching in the shimmer of her gown.

She had chosen the pearl-toned silk which molded to her like liquid moonlight.

It clung to her waist, whispering against the floor as she walked.

Her veil trailed behind her like a ghost of light.

Her hair, pinned just so, gleamed like a dark halo.

And those eyes, green as spring moss after rain, clearer than he had ever seen them, were fixed on him.

He gripped his hands tighter behind his back. He did not smile , but he desperately wanted to.

She was… breathtaking. Hers was the kind of beauty that did not announce itself but commanded; the kind of beauty that struck like a sudden wind and left a man wondering if he’d ever been steady to begin with.

Evelyn stopped before him, her hand sliding into his, and he nearly forgot where they were. That they were not alone. That they stood before God and clergy and bloodthirsty relatives.

He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. “I’m glad you chose the pearl,” he murmured. “It brings out the green in your eyes.”

She didn’t answer, but he felt her shiver. A small, contained movement.

He turned her hand over and pressed his lips against her knuckles.

“Though I doubt I could disapprove of any gown on someone as beautiful as you.”

He felt her pulse skip beneath his lips. That pleased him far more than it should have.

The ceremony began. Words were spoken. Vows were exchanged. Hands clasped, rings slid on fingers. A prayer echoed off the vaulted ceiling.

He heard none of it.

Everything beyond the woman at his side dissolved into fog. Her scent, jasmine, warm linen, and something distinctly her, was in his lungs, anchoring him and unmooring him all at once. He was supposed to think of what this union meant. Of strategy. Of access. Of leverage and vengeance and legacy.

But all he could think of was her. The way her lashes lowered when he looked at her too intently. The way she stood tall despite every storm hurled at her. The soft flush on her cheeks when he touched her hand. She was everything he didn’t know he needed. Everything he told himself he didn’t want.

The moment ended too soon. One blink, one breath, and the chapel emptied.

Now, he stood in his study. The heavy door closed behind him with a quiet click.

Mason, ever precise, stood by the hearth. There were two glasses of dark liquor waiting on the table and next to them, a bottle of old Irish whiskey Mason had brought as a celebration gift. A soft crackle from the fireplace filled the silence. For a long moment, Robert said nothing.

“She wore the pearl,” he muttered, more to himself than to his friend.

Robert downed the drink in one swallow. It did nothing to ease the ache in his chest or the hunger twisting inside him.

He was a married man now. He was bound to a woman who both challenged and intrigued him, a woman who had survived betrayal and still stood proud. Finally, a woman who had not wanted him, not truly, and yet had come to him anyway.

Mason didn’t ask. He merely poured his friend another drink, and Robert downed it again.

The liquor slid down his throat like smoke in a biting but efficient flow of heat.

Robert stood still for a moment, feeling the burn settle in his chest. It did not dull his mind.

It only slowed the current enough to think clearly.

“She’s in her chambers?” Robert asked, voice low.

“I believe so. Lady Hazel accompanied her back not long ago.”

Robert said nothing to that, only nodded once and turned to the fire. The flames were low, tamed by the iron grate, but alive. They were contained, like him.

The silence stretched, easy between them. Mason had been with him long enough to know which silences to fill and which to leave be.

After a moment, Robert spoke again.

“I’m closer than I’ve ever been. To the truth.”

Mason didn’t ask which truth. He didn’t have to.

Robert’s fingers flexed at his side, the crystal glass still in his hand. “Everything my father left behind… it wasn’t for nothing.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw, a habit that showed only when he was battling the more dangerous kind of thoughts.

“They thought it would disappear. Buried under time, power, and titles. But they left threads. And now, piece by piece—” His voice quieted, sharpened, “I’m pulling them loose.”

Mason inclined his head. “You’ve never stopped.”

“I couldn’t.” His voice wasn’t angry. If anything, it was detached. Hollow, somehow. “You know that.”

“I do,” Mason said simply. “And you know I’ll follow it to the end with you.”

Robert’s eyes flicked to him.

“It ends soon.” He said it like a prophecy.

Mason stepped forward slightly, enough for the firelight to hit the edge of his face. “And your wife?”

Robert turned his gaze back to the flames then to the untouched second glass on the table.

“She doesn’t know. And she won’t.” He paused. “Not until I’m sure of who I can protect… and who I’ll have to destroy.”

There was silence again. Mason did not speak. The fire cracked faintly. Robert reached for the third drink, not because he needed it but because it grounded him.

And then, almost as an afterthought, he murmured, “She looked like a goddess today.”

It was the only unguarded thing he had said in days.

Mason didn’t respond, but his small smile said more than words could. Robert let the liquor roll on his tongue this time before swallowing. The taste of oak and smoke dulled none of his awareness.

The day still wasn’t over. Even when the night sunk deep into the halls of his estate, it would not end then either. The shadows were always there, omnipresent… shadows of ghosts that refused to stay buried.

The laughter and clinking of glasses from the parlor were muffled the moment Evelyn stepped into the hallway.

The soft tapping of her satin slippers echoed against the polished floors, and for once, she welcomed the silence.

The evening had been long, filled with congratulatory smiles, rehearsed pleasantries, and the weight of a hundred eyes studying her every movement.

She needed air. She needed stillness.

The nearest powder room was just around the corner, and she reached it with a quick, graceful step. The door creaked slightly as she pushed it open.

At first, she thought the room was empty, until the scent of rose powder hit her, a little too heavily applied. And then she saw her .

Matilda stood by the mirror with her back slightly turned and her sleeves pushed halfway up her forearms. She was delicately brushing powder along her left wrist.

Evelyn froze. She felt as if someone had gripped her by the heart. She could barely look away.

The bruises were unmistakable. It was a sickly palette of purple and yellow, as if painted by violence itself. Even under the layer of makeup and lace, they were vivid.

Matilda jumped at the sound of the door closing, hurriedly tugging her sleeve down and giving a smile that didn’t reach her wide, frightened eyes.

“Evelyn,” she said quickly, with her breath catching. “I… I didn’t think anyone was in need of the room?—”

“What happened to your wrist?” Evelyn asked, her voice a whisper but firm. Her own reflection looked pale in the mirror behind her sister.

Matilda’s smile faltered. Her lips trembled.

“I tripped,” she said too quickly. “On the stair. You know how I can be, clumsy as ever?—”

Evelyn stepped closer. “Matilda.”

Her sister faltered. Her hand went to her wrist protectively, as though shielding it from further exposure. And then, the door burst open with a sudden force that didn’t belong in a woman’s powder room. In fact, his very presence did not belong in a woman’s powder room, and both women felt it.

“Ah,” said the Viscount, stepping into the room as if he owned it. His face was all polite concern, but there was something in his eyes that turned Evelyn’s blood to ice. “Forgive me for the intrusion, ladies. I was told my wife had been gone for some time. I feared she might be unwell.”

His gaze moved between them, calculating the situation and his odds against it. “You know how delicate Matilda can be.”

Evelyn said nothing. Her fingers curled into the folds of her gown.

At her side, Matilda had gone very still. “I—I was just powdering my face,” she said quickly. Her voice was unusually high, airy, and small. “I didn’t mean to worry you, Laurence.”

Laurence. The name fell from her lips like an apology.

His smile widened by a fraction. “Good girl.”

Evelyn saw it. The way her sister’s shoulders slumped in subtle surrender. The way her eyes dropped to the floor. Gone was the laughing, clever sister of her childhood. What stood before her now was a shell, taught to shrink, to obey, to fear.

Evelyn’s spine straightened with the quiet authority of a queen stepping into her court.

“I will remind you, Viscount,” she said coolly, her voice cutting through the thick tension in the room, “that this is the ladies’ powder room.

And if you were any kind of gentleman, you would not barge into it, especially seeing that this is the powder room of my own home.

As a duchess, I believe I outrank you here. ”

Laurence turned his head slowly toward her. His smile didn’t waver, but it chilled her just the same. It was the kind of grin meant to put women in their place, to humiliate, not to disarm.

“Forgive me,” he said, mock-apologetic. “I hadn’t realized that rank extended to bathrooms as well as ballrooms.”

Evelyn stepped forward as fury threaded through her voice. “It extends to any room under this roof. And I would suggest you show more respect?—”

“I’m all right, Evie,” Matilda’s voice came, soft and thin, only a breath that barely reached Evelyn’s ears. “He was only worried about me. That’s all. That’s how he shows he cares.”

Evelyn turned sharply to her sister. Matilda wouldn’t meet her eyes. Her hand, still held at her side, was trembling ever so slightly. Her face was pale, lips pinched, but she had plastered on a faint smile that screamed of rehearsed compliance.

Laurence’s smile widened in triumph.

“There, you see?” he said, offering his arm to his wife with the air of a conquering knight. “My darling knows my heart.”

Matilda hesitated, just a fraction of a second, then slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow.

“Let’s not keep the guests waiting,” he added, already steering her toward the door.

Evelyn stood frozen, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. She wanted to stop them, to scream, to reach out and pull her sister back into the light, away from that sickening shadow that clung to the Viscount like a second skin.

But Matilda was already at the door, and then they were gone.

Evelyn remained rooted to the tiled floor, staring at the space they had just occupied.

Something was wrong. Deeply, terribly wrong.

Not just the bruises. Not just the fear she had seen flicker behind her sister’s eyes.

It was the way Matilda had defended him. The way she had spoken with such brittle conviction, like a script she’d memorized out of necessity, not belief.

The rage Evelyn had carried for two years over her sister’s betrayal suddenly paled beside this chilling dread. Because now, it wasn’t just betrayal. It was danger.

And she knew that she needed her husband’s help.