Page 5

Chapter Five

T he Viscount of Brimwood was a man of firm opinions and very little imagination. That much Robert had gathered within the first five minutes of being seated in the old gentleman’s study, a room that smelled faintly of dust, pipe smoke, and masculine self-importance.

“She’s an odd one, my Evelyn,” Lord Brimwood said, pouring himself a brandy and neglecting to offer one to his guest. “Headstrong, too clever for her own good. Always asking questions, always arguing. Not at all what one expects from a girl of her breeding.”

Robert sat, composed as ever, with one leg crossed over the other, and his gloved hands folded over his knee. He said nothing.

Lord Brimwood continued, as if in confession to a comrade. “She holds a grudge, you know. Like a terrier with a rat. Once she has it in her teeth, there’s no letting go. But that’s the folly of youth. She’ll settle once she’s wed. A firm hand and proper guidance are all she needs.”

Robert’s jaw twitched, just barely. He watched the firelight flicker along the carved edge of the hearth and made no reply.

Lord Brimwood cleared his throat and looked pleased. “It’s a good match. The name, the title… God knows she needs it. You’ll find her strong-willed but not untrainable. In time, you’ll mold her into a fine wife.”

Robert’s gaze shifted.

“I am not in the habit of training wives, My Lord.”

Brimwood blinked, laughed as though it were a jest, and clapped his hands on his knees. “You’ll do what’s needed, I’m sure. A woman needs a man who can lead her.”

Robert didn’t reply. He merely inclined his head in the barest acknowledgment.

“I do believe the announcement at the end of the month will suffice,” Lord Brimwood continued. “It allows the ton just enough time to speculate without growing tiresome.”

Robert nodded again, just once. “As you wish.”

“And the contract,” the man added. “I’ll have my solicitor prepare a draft. You shall receive it by week’s end if not sooner.”

Robert refrained from shrugging. These formalities did not matter to him. The date. The contract. The damn ceremony. It was all ceremony. Paper and ink and obligations. Nothing of substance, at least not yet.

“Of course,” Lord Brimwood went on, his voice lowering slightly as if preparing to shift into a more personal register. “Your father… he’d be glad to see you settled…” He stopped, realizing he had crossed the line.

Robert’s eyes lifted slowly, and though his face betrayed nothing, there was something in his gaze that made Lord Brimwood hesitate.

“Yes, well,” the man said with a vague clearing of the throat, “families are delicate things, aren’t they?”

Robert said nothing. He had already had enough, but politeness bade him stay.

“Now then,” Lord Brimwood rushed on, “about the wedding itself. We were thinking in two months with the summer only commencing. It will lend a certain… golden charm to the occasion. Very tasteful, very classic. Of course, we’ll want to keep it respectable, no unnecessary opulence. I trust you agree?”

“I do not require a spectacle,” Robert replied indifferently. “Whatever pleases Miss Ellory].”

“Yes, yes,” the man offered with a thin smile. “And she will, in time, come to see what a privilege this is. As I’ve said, Evelyn can be… particular. But with firmness and guidance, she will learn her place in a household.”

Robert’s jaw tightened slightly, but his tone remained even. “She seems intelligent enough.”

“Oh, she is,” Lord Brimwood agreed with a scoff, missing the warning in Robert’s voice.

Robert stood then, his movement graceful but deliberate. “Then I trust she’s in the best of hands.”

Lord Brimwood rose as well, all smiles and satisfied self-importance. “Indeed, indeed. You’re a man of fine judgment, Your Grace. It’s a comfort to know my daughter will be… shall we say, well-tended to.”

Robert offered only the briefest incline of his head then turned toward the door.

“Good day, Viscount,” he greeted upon departure.

A footman stood ready to escort him out, and he allowed the motion to carry him forward. As he stepped into the corridor, the air felt cleaner, as if he’d left something stagnant behind.

As Robert followed the footman through the long corridor and out the main doors of Brimwood Estate, he found himself, against better judgment, scanning the shadows, the windows, the balcony above.

But there was no sign of her. No flash of blonde curls, no sharp voice, no flushed cheeks and narrowed eyes ready to strike him with some defiant witticism.

Just silence.

He climbed into his carriage with a faint frown, one gloved hand flexing slightly on his knee. And as the door closed behind him, the thought came, unwelcome and unbidden.

She is not at all what I expected.

And he wasn’t entirely certain whether that disturbed him or intrigued him more.

Evelyn was still fuming, if only internally, when her mother appeared at the edge of the garden terrace.

Her hands were folded primly before her, and there was the faintest smugness on her otherwise serene face.

The golden light of the late afternoon caught in the folds of her lavender gown, lending her a saintly glow that felt entirely undeserved.

“Girls,” Lady Brimwood said, her tone far too pleasant.

Evelyn straightened, dropping her embroidery hoop into her lap, a pastime she and her friends had moved from the drawing room out into the garden. Cordelia and Hazel glanced between them with thinly veiled anticipation.

“It is done,” her mother declared with a self-satisfied smile. “The arrangements have been made. Your father and His Grace are in agreement. The Duke of Aberon will marry you, Evelyn. Congratulations, dearest.”

For a moment, Evelyn couldn’t move. Her blood surged, hot and furious, but she kept her spine straight and her expression fixed in something dangerously close to polite indifference. She had already learned, albeit painfully, that resistance only fueled the fire.

“Thank you, Mama,” she said evenly though the words tasted like ash.

Her mother beamed as though she’d just handed her a crown and not a collar. She stepped forward and gathered Evelyn into her arms without waiting for invitation. The scent of jasmine clung to her skin, familiar and cloying.

“I knew you’d come to your senses eventually,” her mother whispered, smoothing a hand over Evelyn’s hair. “He will make a fine husband. Powerful. Respected. And perhaps, in time, even kind.”

Evelyn said nothing. Her jaw was locked too tightly to allow for speech.

Her mother pulled back, cupping her cheek. “You’re doing the right thing, darling. You’ve always been so… spirited. But even spirits must anchor somewhere.”

And with that, she turned, content in the illusion of harmony, and disappeared back into the house. A brittle silence hung between the three friends until Cordelia let out a dramatic sigh and collapsed onto the bench beside Evelyn.

“Well,” she said, “this is a tragedy with remarkably good posture.”

Hazel leaned forward, watching Evelyn closely. “Are you all right?”

Evelyn exhaled slowly, the air burning on its way out. “I am,” she said. Then, more quietly, “Because I’ve decided I shall be.”

She sat back in her chair, lifted the embroidery hoop again, and stabbed the needle through the fabric with admirable precision.

“But that doesn’t mean I’ll make it easy for him.”

Cordelia grinned. “I should hope not.”

Hazel leaned closer. “You still want our help?”

Evelyn’s mouth curved into something sly. Almost regal. Almost… wicked.

“Now more than ever.”

Evelyn twisted the embroidery thread around her finger, eyes narrowing in thought. “First,” she said slowly, “I need time. Time to think. Time to… plan.”

Cordelia perked up. “You mean delay the wedding?”

Hazel tilted her head. “But how? Your mother looked ready to summon the church bells herself.”

Evelyn pursed her lips as her gaze fixed on a budding rose nearby. “I shall make it appear as though I cannot, absolutely cannot, settle on the right gown.”

Cordelia blinked. “Your gown?”

“Yes,” Evelyn said, sitting up straighter, her mind beginning to race. “I will insist I want to look my absolute best. That no fabric feels quite right, no shade of ivory matches my complexion, no lace delicate enough to please me. I shall try on a hundred and still not be certain.”

Hazel’s brow furrowed then lifted. “That… might actually work.”

Cordelia let out a short, delighted laugh. “It’s perfect. Everyone knows the importance of a bride’s gown. No one can fault you for being… discerning.”

Evelyn allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. “Exactly. And while I parade through bolts of tulle and endless fittings, I’ll have time to devise something better. Something that might give me a way out entirely.”

Cordelia leaned forward with conspiratorial glee. “Something scandalous?”

Evelyn shrugged, her expression unbothered, even amused. “Perhaps. Or something clever. Either will do.”

Hazel looked from one friend to the other, worry still faint on her brow but now, edged with admiration. “You really don’t want to marry him.”

Evelyn’s smile faltered, albeit just slightly. “It’s not about wanting. It’s about choice. I will not be bound to a man simply because society deems it convenient or because he finds it amusing to corner me in ballrooms and issue commands as if I were a servant to his will.”

Cordelia’s eyes sparkled. “Then we shall find you the ugliest lace in London.”

Evelyn laughed. This time, it was a real laugh, short and sharp. And then, she leaned back in her chair. “You are both terrible influences.”

“And proud of it,” Hazel agreed, finally grinning.

As they resumed their tea, the breeze lifting the edges of their skirts and laughter trickling into the flowerbeds, Evelyn allowed herself a moment of lightness. She had bought herself time. And with time, came strategy. And with strategy… victory.

She would not lose her freedom without a war.