Page 9

Chapter Nine

“ I daresay, the man is insufferable,” Evelyn huffed, crossing her arms as the carriage jolted gently over the country road. “Who sends six gowns to confuse a lady further? It’s positively conniving.”

Hazel, seated opposite her with one gloved hand resting on the window ledge, hid a grin behind her fingers. “Or perhaps,” she said sweetly, “he merely wished to be helpful. That is what considerate suitors do, is it not?”

Cordelia snorted. “Oh yes, terribly helpful. Buying every gown she so carefully described just to make her indecision worse. I find it all very romantic.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes with great force. “You would.”

Cordelia slowly leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Admit it, Evelyn. You like him.”

“I do not!”

Hazel raised an inquisitive brow. “You do.”

“I shall tell you precisely what I dislike about him,” Evelyn declared, her chin high as the carriage jostled gently onward. “Since you both seem to think my irritation is some hidden form of affection which it most certainly is not.”

Cordelia and Hazel leaned forward in unison, their eyes bright with anticipation.

Evelyn held up a gloved finger. “First of all, he always speaks as though he’s in on some joke the rest of the world is too dull to grasp.”

Hazel nodded solemnly. “A terrible trait.”

“And he has this insufferable habit,” Evelyn continued, warming to her subject, “of pausing just before he replies, as if weighing every word, as if his conversation is some rare commodity to be dispensed in measured drops.”

“How vile,” murmured Cordelia, hiding her smile behind her hand.

“He walks too quietly. Why, one moment, you believe yourself alone, and the next, there he is, behind you like some… some shadow in perfectly tailored boots!”

“Unforgivable,” Hazel said gravely.

“And, and!” Evelyn added with a sharp nod. “He always smells faintly of cedarwood and something else, something I can’t place. It is quite infuriating.”

There was silence then Cordelia asked, “You’ve noticed how he smells?”

“I… well, he stands very close when he’s being aggravating.”

“Ah,” Hazel said, fighting a grin. “Naturally.”

“And he smiles as though he knows exactly how irritating he is, and he dares to enjoy it. It is not a kind smile. It is a victorious one. As though he’s just bested me in some battle I wasn’t even aware I was fighting.”

Cordelia and Hazel exchanged a long look.

“What now?” Evelyn demanded, folding her arms.

Cordelia gave her a fond, maddening smile. “I only hope my future husband irritates me so thoroughly.”

Hazel leaned toward Evelyn, her voice light. “Darling, do you realize that all the things you loathe about him are minute details? The way he smells. The way he smiles. The silence before he speaks.”

“You have studied him,” Cordelia added with a mock gasp. “You are practically writing a dissertation.”

“I have not! ” Evelyn cried though color was rapidly rising in her cheeks. “I am merely attentive to my surroundings.”

“And to your Duke,” Hazel said, sweetly relentless.

“He is not my — ” Evelyn broke off with a groan and flopped back against the seat. “You both make me want to leap from the carriage.”

“You’d probably land in his arms,” Cordelia pointed out playfully. “He walks quietly, remember?”

Evelyn gave them both a look of utmost betrayal. “You are both mad.”

Cordelia made a thoughtful noise. “Is that so? Then why is it you always speak of him with such… fervor? No other gentleman has inspired so much conversation from you. Certainly not Lord Painswick, and he wrote you poetry.”

“Poetry riddled with spelling errors,” Evelyn muttered, shuddering at the thought.

“Ah, and yet not a single mention of it since. But the Duke… oh, we hear about him constantly.” Hazel’s eyes twinkled. “His arrogance, his flowers, his books, his voice?—”

“Stop it at once!” Evelyn covered her ears, laughing despite herself. “You twist my words.”

“Do we?” Cordelia asked innocently. “Because the way you ranted about his handwriting the other day, what was it? So precise it’s infuriating? That sounded rather like admiration to me.”

“It was not!” Evelyn insisted, trying to maintain her scowl. “It was… a general observation.”

“Mhm,” Hazel said, exchanging a knowing glance with Cordelia. “And when he kissed your hand at the manor, your face was red as a rose.”

“I had a chill,” Evelyn objected at once. “It was draughty. And I don’t see how this is relevant.”

“It’s relevant because,” Cordelia said with a teasing grin, “you are absolutely smitten.”

Evelyn groaned, dropping her head against the velvet carriage wall. “You two are impossible.”

“But delightful,” Hazel teased, tossing her curls. “And entirely correct.”

Evelyn opened one eye to glare at them. “I do not like him. I loathe him. Even the way he breathes infuriates me, let alone that way he smiles as though he knows every secret I’ve ever had?—”

“Oh dear,” Cordelia murmured. “That sounds dangerously like infatuation.”

“It is not,” Evelyn said, sitting up primly. “And if you continue this nonsense, I shall ride the rest of the way with my mother.”

Hazel looked positively wicked. “Your mother, who is undoubtedly dreaming up the wedding breakfast as we speak?”

“Precisely,” Cordelia added. “And trying to choose a nursery color.”

“You are both monsters,” Evelyn declared though she could not quite keep the laughter from her voice.

The worst part, of course, was not their teasing. It was that they weren’t entirely wrong.

But she would never, ever , admit that aloud.

The carriage wheels crunched over the gravel drive, and Evelyn felt the familiar jolt as they slowed to a stop. Before the footman could fully lower the step, Cordelia had leaned toward the window with a soft gasp.

“Oh,” she breathed silently to herself. “It’s magnificent.”

The door was opened, and the three young women descended into sunlight and wind, which was brisk and cool and touched faintly by pine and heather. Evelyn’s slippers met the gravel as her eyes lifted at once to the estate before her.

She could not help it. Her breath caught.

The Duke’s estate, set like a crown jewel atop the northern hills, rose with an elegance that was both regal and ancient. It was not gaudy nor newly built with fashionable excess. No, it stood with the quiet power of something that had endured.

It boasted grey stone walls veined with ivy, soaring gables, arched windows glinting like eyes. There were turrets and chimneys, and high above, carved cornices and sweeping iron balconies. It should have felt severe, but it did not. It was… breathtaking.

There was something fairy-tale-like about it all but not the sort of tale filled with bright gowns and tinkling laughter.

No, this was the realm of tangled woods and whispered secrets, of old magic and deep-rooted sorrow.

There was a kind of darkness to it, subtle and compelling, like the final chord of a melancholy sonata.

And yet, everywhere she looked there were signs of care, of devotion, even.

The hedges were trimmed to perfection, the rose garden bursting with color even this early in the season, and the path winding toward the house was lined with young trees which were now rustling gently in the breeze. The land had not simply been maintained… it had been loved .

Evelyn tilted her chin and scanned the grounds with narrowing eyes.

Of course, he would be the sort of man who saw to the health of every hedge and seedling.

That was exactly the sort of infuriating contradiction he embodied: commanding and cavalier in conversation, but with a secret, steadfast tenderness that was visible only when one wasn’t meant to be looking.

Evelyn felt it like a jolt. It was sharp and sudden, rising from somewhere in her chest. An idea, full and gleaming, taking root in an instant. Yes. That was it. That was exactly how she would end this charade once and for all.

She straightened, lips parting to share it, then stopped.

Hazel and Cordelia were no longer looking at her. Their expressions had shifted, their gazes pinned beyond her shoulder. Cordelia’s smile had faltered, a glimmer of something uncertain dancing across her features. Hazel’s brows had drawn together. Evelyn turned slowly… and froze.

At the base of the steps, in conversation with a liveried steward, stood the Duke. He was as tall and composed as ever, one hand gloved, the other gesturing as he spoke. But she barely saw him.

Everything else vanished.

There were two figures beside him. One of them a woman in soft blue silk, honey-blonde hair swept into a perfect chignon, the very image of composure. The other… him .

Evelyn couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Even the breeze seemed to shift. Distantly, she heard the Duke speak.

“Your sister and her husband arrived a bit earlier than expected,” he explained. “So, it appears we are all here now.”

The sound was muffled in her ears. All she could hear, truly hear, was the pulse pounding in her skull.

He was exactly as she remembered. No. He was worse . Somehow more smug. More assured. The cut of his coat, the ease of his posture, the tilt of his chin as his dark, demonic eyes met hers.

He smiled. A slow, knowing, arrogant smile.

Her hands clenched at her sides before she knew they’d moved. She could feel her nails pressing into her palms. She could feel the heat crawling up her neck. Her mouth was dry.

She couldn’t look at her sister. She wouldn’t. Not yet.

The man spoke to the Duke again, laughing at something. Evelyn’s vision tunneled. There was the faintest lift of his brow when he glanced back at her, as if to say, Look at everything I took from you and how well I wear it.

She wanted to slap him. Hard. And then again, just to be certain.

Cordelia’s hand brushed hers. Hazel shifted closer.

Evelyn’s breath came sharp and quick, like cold air slicing down her throat. The sting behind her eyes was unwelcome. More importantly, it was unacceptable.

She turned sharply toward the Duke as fury simmered just beneath her skin. “What are they doing here?” she demanded. “What sort of twisted, manipulative turn is this?”

The Duke, who had just turned in polite acknowledgement of her presence, blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

She laughed, bitterly. “Don’t insult my intelligence by pretending you don’t know.”

He took a measured step closer, his brow furrowing. “Miss Ellory, I assure you, I?—”

“No,” she snapped. “I don’t want to hear your assurances. You have made yourself quite clear.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about?—”

“And you never will.” Her hands were trembling now, but she held herself as tall as she could. “Enjoy your grand little gathering, Your Grace. I will be in my appointed room. There’s no need to escort me—your butler will suffice. I’m sure he’s used to guiding guests through estates full of ghosts.”

With that, she turned, skirts swishing violently around her ankles as she stormed past the rest of the stunned party.

She didn’t look at her sister.

She couldn’t.

Each step toward the grand front door felt heavier than the last, with her boots striking against the stone as if she were trying to crush the memories rising with every heartbeat.

Her chest was tight. Her vision swam. The house loomed like something from a fever dream, elegant and ancient and vast, and all she could think was get away, get away, get away.

By the time she reached the entrance hall, her composure was a brittle shell, ready to crack. She stopped the first footman she saw and urged with a voice that somehow remained steady, “Please show me to my chambers.”

And as she followed him up the staircase, her hands clenching hard at her sides, she thought she might scream or shatter.