Page 7 of A Wife for the Beast (Scandals and Second Chances #6)

The remainder of that grey November day passed in a peculiar state of suspension, as though time itself had grown thick as treacle around the imposing walls of Ravenshollow Manor.

Evangeline found herself unable to settle to any occupation, her thoughts circling endlessly around the Duke's shocking proposal like moths drawn to a flame that promised to burn them.

Marriage—to a man who spoke of the arrangement as though he were purchasing livestock at market, who made no pretense of affection or even basic courtesy, who wore his bitterness like armor against the world.

She had requested dinner in her chamber, pleading fatigue from her journey, though in truth she could not bear the thought of making polite conversation with Mrs. Cromwell or the other servants when her entire future balanced upon a knife's edge.

The housekeeper had obliged without question, though Evangeline detected a certain knowing sympathy in the older woman's manner that suggested the household was well aware of what had transpired behind the library doors.

As darkness fell across the moors with the swiftness of a curtain being drawn, Evangeline found herself once again at the tall windows of the Rose Chamber, staring out into the vast emptiness that stretched beyond the gardens.

The landscape seemed to mirror her own situation—bleak, uncertain, offering no clear path forward.

In the distance, she could see lights flickering in the village, warm squares of gold that spoke of families gathered around their hearths, of simple lives lived without the complications of title and duty and marriages of convenience.

How different her existence might have been had her father lived, had his modest pension and careful savings provided the security she now lacked entirely.

She might have married some country gentleman of modest means, might have presided over a cottage with roses climbing the walls and children playing in the garden.

Instead, fate had delivered her to this Gothic fortress on the edge of civilization, into the hands of a man who seemed to view her as little more than a solution to his dynastic obligations.

Yet even as she contemplated the stark practicality of his proposal, Evangeline found herself remembering moments from their encounter that suggested depths beneath his calculated cruelty.

The way he had maintained careful distance during their interview, as though he feared his very presence might contaminate her.

The flash of something almost vulnerable in his dark eyes when she had refused to recoil from his scars.

The unexpected gentleness in his voice when he spoke of her father's pride in her character and accomplishments.

Perhaps there was more to the Duke of Ravenshollow than the bitter, wounded creature he chose to present to the world.

Perhaps beneath the carefully constructed armor of cynicism and self-loathing lay a man worth saving, worth the enormous risk she was contemplating.

Or perhaps she was simply engaging in the sort of romantic nonsense that led sensible women to make catastrophic decisions based on nothing more substantial than wishful thinking.

The night brought little rest, her sleep fractured by dreams that shifted between memory and nightmare with bewildering frequency.

She found herself reliving conversations with her father, hearing his voice as he spoke of honor and duty and the debts that bound one generation to the next.

In her dreams, Captain Edmund Hartwell appeared as he had in life—steady, principled, devoted to ideals that transcended personal comfort or convenience—and she wondered what counsel he might have offered regarding the choice that awaited her with the dawn.

When morning finally arrived, grey and subdued as its predecessor, Evangeline rose with the sense that she stood upon the threshold of a decision that would alter the fundamental course of her existence.

There would be no going back from whatever choice she made in the next few hours, no opportunity to reconsider once the words had been spoken and the die cast irrevocably.

Mary appeared with her usual punctuality, bearing hot water and freshly pressed clothing, though the maid's nervous demeanor suggested she was well aware of the momentous nature of the day.

As Evangeline submitted to having her hair arranged and her gown fastened, she found herself wondering what the girl thought of her mistress's precarious situation, whether the servants gossiped below stairs about the strange arrangement brewing between their master and his unexpected guest.

"His Grace requests your presence in the library at ten o'clock, miss," Mary murmured as she put the finishing touches on Evangeline's coiffure. "Mrs. Cromwell told me to inform you that she has prepared a wedding breakfast, should such preparation prove necessary."

The euphemistic phrasing spoke volumes about the household's understanding of what was to transpire, and Evangeline felt a flutter of panic at the realization that her decision might be implemented with shocking rapidity.

In the world of the Duke of Ravenshollow, it seemed, considerations of propriety and lengthy engagements held little sway against the demands of practical necessity.

"How very efficient of Mrs. Cromwell," Evangeline replied, striving for a lightness she did not feel. "I trust she has not gone to excessive trouble on my account."

"Oh no, miss, nothing excessive. Just what would be proper for such an occasion." Mary's cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment at discussing such intimate matters with her betters. "His Grace has also sent to the village for the vicar, should his services be required this morning."

The information struck Evangeline like a physical blow, though she managed to maintain her composure through sheer force of will.

The Duke had arranged for immediate marriage, should she accept his proposal, leaving no opportunity for second thoughts or lengthy deliberation.

The efficiency of his preparations spoke of a man accustomed to having his decisions implemented without delay, regardless of the inconvenience to others involved.

***

As the appointed hour approached, Evangeline found herself once again standing before the library door, though this time she carried herself with the conscious dignity of a woman about to make a choice that would define the remainder of her days.

Whatever the Duke's expectations or desires, she would not enter his presence as a supplicant begging for charity, but as a woman of breeding and principle who understood the value of what she brought to any union, convenient or otherwise.

Her knock was answered immediately, as though he had been waiting mere steps from the door, and she entered to find the library transformed by the pale morning light that filtered through the tall windows.

The Duke stood before the fireplace, his imposing figure silhouetted against the dancing flames, and she noted that he had taken particular care with his appearance for this meeting.

His dark hair was freshly trimmed and arranged to minimize the visibility of his scars, his linen was pristine, and his coat fitted his broad shoulders with the precision that spoke of London's finest tailors.

"Miss Hartwell," he said, turning to acknowledge her entrance with a formal bow that somehow managed to convey both courtesy and emotional distance. "I trust you passed a comfortable night and have given due consideration to the matter we discussed yesterday."

"I have indeed considered it most thoroughly, Your Grace," she replied, moving into the room with measured steps that carried her to a position near the windows, where the morning light would illuminate her face clearly.

"I confess myself curious, however, about certain practical aspects of the arrangement you proposed. "

Something flickered in his dark eyes—surprise, perhaps, that she had not immediately delivered her answer without further discussion.

He had clearly expected either immediate acceptance driven by desperation or outright rejection based on maidenly sensibilities, not this calm request for additional information.

"What aspects, specifically, require clarification?" he asked, moving with that careful, controlled gait to position himself behind his massive desk, maintaining the barrier of mahogany and leather-bound ledgers between them.

"The matter of settlements, for instance," Evangeline said with the directness that had so clearly disconcerted him the previous day.

"While I bring no dowry to speak of, I am nonetheless a gentleman's daughter with certain expectations regarding my future security.

Should I accept your proposal, what provisions would be made for my maintenance as your widow, should such a circumstance arise? "

The practical nature of her inquiry seemed to catch him off guard, though he recovered his equilibrium with admirable speed.

"You would receive the traditional dower house and income befitting a dowager duchess, naturally.

The estate is not entailed in such matters, and I would ensure your comfort for the remainder of your days. "

"And should our union be blessed with children; what arrangements would govern their upbringing and education?"

"Sons would be raised according to their station, with appropriate tutors and eventual enrollment at Eton and Oxford. Daughters would receive the education befitting young ladies of the highest rank, with suitable marriages arranged when they reached appropriate age."