Page 49 of Dukes All Night Long

An Unexpected Reunion

Violet

M arried women were permitted in Hamlin House, but only by invitation.

Violet Heatherington had prepared for refusals, scrutiny, perhaps even a scene due to her status as a widow rather than a wife.

She had mentally rehearsed this moment a dozen times, told herself she was prepared—but when Evan Hale turned toward her across the room, the chandeliers catching the deep mahogany waves of his hair and the austere cut of his shoulders.

The years she’d spent hardening her heart crumpled in an instant.

Expectation braced her spine; memory stole her breath.

He stood with brandy in hand. Storm-gray eyes—sharper than she remembered—glinted over the rim of the glass.

All effortless charm to the casual eye. But Violet wasn’t casual.

She saw what others didn’t: the tightness in his jaw, the way he held himself just slightly removed from the rest. Grief sat on his shoulders like a second coat. So did suspicion.

“Your invitation, Mrs. Heatherington?” the doorman asked again, this time with the edge of polite impatience.

She handed over the forged card with a smile she hoped looked effortless. “Forgive me. I was momentarily distracted.”

The man inspected it, nodded, returned it with a bow. “Welcome to Hamlin House, ma’am. We rarely see unaccompanied ladies unless it’s for one of our special events.”

Evan’s tall frame was impossible to miss, a full head above the cluster of officers and MPs.

“I’m not most ladies,” she said, gaze anchored to the man across the room. “And I have business with the Duke of Westbridge.”

The doorman’s brows rose. “Shall I enquire whether His Grace will receive you, madam?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Because Evan had seen her. She felt it like a physical thing—his gaze locking onto hers across the crowded room. The crowd disappeared, the murmur of conversation faded, and for one suspended breath, it was only the two of them again.

He moved through the crowd toward her, and every step shortened the three years of silence between them.

Focus, she reminded herself. You’re here for a reason. Locate the document. Confirm what the late duke suspected. Determine whether Evan is involved or just a pawn.

Sentiment had no place in her mission. But sentiment clearly hadn’t gotten that message.

“Mrs. Heatherington,” he said when he reached her, his voice as even and unreadable as she remembered.

“Your Grace.” She curtsied with practiced ease, masking the sudden thrum in her chest. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Not at all.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Though I admit I’m curious what brings you to this particular establishment.”

She gave a tilt of her head. “With the right invitation and a bit of confidence, most doors open. Even those best left shut.”

“You always did have a way of getting where you wanted.” He offered his arm. “Shall we find a quieter place to talk?”

She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, trying not to register how easily her fingers fit there. “That would be most welcome.”

Heads turned as they passed. Let them. The spectacle only shielded her true intent.

“I see you haven’t lost your flair for making an entrance,” he murmured.

“And you’ve clearly grown into your new title. Three different men bowed without making eye contact.”

“The title earns their respect, not me.”

He wears the title like a borrowed coat, she thought, cut for someone else, and perhaps a little too heavy.

They crossed the marbled corridor shoulder to shoulder, his arm steady beneath her fingers. A scatter of distant laughter, the hush of carpets, the soft chime of glasses—for a breath it all blurred, replaced by another hallway in another house three summers earlier.

…Sea salt in the air, laughter echoing off stone as they slipped out of Lady Hawthorne’s stuffy drawing room. Outside, chalk cliffs dropped to a turquoise cove; tide pools gleamed like tiny mirrors. Evan had grinned the way he did only when no one else was watching.

“Am I more interesting than seashells, Mrs. Heatherington?”

“Marginally.” But her answer had shaken, because his fingertips were brushing hers and widowed black was finally packed away, and she’d realized she was still capable of wanting.

They stopped at the cliff’s edge. He thanked her for laughing again; she thanked him for reminding her how. When the wind caught her bonnet ribbons he steadied them—and kissed her, sunlight turning the sea to hammered gold.

Now, in the muted glow of Hamlin House, the memory dissolved. Evan’s profile was older, sharper—yet the echo of that kiss flickered between them like static. Violet pulled in one slow breath, steeling herself.

He opened a door to a quiet antechamber; she stepped inside, present once more.

A servant materialized at once. Evan ordered a brandy. Then, without asking, a sherry for her. A detail he remembered.

When the door closed, the air shifted. The careful performance between them cracked, just slightly. Up close, the sleepless shadows beneath his eyes told of nights spent with brandy, not rest.

“Why are you here, Violet?”

She met his gaze evenly. “I heard about your uncle. I came to offer condolences.”

He raised a brow. “At a gambling hall? And after three years of silence?”

A beat passed. She chose her next words with care. “Your uncle contacted someone I work with shortly before his voyage.”

His expression sharpened. “Someone you work with? You’re employed by someone? Violet…”

“A man connected to the Crown. You may have heard of Sir Frederick Woolsy.”

The name landed like a stone in a pond—small sound, deep ripple.

Evan went still. “Woolsy.”

Not a question. Recognition flickered in his eyes—his uncle must’ve spoken of Sir Frederick, or perhaps he’d heard whispers. Either way, he understood enough to be wary. Sir Frederick was the queen’s spymaster.

“He suspected your uncle had uncovered something dangerous. He sent me to confirm it.”

Evan gave a short, humorless laugh. “My uncle was no spy.”

She held his gaze. “People can be more than they appear.”

Another pause. A different kind of silence this time—thicker, heavier.

Neither of them spoke of what had happened between them. Of what had ended. But it lived between them all the same.

“So Sir Frederick sent you to retrieve something?”

“Perhaps he thought I might succeed where others wouldn’t. Given our history.”

“Our history.” He repeated it like a challenge. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Before she could answer, the door opened.

“Westbridge! Palmer’s organizing a private game and it’s about to begin—high stakes. He asked for you.” The man’s gaze slid to Violet. “Pardon the interruption, madam.”

Evan looked ready to decline. She placed a hand on his arm. The feel of him beneath her glove was unsettlingly familiar.

“A private game sounds intriguing. I’d like to observe.”

He didn’t speak right away. He just watched her, reading more than her words. “Mrs. Heatherington is my guest tonight,” he said finally. “Inform Palmer we’ll both be joining.”

When the door shut again, he offered his arm.

“This is irregular,” he admitted. “Ladies don’t typically attend Palmer’s games.”

“I have no intention of playing,” she said with a slow, measured smile. “Merely observing—for now.”

They ascended the stairs together. Close enough to brush shoulders. Not close enough to feel safe.

As they reached the landing, his voice dropped. “Whatever game you’re playing, Violet, I’ve learned to read opponents.”

She met his eyes. “I’m counting on it, Evan.”