Page 56 of Dukes All Night Long

Morning Light

Violet

D awn crept into the bedchamber like a secret, brushing golden light across the frost-laced windows.

Violet stirred, her lashes fluttering open to the unfamiliar canopy overhead, the decadent hush of silken sheets around her, and the slow, even rhythm of Evan’s breathing beside her.

For a moment she lay still, her senses catching up to her memories—last night, the kiss, the firelight, the feeling of being chosen and choosing in return.

The world outside had not changed, but something inside her had.

She shifted carefully, unwilling to wake him yet.

His face was half-buried in the pillow, his brow smooth in sleep.

Even in rest, he looked noble. Tired. And beautiful in that quiet, devastating way that had once undone her and had somehow done it all over again.

His hand rested lightly over the space she had just vacated, as if even in dreams he reached for her.

She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his bare shoulder. “Wake up, Your Grace.”

Evan stirred, his voice thick with sleep. “You’re still here.”

“As promised.”

He blinked at her, smiling faintly as she sat beside him. “Do we have to get up?”

She smiled, brushing a hand through his tousled hair. “We do. The documents need to be delivered. And you, my disinterested duke, need to get dressed.”

He sobered slightly. “Are you still willing to go together? To speak to Sir Frederick?”

“Of course. You were right to insist on it. He needs to see we’re united.”

As she turned to reach for her gown, his hand caught hers.

“Then before we go—let me say this properly.”

Violet stilled.

Evan sat up fully, the sheet falling to his waist, and took both her hands in his. He didn’t speak at first. He just looked at her, as though memorizing the moment, the golden light, her face still drowsy with morning.

“I never thought I’d be a duke,” he said finally.

“That was meant for someone else—for my cousin—a man prepared for the role since birth. I wasn’t raised for this.

I drank too much, gambled too often. And when the title came to me through tragedy, I didn’t feel worthy of it. I still don’t, most days.”

He exhaled slowly, thumb brushing over her knuckles. “But last night changed that. You changed that. For the first time since inheriting this title, I want it. Not for the influence or the estates. But for what I can do with it. For whom I can be—with you beside me.”

Her breath hitched.

“Be my duchess,” he said, quiet and certain. “Not eventually. Not when this is over. Now. Today. We may not get another morning like this. And I refuse to waste it.”

Emotion tightened her throat. She blinked rapidly, heart racing. “You’re serious.”

“I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

She searched his face—the sincerity in his eyes, the steadiness of his grip—and felt something inside her shift.

“I want that too,” she whispered. “But it’s too important to rush. We’re heading into danger. Let’s win. Let’s survive. And then—if your offer still stands—ask me again.”

His smile was slow and certain. “Then I’ll consider this your unofficial acceptance. But understand, I don’t like waiting. I want you as my duchess as quickly as possible, but I’m willing to wait until you’re certain.”

His intensity made her breath catch, and she found herself leaning forward to kiss him—a promise sealed with touch. His hand curved around the back of her neck, holding her close for a moment longer than necessary.

“For someone who failed to say goodbye three years ago,” she murmured against his lips, “you’ve become remarkably good with words.”

“I’ve had three years to rehearse what I would say if I ever saw you again.” His thumb traced her jawline. “Though none of those imagined speeches included proposing marriage the morning after rediscovering you.”

“This isn’t exactly how I imagined our reunion either.” She pulled back slightly, studying his face. “I thought I might find you drinking away your inheritance, or gambling yourself into debt. I never expected to find a man determined to honor his uncle’s legacy.”

“I wasn’t,” he admitted. “Not until you walked back into my life.”

She slipped off the bed, gathering her chemise from the floor. “Then we’d better make certain we live to see that legacy fulfilled.”

A weight she hadn’t realized had been weighing on her lifted. They rose and dressed in companionable silence, helping each other with buttons and laces in a domestic ritual that felt both new and ancient. Violet caught herself smiling as Evan cursed softly, struggling with her corset laces.

“How do women endure these contraptions?” he muttered.

“Practice,” she replied. “And a healthy appreciation for breathing shallowly.”

When they were finally dressed—she in yesterday’s gown, somewhat rumpled but passable; he in a fresh suit his valet had laid out—Evan offered her his arm.

“Shall we face the day, Mrs. Heatherington?”

She took it, her smile reflecting his own. “Lead on, Your Grace.”

They descended the grand staircase together, and if the footman’s eyes widened slightly at her presence so early in the morning, neither of them acknowledged it. In the study, they reviewed the contents of the portfolio one final time. Evan tucked the sealed evidence into Violet’s satchel himself.

*

By eight o’clock, they sat opposite Sir Frederick Woolsy in his austere drawing room. The spymaster paged through the ledgers, candlelight glinting off the silver at his temples.

“Impressive work,” he said at last, tapping a margin note. “These figures will rattle more than one ministry.”

His gaze slid to Violet. “I assume you’re prepared to embed yourself with Sableport as discussed?”

“Not any longer. I’m willing to listen in at social gatherings,” she answered evenly, “but I cannot take a formal post inside the company. My renewed relationship with the duke will make me too visible to be successful in that role.”

Sir Frederick’s features tightened. “We need someone inside the countinghouse, Mrs. Heatherington.”

Evan interjected before she could answer. “Then find someone else. Violet’s value lies in what she can hear at balls and drawing rooms, not in ledgers. I’m the one invited to tomorrow’s executive meeting, and I intend to keep that seat warm.”

The spymaster steepled his fingers. “Very well. I’ll adjust the plan.

I have…other candidates who may pass unnoticed behind a desk.

” A flicker of calculation crossed his eyes—scheming already for replacements.

“But understand: without a clerk on the inside our timeline lengthens, and your margin for error shrinks.”

“Understood,” Evan said.

Violet met Sir Frederick’s gaze. “We’ll supply only what we can. You’ll need to craft a different sort of infiltrator.”

“I have another idea—another pair in mind,” he murmured, half to himself, “a young couple who might pass as newly betrothed. The idea needs work… but it can be done.”

Plans shifted, routes of communication were agreed—verbal tokens, no paper, no names.

By nine o’clock, the plan was set.