Page 57 of Dukes All Night Long

Duke by Dawn

Evan

B ack at the ducal residence, Evan steered Violet straight to his study—and paused in the doorway, gratified.

Before leaving that morning he’d quietly instructed the staff to air the room, polish the walnut, and hang fresh garlands of pine and dried citrus above the mantel.

Now the hearth blazed, the wood gleamed, and the scent of spice replaced last night’s stale smoke.

A room reborn—or at least trying to be, like its master.

Instead of brandy he poured tea—his first strategic substitution—and handed her a cup, their fingers brushing.

“This can’t end with ledgers and signatures,” he murmured. “Justice has to stand in a courtroom, not in my study.”

“It will,” she promised. “Your uncle’s voice deserves an answer.”

He lifted her hand to his lips. “And remember—I’ll ask again tomorrow.”

“For my hand?” She laughed, soft and disbelieving. “Persistent man.”

“ Duke of Westbridge,” he corrected with mock gravity, “and newly purposeful.”

Outside, midday bells tolled across London. Inside, purpose and possibility shared a single heartbeat.

“You were perfect this morning,” he said softly.

“So were you.”

He reached for her hand, brought it to his lips. “We’re really doing this.”

“We are.”

A knock interrupted them. Jenkins entered with a silver tray.

“Your Grace,” he said gravely. “This was left on the front steps. No messenger.”

On the gleaming tray rested a single black rose and a sealed envelope.

For a heartbeat Evan simply stared—shoulders tightening, tea forgotten in his hand. The stem’s thorns, the velvet-dark petals, mirrored the one found on his uncle’s desk. Grief twisted with fury in his chest; the cup rattled against its saucer before he set it aside.

Only then did he reach—deliberate, controlled—to take the envelope, break the seal, and unfold the thick parchment.

Your uncle asked the same questions.

Consider his fate before you proceed further.

Violet’s fingers closed around his sleeve. “They know,” she breathed—more warning than fright, yet edged with both.

For a heartbeat her composure cracked—eyes flaring, then sharpening to steel. She lifted the rose from the tray, snapped the stem in two, and dropped the pieces onto the hearthstones, denying the blossom the dignity of a vase.

“They’re testing you,” she said, voice low but steady as she faced him again. “Not warning—probing. Tomorrow you walk into that boardroom exactly as planned. Give them no hint this rattled you.”

The pulse in his throat hammered.

“Play the careless duke,” she went on, palms settling against his chest. “Request the ledgers, yawn over the figures, catalogue every discrepancy. We gather proof—quietly, methodically. Circumspect, remember?”

Her calm anchored him more firmly than brandy ever had. His breathing slowed.

“Circumspect,” he echoed, covering her hands with his. “I can do that.”

“We can,” she corrected, gaze unwavering. “They’ll never suspect how dangerous patience can be.”

Resolve clicked into place. He drew a single breath, then another.

He was the Duke of Westbridge now—never by desire, hardly by birthright, but by dawn, by choice, and by everything he and Violet were willing to risk.

Daylight streamed through the windows; shadows retreated.

Soon the game would begin.

He was exactly who he was meant to be—a duke.

And with Violet beside him, he no longer feared the title.

The End