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E velyn hurried upstairs, her boots clacking against the marble floor until the sound was swallowed by the thick carpet lining the second-floor landing.

Why had she asked to dine with him? It had been foolish—so foolish.

She’d known it the moment the words left her mouth.

And then, for him to reject her? The humiliation. The utter humiliation.

It was that wretched moment in the music room the night before—that fleeting second when she thought he might actually kiss her—that had clouded her judgment.

She knew it. For one moment, brief and breathless, she had believed he might lean in.

And worse still, she hadn’t been certain she would dislike it.

No, the truth, which she loathed to admit, was that she had longed for it.

Not for long. Just a second. But in that unguarded, foolish flicker of time, she had wondered—what would it feel like to have his lips against hers?

“What a cake I made of myself,” she muttered bitterly.

And now her father was back in the equation.

Of course, she had known it wouldn’t last. He had already threatened to return to London, to ‘speak with her directly.’ She had no doubt what that meant.

He would come to pressure, wheedle, and bargain—perhaps even command her—until he found a way to wrest her funds from her.

And Nathaniel, infuriating as he was, had been right.

Without a husband, she had no protection.

Her money was legally her father’s to control.

The only thing preventing that from happening now was Nathaniel himself, holding off her father’s attempts through legal delays and excuses.

“And now I must be grateful to him for that?” she snapped aloud, tossing her gloves onto her dressing table. “Why didn’t I think this through before?”

If her father succeeded in taking her inheritance, everything would be lost. The dower house became more essential than ever.

That—at least—he could not take. If she could secure the deed and live quietly there, perhaps she could manage.

Surely her father wouldn’t take all the money.

He’d leave her something to survive on… wouldn’t he?

What if he didn’t?

Was it truly possible that she would have to marry?

Were all her schemes—her carefully laid plans to evade her father’s control and societal expectations—just fanciful, foolish nonsense?

She bit her bottom lip as she burst into her bedchamber and rang the bell for her maid. She kicked off her boots with irritation, then paused, sighed, and walked back to retrieve them. Sarah would have to pick them up if she left them there. And that wasn’t fair.

She set them neatly by the bed just as Sarah entered.

“Shall I help you change, Your Grace?” the maid asked, bobbing a quick curtsy.

“Yes, please. I must get the horse smell off of me,” Evelyn muttered.

“Was it quite as dreadful as you feared?”

“Worse,” she said flatly.

Sarah smiled as she helped her with the buttons. “The riding—or the gentleman?”

“Both.” Evelyn paused. “No… the riding was not quite as dreadful as I remembered. The company was.”

Sarah gave a quiet hum of agreement and continued helping her undress.

“Oh, Sarah,” Evelyn said with a sigh, “what I wouldn’t give for just one decent gentleman.”

She surprised herself with the admission. Had she really said that? She hadn’t even realized that her resolve about marriage might be softening. Was it Nathaniel’s warning that had rattled her? Or that moment in the music room—the rush, the electric nearness of the kiss?

Did she want a real husband? Did she want… to be kissed?

Certainly not by Nathaniel. Absolutely not. But… maybe by someone.

Sarah laid out a fresh gown, a deep blue evening dress with delicate silver trim, but Evelyn shook her head.

“Not that one. I will not be dining with His Grace tonight.”

Why had she said that?

They rarely dined together. Why had she expected it now? Why had the idea taken such root in her mind that the rejection had stung?

“No, I shall simply take a tray in my chambers. The primrose-colored gown will do.”

Sarah nodded, selecting the simpler gown and helping her into it.

“Has not a single one of the gentlemen been agreeable?” Sarah asked carefully.

Evelyn detected something in her maid’s tone—curiosity, perhaps? Or was it something more?

“No,” she said at last. “They’ve all been either terrible bores, sanctimonious prigs, or complete idiots.”

“But surely,” Sarah ventured, “there must be a decent man out there. Someone kind and attentive. Someone who truly cares for you.”

Evelyn looked at her closely. What was she implying?

“I wish I didn’t have to marry at all,” she said slowly, watching Sarah’s expression. “Do you think I must?”

Sarah hesitated. “People will talk.”

“Are they talking?” Evelyn asked. The words came out sharper than intended, echoing her memory of the whispers at Almack’s—the Widow Sinclair, they had called her—the one-day Duchess.

Sarah shifted uncomfortably. Her blue eyes narrowed slightly. “I’ve heard some things. At the market.”

Evelyn’s heart pounded. “About me and His Grace?”

The maid fidgeted with the hem of the gown. “Just gossip, Your Grace. Fishwives and market-mongers.”

“Tell me exactly what they said.”

Sarah bit her lip. “Very well. They say… they say you and His Grace were lovers before the late Duke died. That it was all a scheme—to place you in his house, to make you the Duchess. That you’ve been living here, not as a guest, but as…”

“A mistress,” Evelyn finished coldly.

The maid’s eyes widened, but she didn’t deny it.

“And some,” she added hesitantly, “some say the two of you conspired to hasten the late Duke’s death.”

Evelyn gasped. “That’s madness!”

“I know, Your Grace! I know! I don’t believe it—not for a second.”

“But others do,” Evelyn whispered. “I am accused, whether I like it or not.”

Sarah helped fasten the last of the buttons. “It is only gossip. It will fade.”

“Or it will fester,” Evelyn said. “Unless…”

“Unless you marry,” Sarah finished gently. “Someone respectable. Someone that people trust.”

Evelyn sat heavily on the edge of the bed. “So the only way to silence scandal is… another union. One I do not want.”

She leaned back and stared at the canopy above her bed, her mind racing.

Was Nathaniel right? Were her ambitions to reclaim her independence, her dreams of living freely in the dower house, all slipping away?

Would people stop whispering if she found a suitable husband? Would her father back down? Would Nathaniel finally stop this campaign to remove her from his life?

And if all of this was inevitable—if she must marry to secure her freedom—then wouldn’t it be better to let Nathaniel choose someone for her? Someone decent?

Someone who, perhaps, wasn’t so dreadful?

Perhaps her plan to take control of her life was already unraveling.

And perhaps the only way forward… was to let go.

At least a little.