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“Please do not. He will attempt to marry me off to some other octogenarian immediately. Or he will move on to Charlotte and Marianne.”

“Surely not,” she said. “As a widow, you have a whole year of mourning before you. We shall have to get you some black clothing.”

“Will I be required to observe a year of mourning?” Evelyn said. “We were not even married half a day.”

Eugenia shrugged. “It will be expected.”

They were interrupted then by a knock on the door. Though Sinclair Manor was a large, sprawling estate, the drawing room was located very close to the front door, so one could always hear all the comings and goings.

She got up, aware that she was still wearing her wedding gown. The day had been such a whirl. A physician had been summoned to attempt to do the impossible—bring her dead husband back from the land of the, well… dead. People had left, others had come. And the undertaker had shown up.

It was early evening, and only now, as someone else knocked on the door, did she realize she had never changed her clothes.

All her things were in trunks upstairs, and she knew that the maid had not had time to unpack.

There was no point to it anyway. She was going to move into the house—or so she assumed.

She stepped into the hall just as the butler admitted a tall gentleman with a shock of blond hair, cut in such a way that it brushed his shoulders.

She couldn’t see his face, as he had his back turned to her, but he was at least a head taller than her, with broad shoulders and a belt that suggested he was partial to hunting, riding, and all manner of exercise.

“Your Grace,” the butler said, and her eyes widened. Your Grace? Is that ? —

“Nathaniel Sinclair,” Aunt Eugenia whispered in her ear. The heir.

She glanced over her shoulder and nodded. So, there he was—the wayward nephew. The one who could not be bothered to show up for the wedding of his uncle, but was here within an hour of hearing of his death to claim his inheritance. Of course.

She had found him attractive from behind. But now that she knew who he was and what sort of man he was, she immediately put her guard back up. Crossing her arms in front of her chest, she strode across the hall.

“Your Grace,” she said and waited for him to turn. When he did, she stood stiffly, shoulders pulled back, and dropped her arms to her side. But she did not curtsy. She was a duchess now, after all. She still held the rank despite her husband’s death.

“I take it you are my uncle’s bereft widow,” he said with a slight smirk. He did not appear to be an inconsolable relative—quite the opposite. The smirking smile told her she had been right. He was after nothing but the fortune.

“Well, I ought to say it is a pleasure to meet you, I suppose,” she said.

“And I ought to reply the same.”

They stared at one another, and the instant dislike she felt for him—despite his pretty exterior—was overwhelming.

“If you will excuse me,” she said, “I should change into my widow’s weeds.”

“Yes,” he said, looking her up and down, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “I was going to say—you do not look like a grieving widow.”

“That’s because I was a blushing bride but a few hours ago,” she replied.

He smirked again, making her blood boil, but then she turned and made her way upstairs. Her sisters and aunts quickly hurried after her, their footsteps clicking on the ground as though she were the queen and they her ladies-in-waiting.

At the top of the stairs, she glanced down at the man who had inherited her husband’s fortune. He looked up at her, scoffed, and shook his head.

Evelyn sat beside the new heir a few hours later when the solicitor—an old, cranky man called Mr. Crenshaw, whom she had seen several times while her father and husband had negotiated the wedding contract—revealed the contents of her late husband’s will.

Beside her sat Nathaniel Sinclair, back stiff, angular jaw set.

She refused to think of Nathaniel as the Duke. He was just some fortunate hunter—some lucky man who had stumbled into a title.

“However,” Crenshaw began, consulting his record book, “your late husband granted lifetime residency at the dower house to his—” he paused— “second wife’s sister, Lady Marjorie Appleton.”

“What?” Evelyn said. “That cannot be right. He gave the house to his sister-in-law? But it is by rights the home of the Dowager Duchess, which is me! As per the wedding negotiations, it should be mine—along with the jointure.”

“The jointure shall be yours. However, your late husband and father negotiated a higher settlement in return for you not receiving the house until after Lady Appleton’s death.

Of course, she is only seventy-five, so by the time she passes, I am certain you will be happily remarried and will have no use for such a small property. ”

He looked at her over the rim of his spectacles, and she felt the weight of judgment in his eyes.

Did this man really think she had voluntarily married a seventy-two-year-old man?

Heat rushed to her cheeks. Did people think that? She had always assumed everyone must have known she was forced into the marriage—that she hadn’t wanted it. But now she had to wonder… did people think she was the fortune hunter?

“But where am I to live?” she asked.

The man shrugged. “You do have a family estate.”

She opened her mouth, wanting to argue, but the solicitor had already turned to Nathaniel.

“As for everything else, the estate is entailed to the heir. Therefore, Sinclair Manor, all the other properties, the vineyards, the housing, the horse breeding operation, the mine, and all holdings are transferred to you.”

“Thank you,” Nathaniel said in a satisfied tone. “It is unexpected, but not unwelcome.”

He looked at Evelyn and nodded.

“Lady Evelyn, I should not keep you. The rest of this meeting between myself and Mr. Crenshaw is likely to be very boring for you. I will ensure that everything that is rightfully yours will be given to you.”

Lady Evelyn? He had just called her Lady Evelyn? The audacity!

“It is Your Grace. Dowager Duchess of Sinclair,” she said firmly.

“Yes,” he replied. “Forgive my faux pas. I suppose a two-hour marriage still makes you entitled to…”—he shrugged— “…a great manner of things.”

He stood, bowed slightly, and made it clear he wished her to leave.

“Your Grace, it was a distinct pleasure to meet you,” he said.

She glared up at him from her chair, but realized she had no cause to remain. So she rose, turned, and stormed out of the room, her blood boiling at the man’s ill manners.

Standing once more in the hall—the hall of the house that was meant to be hers—she shook her head.

Here she was: twenty years old, a widow, and though she had funds to her name, she had no home.

And her future was, once again, entirely uncertain.