Page 20

T he gentle clink of glass and the low murmur of idle conversation filled the richly appointed drawing room, a space too elegant to allow for true comfort.

The chandeliers gleamed above them, catching the firelight and turning it into a hundred tiny stars.

Nathaniel sat across from Philip Jones, Marquess of Forbarry, who had just finished his second gin.

The Marquess set down his glass with an air of finality and regarded Nathaniel with an expression of mild expectation.

“Well then,” Philip said at last, his voice tinged with amusement. “Is that all, Your Grace? Is this truly all you wished to speak to me about?”

Nathaniel folded his hands together, steepling his fingers. “It is… largely,” he said. “But—pray—are you quite certain I cannot interest you in a formal introduction? Her Grace is, beneath the noise and nonsense, a most entertaining young lady.”

Philip’s brow arched slowly. “So I’ve heard. Quite entertaining. If the tales of her performer’s suits are anything to go by.”

Nathaniel exhaled through his nose and leaned back, trying to keep his composure. Why did she always make things harder than they needed to be? Why did she drive away everyone who came near her with a single look or some scandalous comment, as if she wanted to be alone forever?

He knew, of course, that part of it was a performance—a shield. But shields still had consequences. If she continued, she would lose even the slimmest chances of securing a match—and her future would become that much more precarious.

But then again, maybe that was the goal. Evelyn had always been clever, and not always for the better. She’d practically ousted Lady Appleton from the house. Nathaniel wouldn’t have put it past her to sabotage her marital prospects on purpose, hoping to be rid of them all.

Still, she must have known she could not live here indefinitely without funds or a purpose. Surely, she must see that?

And worst of all, the rumors had begun to turn sharp. People whispered not just about her, but about them . About their arrangement. About why no suitor ever stayed, and what exactly transpired within the Duke’s grand, echoing house.

The truth was, Nathaniel found himself caring less and less about what people whispered. Each failed introduction, each gentleman who departed with polite excuses and knowing looks, left him feeling not frustrated but… relieved. The realization unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

“She is still very young,” Nathaniel said, trying again.

“And she was understandably overwhelmed by the abrupt shift in her life. The arrangements made for her… the loss of my uncle. It is not surprising that she was less than forthcoming at first. But she has changed—she wishes now to find someone respectable. A man with kindness and strength. A man such as yourself.”

Philip gave a slow smile. “And yet… if even half of what I’ve heard is true, she already has a gentleman in mind. One she perhaps has already chosen.”

Nathaniel’s jaw tensed, but he forced his expression to remain neutral. The last thing he needed was to show irritation. Or worse, the strange flutter of something that felt dangerously like hope.

He had heard the stories. That Evelyn had her eyes on him, that this was all some scheme to trap him into marriage. It was absurd, but predictable. Society ran on whispers and ink, not truth.

Yet sometimes, in unguarded moments, he caught her watching him with an expression he could not quite decipher.

Sometimes she lingered when bringing him his morning correspondence, her fingers brushing his as she handed over the letters.

Sometimes he found excuses to seek her out, to argue with her over trivial matters, just to see the fire spark in her eyes.

“You know as well as I do,” Nathaniel said, voice calm, “that the scandal sheets care little for accuracy. I would ask that you not lend your own voice to the chorus of nonsense.”

Philip raised his hands in surrender. “As you wish, Your Grace. I meant no offense.” He rose with the unhurried grace of a man who always had the upper hand. “I do wish you and the Duchess all the very best.”

And then he was gone, leaving Nathaniel to the silence, which settled again like dust.

He closed his eyes briefly and sighed. This was going to be far more difficult than he’d imagined.

Not the task of finding Evelyn a husband—that had already proven nearly impossible.

No, the difficulty lay in something far more treacherous: the growing certainty that he didn’t want to find her a husband at all.

The rain began just before dusk, spattering against the windows of his carriage as he rode home.

The road to the estate was long and curved, passing through old trees whose dark limbs were bent low with spring moisture.

When the house came into view, it loomed as it always did—too big, too quiet, too filled with memories that didn’t belong to him.

His uncle had lived here for decades, surrounded by splendor and the ghosts of the past. And though he had married multiple times, the house still seemed hollow.

Even for a large family, it was too much.

Compared to his mother and stepfather’s estate in Scotland—a home he’d once thought excessively grand—this place was a palace.

He stepped out into the drive, lifting his collar against the rain. The butler opened the door before he reached for it.

“Your Grace,” the man said, bowing as he took Nathaniel’s coat and top hat.

“Is the Duchess home?” Nathaniel asked, brushing droplets from his sleeve.

The butler hesitated, just long enough to draw Nathaniel’s attention. “She is. But… she returned in some distress, Your Grace. She’s in the drawing room. I believe she has been crying.”

“Crying?” Nathaniel repeated, surprised. Evelyn?

He could not picture it. Evelyn was made of iron and clever words. Crying did not suit her.

A sharp pang of something—concern, protectiveness—shot through his chest. What could have happened? Who had hurt her?

Still, he walked toward the drawing room, quiet as he could manage. He paused at the door, hand resting on the handle. Inside, he heard only the soft hiss of the fire.

He pushed the door open.

She was there, crumpled on the chaise lounge, her slim form folded into itself, her face buried in a pillow. Her arms were wrapped awkwardly behind her head, as if to hold herself together.

The sight struck him like a physical blow. This fierce, untamable woman, reduced to this fragile creature curled in on herself. Every protective instinct he possessed roared to life.

“Evelyn,” he said quietly.

She sat up at once, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Perhaps because you were crying too much to notice.”

“I was not crying,” she said stiffly, her voice cracking just slightly.

The proof was all over her face. Her pearl powder was streaked, the charcoal around her eyes smudged and running. She looked almost comically tragic. And heartbreakingly beautiful.

“Are you quite certain?” he asked gently.

“I am,” she replied.

He looked upward in dramatic fashion.

“What are you looking at?” she asked, eyebrows drawn together.

“I am worried about the integrity of my ceiling. It appears to be leaking water directly onto your face.”

“Stop it,” she said, but there was a hint of a smile as she swatted his arm. The sound, small as it was, made his chest loosen.

He sat beside her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her body, to catch the familiar scent of jasmine and something uniquely her.

“Tell me what happened.”

She hesitated, then pulled a blanket over her knees. “I went to the Royal Menagerie with Lottie, Marianne, and Aunt Eugenia. Afterwards, we went to that little café—the one meant for ladies. You know the one.”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“Well, people were whispering. Staring. I went outside for air, and—” Her voice caught. “Three women were standing just around the corner, talking about me. Awful things. Cruel things.”

His fists clenched. The urge to demand names, to seek out these women and make them answer for their cruelty, was overwhelming. “Do not tell me you ran away crying. That is not the Evelyn I know.”

“Of course not. I rang a right peel over their heads,” she said defiantly. “Gave them a severe censure and reminded them I am above them in station, and I will tolerate no such behavior. Then I left… and then I cried.”

He smiled, the corners of his mouth tugging upward despite himself. Of course, she had. Evelyn would never suffer an insult in silence. He moved a little closer.

“And now?” he asked.

She looked at him, and he saw something vulnerable in her eyes that made his breath catch. “Now I’m exhausted.”

Without thinking, he put an arm around her. She leaned into him, resting her head on his chest, and the simple contact sent warmth spreading through his entire body. She fit against him perfectly, as if she’d been made to rest just there.

“These rumors,” she whispered. “At first, they were amusing. But now… I see you were right.”

He blinked. “Did you just say I was right? I should record this moment.”

“Hush.”

“No, truly. Pigs must be ice-skating. Has hell frozen over? Shall I summon a clergyman?”

She laughed, and it lit her face like sunlight breaking through fog. The sound vibrated through his chest, and he wanted to capture it, to keep it safe forever.

“I hate that they say these things,” she said. “About your uncle. About me. I never wanted—” She stopped, and her voice faltered again. “I never wanted this.”

His breath caught. The way she was looking at him—soft, unguarded, almost tender—made his heart race. When had she stopped being the sharp-tongued woman who challenged his every word and become this? When had she become the person he thought of first upon waking and last before sleep?

“We can’t let this continue,” she said. “You ought to write to the scandal sheets.”

He stiffened. “That would be like pouring oil on fire.”

“Then what?”

The answer came to him with painful clarity

Instead, he said what he knew he should, “You need to court someone.”

She pulled back, eyes narrowing. “Do you think there’s anyone left? Anyone who still wants to court me?”

The way she said it—it wasn’t just curiosity. It was a question pointed at him. A challenge. A plea. Did she mean him?

His hand found her cheek without conscious thought, his thumb tracing the delicate line of her cheekbone.

Her skin was silk-soft and still slightly damp from her tears.

“We’ll find someone,” he whispered, hating himself for the lie.

“We’ll host a ball. I’ll make the invitations myself.

If I ask them, they’ll come to a ball at least. And if you stop pushing them into ponds, telling them tales, and otherwise mortifying them, they will be captivated and one will be everything you want in a husband and more. ”

Because how could they not be? How could anyone meet Evelyn—fierce, brilliant, beautiful Evelyn—and not fall completely under her spell?

She sniffed and placed her hand on his, her fingers cool against his skin. “I am so tired, Nathaniel,” she murmured. Her head dropped once again to his chest, and he felt the precise moment she surrendered her weight to him completely.

He held her close, breathing in the scent of her hair, feeling the steady rhythm of her breathing against his chest. His hand moved of its own accord to stroke her hair, the dark silk sliding through his fingers like water.

Maybe… just maybe… There could be something more.

The thought terrified him. She was his responsibility.

The daughter of a man who had trusted him to keep her safe, to see her properly settled.

And yet, as she lay against him, warm and trusting and perfectly right in his arms, he couldn’t bring himself to care about propriety or duty or what society expected.

He lifted her chin gently, tilting her face up toward his. Their eyes met, and he saw his longing reflected there, mixed with something that looked like hope and fear in equal measure.

“Evelyn…” he said softly, her name a prayer on his lips.

She blinked up at him, her lashes still damp with tears. She smiled—not the sharp, challenging smile she usually wore, but something soft and inquisitive and entirely for him.

The space between them seemed to shimmer with possibility.

He could feel the warmth of her breath against his skin, could count the flecks of gold in her dark eyes.

Her hand was still covering his, where it rested against her cheek, her thumb moving in small, unconscious circles against his knuckles.

Time seemed suspended. The fire crackled softly in the grate. Rain continued its gentle assault against the windows. And between them, the air grew thick with unspoken words and impossible wishes.

He leaned closer, drawn by a force stronger than duty or reason. Her eyes fluttered closed, her lips parting slightly in invitation. The scent of jasmine enveloped him, and he could taste the promise of her kiss in the air between them.

“I—” he began, not knowing what he meant to say, knowing only that this moment felt like the precipice of everything.

And then—hoofbeats. A loud crack of a carriage door.

The spell shattered like crystal. Nathaniel jerked back, his heart hammering against his ribs. Evelyn’s eyes flew open, wide and startled, her hand falling away from his.

He stood and crossed to the window, his heart still racing, as he tried to steady his breathing and quell his treacherous thoughts.

“Someone’s here,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended.

She joined him, peered out, and gasped.

“Oh no,” she groaned.

“Who is it?”

She sighed and shook her head, already moving away from the window, away from him. “My father.”