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N athaniel paced his study, arms clasped behind his back. The fire had burned low in the hearth, but he barely noticed. His thoughts churned faster than he could contain them.

The room felt too small. Every corner, every shadow, seemed to close in on him as his frustration mounted.

Books on the shelf mocked him with their well-worn spines—volumes on politics, diplomacy, strategy.

Theories he had mastered, yet none of them offered insight into the particular battlefield he now found himself in.

What in the world went wrong this time?

He had done everything right—or so he believed.

Two perfectly suitable gentlemen, both with titles, wealth, and the proper demeanor to suit a duchess.

He had chosen them carefully. They posed no financial threat to Evelyn’s holdings, had no scandals trailing behind them, and neither was prone to passion or poetry.

That had seemed like a virtue at the time.

And still, Evelyn had managed to repel them like a well-trained military force repelling invaders. He could almost admire it—if it weren’t so damned inconvenient.

How did she do it? More importantly, why did it bother him so much that she had? It wasn’t just the failure of his matchmaking. It was her audacity. Her poise. Her refusal to play by the rules he had set out so carefully. It unsettled him in a way few things ever had.

Bennett, ever dutiful, had reported that Sir Franklin and Evelyn had walked the estate together for some time, only for Sir Franklin to flee as if chased by hounds suddenly—his breeches soaked with red wine.

Red wine? Had Evelyn thrown it at him? Had she tripped and sent it cascading?

Or had something far more deliberate occurred?

He’d replayed the description a dozen times in his mind, trying to parse it like a general reviewing a failed campaign. Each time, the image became more absurd—and more infuriating.

The maid Nathaniel had assigned as a chaperone had proved useless—loyal to Evelyn, vague in every way, dodging direct questions with a placid smile and a practiced curtsy.

He had tried to press her, but she offered only polite non-answers: “The weather was fine, Your Grace,” or “They spoke cordially, Your Grace.”

Cordially? That hardly explained Sir Franklin’s departure in wet trousers.

Worse still, Evelyn had avoided him all day. Naturally. She was always clever enough to disappear before confrontation and reappear when the heat had died down. Like smoke—impossible to grasp.

The frustration was gnawing at him. He prided himself on control of his finances, his estate, and his family.

But Evelyn had become an unpredictable variable, a fire in a neatly ordered room.

And somewhere, in a quieter place in his mind, he was starting to realize that her disruption wasn’t just inconvenient—it was effective.

He was being bested, and it grated on him.

He had thought to corner Sir Franklin at White’s that evening. But when he arrived, the place was half empty.

“Where is everybody?” he asked, tugging off his gloves.

“It’s Wednesday,” Julian replied with a smirk, swirling his drink. “Everyone’s at Almack’s.”

Nathaniel groaned. “Pray, do not tell me I require a voucher.”

“You ought to get yourself one. And your Duchess, too. The two of you could attend together.”

“Absolutely not. You were right—the lack of a proper mourning has made things more difficult than they needed to be. I can scarcely have her prancing through Almack’s with my uncle barely in the ground.”

Julian raised a brow. “This has always been your problem, Nathaniel. You think you know best. You never listen.”

“Because I do know best. I had the best tutors, the finest education. I am familiar with strategy, diplomacy, and finance. I do not need?—”

Julian held up a hand. “And yet you’re the one bemoaning the failure of your plan.”

Nathaniel scowled. He hated being wrong.

He poured himself a brandy, letting the silence thicken.

Julian watched him. “So what now?”

“I have one more option. Lord Pendleton is arriving on Friday. He’s respectable, modest, and—according to my aunt—a quiet man with a gentle disposition. The perfect candidate.”

“And if Evelyn chases him off, too?”

Nathaniel hesitated. He didn’t have an answer. Not a good one.

Julian leaned forward. “She’s not doing this by accident, you know. She is maneuvering. You can’t outmatch her if you don’t understand her game.”

Nathaniel set his glass down. “Then I’ll find out what it is. On Friday, I’ll be there. Discreetly. I will observe every moment.”

Julian smiled. “At last, the strategist awakens.”

Nathaniel did not return the smile. He had underestimated Evelyn. That was his mistake.

One that he refused to make again.