Page 89 of Never his Duchess

Did he think her asking for help with the climbing boys meant she expected him to dance to her tune?

How could I have been so wrong about him?

Everything she had believed about their love, their story, their marriage—it had all been a lie.

Her head pounded. She pressed her palm against her forehead, as if the gesture might silence the storm of thoughts inside her.

Her father had just confirmed that Nathaniel lied about the clubs. He wasn’t just attending proper gentleman clubs—he had been going to Westcott’s. Seeing women. Halston had told her, but she hadn’t wanted to believe him.

And everything Nathaniel had said about Halston—was that a lie, too?

There was no more room for doubt. Even if she didn’t trust Halston, her father wouldn’t lie. And here was Nathaniel, speaking to his best friend, telling him the truth. Telling him what he really thought of her.

She had to stop pretending. She had to face reality.

She had been lied to. Deceived. Made a fool of.

Tears stung her eyes as she turned and ran through the gardens, back into the house.

She found her carriage and instructed the coachman, “Take me home.”

“Are we not waiting for His Grace?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No. You may return for him afterward.”

“Very well, Your Grace,” he said and climbed into the driver’s seat.

She had barely settled in when the carriage jolted into motion. The wheels groaned over the cobbled street, then shifted into a muted rumble as they moved onto the sandy roads leading out of London, toward the house that was meant to be hers.

But it wasn’t her home. Not anymore. It couldn’t be.

She burst through the front door and hurried to her chamber. Throwing open the armoire, she pulled out her most treasured gowns, her favorite books, and every document tied to her work with the other ladies.

She summoned her maid. “Pack my portmanteau with everything I’ve laid on the bed. Quickly.”

Then she rushed to the wardrobe, collected what she needed, and returned just as the maid finished.

“Are you going on a trip?” the maid asked.

“I…” Evelyn hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. It’s short notice, I know. Please prepare the other cases. I’ll be down momentarily.”

The maid curtsied and called a footman to take the trunks downstairs.

Evelyn ran to the library. Her favorite writing desk had been placed there. She seized a sheet of paper, her inkwell, and a quill, and wrote quickly. Then she sprinkled salt to dry the ink, brushed the grains into the wastebasket, and folded and sealed the letter.

She walked across the manor to the west wing—his chambers. For weeks now, they had been in his chambers, too. She had shared her nights with him.

She shuddered, remembering the tender kisses, the gentle touches… and those that were not so gentle. She had given herself to this man—heart, mind, body—and he had betrayed her.

How could I have been so stupid?

Falling for this sort of tomfoolery might be expected of a debutante in her first season—but her? A woman twice over?

She paced, then placed the letter on his pillow. A wave of fury surged through her. Without thinking, she swept her arm across the nightstand, sending his book, an old pocket watch, and the candleholder crashing to the floor. The candle rolled across the room, stopping near the window.

Still not satisfied, she hurled his pillow across the room. It landed with a thud.

Yes, these were childish actions—but she had spent the last year doing everything expected of a duchess. Refined. Reserved.