Ashcombe Hall had always stood proud against the moody skies of Yorkshire, its stone face weathered but dignified, much like its master. But now, it was too quiet. No music drifted from the drawing rooms, no laughter echoed down its corridors. The gardens had begun to wither at the edges, and the ivy that once wrapped the western wing like a romantic flourish now looked like a chokehold.
Lady Evelyn Ashcombe stood at the window of her chamber, staring at the dying roses below. Her hands were clenched into the folds of her muslin day dress, fingers twitching with unspoken tension. Her dark auburn hair, usually pinned with delicate precision, was slightly mussed, a single curl brushing her collarbone.
Her beauty was the quiet, enduring kind, not the sort that shouted, but the kind that made you look twice and wonder why you hadn't noticed sooner. Her skin was pale from the long London winter, but still luminous in the dull light, and her high cheekbones gave her an air of distinction even in silence.
Her eyes were a soft storm-grey, fringed with dark lashes that gave her gaze a constant look of restrained emotion too proud to beg, too wounded to smile freely. Her mouth was full and expressive, though often held in careful stillness, as though she feared saying too much might betray her.
She wore a muslin day dress, cut modestly but well-fitted, the color chosen not for fashion but for the way it subdued the warmth in her cheeks. A small brooch, her late mother's was pinned at her collar, the only piece of jewelry she wore.
She hadn't moved for some time. She knew her father had summoned her to the study nearly an hour ago, but she'd delayed, knowing something irrevocable waited behind that door. Evelyn had always been able to feel when the air changed, when something was coming. And now, the air in Ashcombe was heavy. Too heavy.
"Lady Evelyn," came a quiet voice behind her.
She turned to find Mrs. Perdue, the family's long-serving housekeeper, standing awkwardly in the doorway. Her lined face was unusually grave.
"Your father requests you. Immediately."
Evelyn nodded once, her throat dry. She followed the older woman down the hall in silence. The scent of beeswax polish and aged books greeted her as she stepped into the study, a room that had always intimidated her, even as a child.
Her father, Lord Henry Ashcombe, stood by the fireplace. Once commanding in both stature and spirit, he now looked smaller somehow. His once-dark hair was streaked with silver, and his shoulders sagged beneath the weight of something Evelyn could not yet name.
"Papa," she greeted softly, crossing the threshold.
He didn't look at her at first. Instead, he stared into the flames with the sort of intensity one might devote to a confessional.
When he did turn, his eyes were red-rimmed.
"Evelyn," he said, his voice rough. "Come sit."
Her pulse quickened. She obeyed, settling onto the tufted chair across from his desk.
"Is everything alright, Papa?" She asked, worriedly.
"There is no easy way to say this, so I'll speak plainly," he began. "We are ruined."
Silence. Then...
"I beg your pardon?" she whispered, disbelieving.
"I've lost everything," he said, voice cracking. "The estates, the funds, the stocks....all gone. The creditors circle like vultures. If I do not act swiftly, Ashcombe Hall will be seized by winter."
Evelyn's breath caught in her throat.
"But... how?" she asked, voice brittle. "We still host parties. My dresses come from Paris. I...."
"All borrowed time," he interrupted. "All appearances. I've been delaying the inevitable, hoping for a miracle."
She stared at him, the firelight painting his lined face in hues of amber and despair.
"So, what now?"
Now he hesitated. And Evelyn, perceptive as ever, realized the worst was yet to come.
"You are to marry."
Her heart stopped. "What?"
"A match has been arranged. A suitor wealthy enough to salvage what's left of our name."
"No," she said, standing abruptly. "You can't...Papa, please. I've no desire to be sold like...."
"Enough!" he bellowed, then winced, pressing a trembling hand to his brow. "Forgive me," he whispered. "But I am not selling you, Evelyn. I am saving us."
Her voice shook. "Who?"
He looked away. "The Duke of Wycliffe."
The silence was deafening.
Duke Nathaniel Wycliffe.
Even Evelyn, who rarely gave heed to gossip, had heard of him. He was wealthier than God, colder than ice, and wholly uninterested in society. Rumors whispered of mistresses, of a secret London house, of tastes that no proper lady should even speak of.
She whispered, "He's twice my age."
"Eleven years older," her father corrected with a sharp look. "He is thirty."
"Old enough to want obedience, not partnership."She retorted.
"Old enough to ensure your comfort, your protection, your status. His offer is generous beyond what I expected. You will want for nothing." Her father interjected sharply.
"Except my freedom," she murmured bitterly.
He stood, stepping toward her. "Evelyn," he said, his voice gentler now, "I know this is not what you wanted. I know it feels cruel. But this is the only way. And perhaps, in time, you may come to respect him. Even care for him."
She flinched. "Care for a man whose name is spoken in whispers? You ask too much of me."
He didn't answer. Instead, he placed a folded document on the desk.
"The betrothal contract," he said. "He wishes to meet you. Tomorrow."
She stared at it, her eyes filled with despair.
"You could have asked me," she whispered. "You could have told me sooner."
His gaze dropped. "I couldn't bear to see you frightened before it was necessary."
"And now?" she asked bitterly.
"Now," he said with finality, "it is necessary."
That night, Evelyn sat alone in the conservatory. The stars above were blindingly clear, the sky a sharp indigo. She wore only a thin chemise and dressing robe, the Yorkshire chill teasing the skin of her thighs and arms, but she could not bring herself to care.
She sipped from a half-empty wine glass, letting the warmth numb her tongue.
Marriage. To a stranger.
She had never imagined herself particularly romantic, not like the heroines in her novels. But she had hoped...hoped for someone who looked at her like she was more than a bargaining chip.
A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.
She didn't hear the door open behind her.
"Drinking alone?" came a low, amused voice.
She startled violently, nearly dropping the glass. Spinning, she saw her brother, Graham, leaning in the doorway.
He wore his usual smug expression, a tumbler of brandy in hand.
"Go away," she said.
"I'm the only one left in this house with any sense," he drawled, ignoring her. "You should be thanking me."
"For what, exactly?"
"For convincing Father not to sell your dowry to pay his debts. If it weren't for me, you'd be on a boat to India right now to marry some fat, dying merchant."
"Instead, I get the Duke of Wycliffe," she snapped.
His smile faded slightly. "Better than nothing. Or did you think a penniless daughter of a crumbling title could still marry for love?"
He stepped closer. "You're not a child anymore, Evie. The world isn't kind to women like you. If I were you, I'd be grateful."
She wanted to slap him.
Instead, she stood slowly and said with biting calm, "Thank you for your wisdom, brother. I'll be sure to remember it when I'm the Duchess of Wycliffe and you're begging me for a loan."
His expression darkened, but she swept past him before he could retort.
Alone in her room, Evelyn disrobed slowly, fingers numb. The fire in the grate had burned low, casting flickering light across her bare skin.
She looked at herself in the mirror.
Would he touch her like a husband? Possess her like property?
Her gaze fell to her perky breasts, the curve of her waist. She was not naïve about what marriage entailed. But the idea of Nathaniel Wycliffe, a man unknown and unreadable to her stripping her bare and seeing her like this, made her chest tighten.
Not with fear.
But something stranger.
Heat.
Shame.
Curiosity.
She pressed a hand between her thighs, unsure what she even wanted to feel. But the ache that bloomed there made her shudder.
She would meet him tomorrow. And she would not show weakness.