The morning after Evelyn Ashcombe became the Duchess of Wycliffe in the real sense, she awoke to an unfamiliar silence.
No birdsong. No bustling maids. No scent of roses or sun-warmed linen. Only the muffled tick of an antique clock, the velvet weight of the curtains drawn shut, and the aching realization that she wasn't in her old room anymore.
She was in his.
Her husband's.
The Duke's.
Her skin still remembered the feel of his hands,possessive and demanding. Her inner thighs ached, tender from their shared night, and when she shifted slightly beneath the sheets, her breath caught.
Was it pain? Or something else?
She didn't know.
She pushed herself upright, the silk nightgown clinging to her skin, her hair wild and knotted from restless sleep. The cold crept in the moment she left the nest of warmth he'd left behind. But the fire had long since died, and the man who'd set her world on fire with one night had vanished with the dawn.
Gone.
Just like that.
Evelyn drew her knees to her chest, folding herself into silence. She tried not to think about the feel of his mouth on her body's most intimate and sacred parts, the strange thrill of surrender that had rushed through her like a drug.
He hadn't spend he rest of the night with her.
She told herself it didn't matter.
But it did.
Every moment of the night clung to her,fragments she didn't know how to name. She'd expected embarrassment. Discomfort. Perhaps even revulsion.
But she hadn't expected to be haunted.
The knock on the door was soft.
"Come in," she said, voice hoarse.
Mrs. Carroway entered, brisk and composed. She carried a tray of tea and warm bread with marmalade, her expression unreadable. Not judgmental, not curious, just polite. As if Evelyn were no more than a guest.
As if she hadn't been changed entirely.
"I thought milady might prefer a tray this morning," she said, placing it near the chaise. "The duke left instructions that you were not to be disturbed unless you rang."
Of course he did. Always in control, even in absence.
"Thank you," Evelyn murmured.
"Shall I open the curtains?"
She hesitated. "Not yet."
Mrs. Carroway dipped a curtsy. "Will that be all, Your Grace?"
The title made Evelyn flinch inwardly.
"Yes," she said softly. "That will be all."
The door clicked shut again.
Her Grace.
The duchess of a man who'd taken her innocence with the precision of someone accustomed to control. Yet not once had he been cruel. Not once had he hurt her more than she could bear. And somehow… that unnerved her more than if he had.
Evelyn took a shaky sip of tea.
She didn't know if she hated him or wanted to see him again. Her body betrayed her in the answer.
Later that morning, she finally summoned the courage to leave the room. The corridors of Wycliffe Hall stretched long and grand, filled with brooding portraits and the distant echo of her footsteps. The estate was beautiful but cold. Not a single vase of fresh flowers. Not a single sign of warmth or sentiment.
Everything mirrored him.
Servants bowed as she passed. No one dared speak. She felt as though she wore her experience on her skin, that they could see what she had become overnight.
In the east wing, a soft voice called her name.
"Your Grace."
"Yes?" she turned.
Revealing a maid's cheerful, freckled face. "Good day, My Lady. Lady Juliana is asking if you'll accompany her for a walk before luncheon."
Evelyn blinked, still half-lost in the haze of the night. "A walk?"
"She said the roses are in full bloom and it'd be a shame not to see them." The maid replied. "She also said she's prepared a riding habit for you though she doubt we'll be getting you on a horse on your first week."
Evelyn smiled despite herself.
Twenty minutes later, dressed and composed, Evelyn stepped out into the fresh morning air beside Juliana Wycliffe.
She wore a pale blue morning dress trimmed in ivory lace, fitted at the waist with a soft sash. Her dark hair had been swept into a low knot beneath a simple straw bonnet, loose tendrils brushing her neck. She'd opted for soft gloves and leather half-boots suitable for garden paths.
Juliana, a vision of youthful elegance, wore a pale lilac walking gown embroidered with vines and blossoms, her bonnet tilted at an angle that framed her bright, expressive face. Her sleeves were trimmed with scalloped lace, and her skirts swayed lightly as she led the way toward the rose garden.
"I always tell the gardener to prune them earlier, but he never listens," she said, pointing her parasol at a riot of blooming white and pink. "And now we have this explosion. It's positively chaotic. Like something out of a painting."
Evelyn smiled faintly. "I think it's beautiful."
"Oh, it is. Terribly impractical, but breathtaking. Like most things at Wycliffe."
They walked slowly, Juliana's voice a steady stream of cheerful chatter.
"Aunt Rosalind is waiting for you to slip, you know," she said in a conspiratorial tone, glancing sidelong at Evelyn. "She won't say it, but she's observing you. You wore the wrong brooch last night."
"I did?" Evelyn looked surprised.
"Pearls for dinner are considered too modest for a duchess. You'll learn. She's already planning your seating arrangements for the harvest supper, so don't take it personally. She does like you but she just doesn't know it yet."
Evelyn laughed softly. "You're very different from your aunt."
Juliana wrinkled her nose. "God, I hope so."
Their path curved toward the reflecting pond, a still mirror of sky and trees. Evelyn paused at its edge, watching a dragonfly skim the surface.
Juliana turned toward her, her voice softening. "I hope Nathaniel didn't frighten you last night."
The words landed like a stone.
Evelyn blinked. "Pardon?"
Juliana smiled gently. "He's quiet. And sometimes too sharp. But I know my brother. He doesn't let people in easily."
Evelyn hesitated, unsure how to respond.
"He hasn't smiled properly in years," Juliana added, "but last night, at dinner, he looked at you like…like something had finally settled in him."
Evelyn lowered her gaze, her heart pulling in strange directions.
They continued walking, the silence companionable this time. Birds called overhead, and the scent of roses trailed after them like perfume on the breeze.
By the time they returned to the manor, Evelyn felt steadier as if no closer to understanding her husband.
But she had found something else in Juliana: an unexpected friend. A window into the inner life of Wycliffe. And perhaps, if she allowed it, a path to unraveling the quiet storm that was Nathaniel.
That evening, as the sun dipped low and shadows lengthened across the estate, she found herself once more drawn to the west wing.
To him.
She didn't plan it. She didn't even realize her feet had taken her there until she stood at his study door, one hand trembling over the polished brass handle.
She didn't knock. She pushed the door open.
Nathaniel looked up from his desk. The fire crackled behind him, casting him in half-light, his features sharp with focus. He looked utterly unshaken by the night they'd shared.
Unlike her.
"Evelyn," he said.
She stood in the doorway, straight-backed. "You left this morning."
"I had work."
"You didn't say anything."
"I rarely do after midnight."
"Is that how this is going to be?" Her voice cracked, just a little.
His eyes narrowed. "How what is going to be?"
"You have what you want, and now you disappear?"
Nathaniel rose slowly, eyes never leaving hers. "Do you think that's all I wanted?"
She couldn't answer.
He walked toward her, slow, measured. When he reached her, he lifted a hand and cupped her cheek with surprising gentleness.
"Last night," he said, voice low, "was not about me."
Her breath hitched.
"I meant what I said. You didn't break. And I don't want a wife who wilts under the weight of my name. But I do want a wife who speaks honestly. So speak, Evelyn. Don't stand there trembling like I'm some nightmare in the dark. Speak."
Her heart thundered.
"I don't know how to be your wife," she whispered.
He leaned in, his breath brushing her lips. "Then learn."
And he kissed her.
Not demanding or possessive.
Just lips. Just warmth.
It stole her breath more than any other touch ever had.