The room around them buzzed with speculative glances. Some had heard about Evelyn's family's fall from fortune, others about her shocking rise.
"Tell me, how did your father manage to secure such a match?" Honora asked sweetly, adjusting her necklace. "Not that I'm implying anything, of course. The Duke is... well, famously difficult. And elusive."
Evelyn took a sip of her champagne. "Perhaps he simply wanted a wife."
"Oh, I'm sure." Honora's voice dipped in mock sympathy. "Still, it must be difficult… coming from your position. The Wycliffes are so...how shall I put it?....particular about appearances."
"You'd know more about their preferences than I would, wouldn't you?" Evelyn said, soft but piercing. "Didn't your mother once suggest you might suit the duke?"
For the briefest second, Honora's eyes flashed.
"He declined, of course," Evelyn added airily. "But I'm told he was very polite."
Honora laughed, tight and too bright.
"How wicked of you, Evelyn."
"How nostalgic of you, Honora." Evelyn replied with a smile.
Just then, the music swelled. A footman appeared with a tray. Evelyn plucked another glass and offered Honora a nod.
"Do enjoy your party."
She turned with calm poise, leaving Honora momentarily speechless in a sea of silk and whispers.
As Evelyn crossed the ballroom toward a quieter corner, her composure slipped just enough to let her exhale. Her stomach still twisted when someone mentioned duchess or Wycliffe but she'd survived worse than sharp smiles and sharpened gossip.
For now, she remained untouchable.
She could almost hear her father's weary voice: "You will marry Duke Nathaniel Wycliffe. There is no other path." His words echoed like a tolling bell in her thoughts.
"A penny for your thoughts," came a voice at her side.
Evelyn turned to find Lady Beatrice St. John grinning up at her, her fan fluttering lazily. "Though I suppose with your new prospects, it ought to be a pound."
Evelyn smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes. "You give me far too much credit, Lady Bea."
"Nonsense. All eyes are on you tonight. The future Duchess of Wycliffe," Beatrice said with mock reverence, dipping into a shallow curtsy.
"I've yet to even speak with the man," Evelyn replied. "It feels absurd."
Beatrice arched an eyebrow. "And yet here you are, betrothed to the most elusive noble in London. Tell me, have you heard the rumors?"
"Which ones?" Evelyn asked, half amused, half dreading.
"Oh, you know. That he keeps a mistress in France. That he once killed a man in a duel. That he never appears before noon and rarely speaks unless pressed. They say he's cold as winter and twice as cruel."
"And yet all mothers still pray he'll marry their daughters," Evelyn murmured.
Beatrice chuckled. "Power is seductive. And Wycliffe owns half of Northumberland, doesn't he?"
Evelyn's stomach twisted. "And soon, apparently, he'll own me."
Beatrice's face softened. "Eve, I didn't mean..."
"It's all right." Evelyn waved a hand, her tone light though her chest ached. "It's the truth."
They stood together in silence, sipping wine, watching the swirl of dancers. The orchestra launched into a spirited waltz, and partners spun across the room like petals caught in a gust.
"Do you think the rumors are true?" Evelyn asked softly.
Beatrice hesitated, then leaned in. "I think powerful men rarely live simple lives. And men like Duke Wycliffe... they make their own rules."
A chill raced down Evelyn's spine.
Just then, the air shifted.
Across the ballroom, a stir rippled through the guests. Heads turned. Fans froze mid-flutter. Even the musicians missed a note.
Evelyn followed the change like a breeze through trees and saw him.
Nathaniel Wycliffe.
He had entered without fanfare, but the room bent around him like a magnet. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in crisp black with no ostentation just the stark perfection of tailored restraint. His hair was dark and swept back, his face pale and angular, carved more than formed, with eyes like glass, cool and unreadable.
And he was looking at her.
Their gazes locked, and Evelyn forgot to breathe. The noise of the ballroom faded beneath the crackling silence between them.
She straightened instinctively, her hand tightening on her glass. His stare held weight not invasive, not leering, but commanding. He made no move to approach, only observed.
A touch at her elbow jolted her.
"Your Grace," came a voice at her side. Honora's father, Lord Belgrave, had appeared, eyes bright with forced cheer. "An honor to have you among us this evening."
The Duke's lips moved slightly. "Lord Belgrave."
His voice was deep and cultured, but cool as marble. He stepped forward, closing the space between them.
"And Lady Evelyn," he said, his gaze never leaving hers.
She curtsied, somehow graceful despite her pounding heart. "Your Grace."
He offered his hand. "Would you honor me with this dance?" He asked, a smirk on his face.
The entire room held its breath.
Evelyn's lips tightened. She stared at the offered hand in front of her and deeply wished she could reject it but in the end she took his hand.
It was warm, unexpectedly warm. Strong as he gripped her delicate hand tight. She felt a slight pressure, nothing rough, but assertive. As if he was already in control.
He led her onto the floor as the orchestra resumed, and suddenly they were dancing.
She barely remembered how to breathe.
Nathaniel moved like he was born to dominate a room not in volume, but in gravity. He led with effortless precision, not missing a beat, his hand firm at her waist, his other curled around her gloved fingers.
"You are smaller than I imagined," he said quietly.
"And you are taller," she returned. "I imagined someone more... hunchbacked and sinister."
A ghost of a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Disappointed?"
"I haven't decided yet."
He leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. "You're interesting than I expected."
"And you," she replied evenly, "are more dangerous than you appear."
Their dance continued, a perfect, rhythmic waltz but beneath it, a conversation layered with daggers. She could feel his gaze like a hand on her skin, see the flicker of interest behind those unreadable eyes.
Honora watched them dancing with red eyes, her hand tightening around the glass.
"You don't strike me as a woman eager to marry," he said.
"I'm not."
"Then why agree?"
"My family is ruined. My father sees no other path. And I... obey."
He tilted his head slightly. "Do you?"
The question hung between them, charged.
This is the second time he'd asked if she has agreed to marry him but she hasn't given him an affirmative even today.
"You seem the sort to bend, not break," he murmured.
She flushed, though she wasn't sure if it was from embarrassment or something more.
"Would it matter if I said I didn't want this match?" she asked.
"No," he said simply. "But it would make it more interesting."
The song ended. He released her hand gently, his eyes still on hers.
"Until next time," he said. Then turned and walked away.
And Evelyn stood in the middle of the ballroom, heart thundering, shaken to her core.
Not just by fear.
But by curiosity.