Belgrave House – Honora's Bedchamber, Midnight
The music had faded. The servants were clearing away flower arrangements and empty glasses. Upstairs, in a room lined with pink damask and perfume bottles, Lady Honora Belgrave stood at her vanity, yanking pins from her hair with a fury she barely tried to hide.
"That smug little snake," she hissed, tossing a pearl-tipped pin across the table. It clattered against the mirror.
She stared at her reflection, cheeks still flushed from champagne and humiliation. Evelyn Ashcombe, daughter of a near-bankrupt family, with a brother up to his ears in gambling debts was about to become the Duchess of Wycliffe. While she, Honora, carefully groomed and scandal-free, had been overlooked.
And worse, mocked. Evelyn had done it with that soft voice and soft smile, as though slicing with lace.
"She thinks she's won," Honora muttered, her eyes burning with anger and hatred. "But she hasn't seen what it costs."
The door creaked open. Her mother entered without knocking, still wearing her evening gown, though her earrings had been removed.
Lady Belgrave was a tall, frost-pale woman with shrewd eyes and a voice like velvet stretched thin over iron.
"That was unwise," she said flatly.
"What was?" Honora snapped, turning.
"You let them see it. Your jealousy. Your pettiness."Lady Belgrave said.
Honora scrowled,"She humiliated me. In my own ballroom."
Lady Belgrave sighed and moved to the window, drawing back the curtain slightly.
"The Ashcombe girl may come from a weakened family, but she's clever. And she's not as sweet as she looks."
"She's marrying him because her family's desperate." Honora retorted.
"And he...the Duke is marrying her for reasons we don't yet understand." Lady Belgrave's voice sharpened. "But he is not a man to cross lightly. Nor is he one to tolerate rivals."
"I'm not afraid of Nathaniel Wycliffe," Honora spat stubbornly.
"You should be," her mother said coldly. "If Evelyn becomes his duchess, she will have more power in her little finger than you in all your court gowns. You mock her now, but if you make an enemy of her publicly, you will regret it."
Honora's fingers tightened around her silver brush.
"You told me once I'd make a fine duchess."
"You might have. But fate...or Evelyn had other plans."
Lady Belgrave crossed the room and placed a single gloved hand on her daughter's shoulder.
"Don't challenge her in drawing rooms, Honora. Smile. Compliment her gown. Let the world think you've accepted your place. And then if you must, strike when no one sees your hand."
Honora said nothing. She stared at her reflection as her mother left the room. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, her painted lips pressed into a hard line.
She would play the part. For now.
But she would not be Evelyn's shadow.
Not forever.
The next time Evelyn saw Nathaniel Wycliffe was not in the comfort of a ballroom surrounded by well-dressed onlookers and fine champagne, it was in her family's drawing room, where the scent of old roses mingled with the tension of obligation.
She was sitting stiffly on the velvet settee, her hands folded in her lap as her mother arranged herself nearby, offering clipped instructions to the servants to remove the silver tea service for the third time. Lord Ashcombe stood near the hearth, .
And then the butler announced: "His Grace, the Duke of Wycliffe."
Evelyn rose before she knew she'd done so, every part of her tightening. He entered with the same quiet authority he had the night of the ball; no flourish, no announcement beyond the servant's voice. Just a presence that filled the room like storm clouds.
Today, he wore charcoal. Not black, not navy but charcoal, like the last shade of dusk before night. His gloves were gone. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on her and there they remained.
"Your Grace," her stepmother cooed, sweeping forward in a rustle of silk.
"Lady Ashcombe." He bowed his head politely.
"Won't you sit?" Evelyn's stepmother gestured with a too-eager hand. "We're honored, of course, so honored. Evelyn, dear, pour His Grace a cup."
Nathaniel moved toward the chair opposite hers and sat without ceremony. "No need. I do not take tea."
Evelyn poured it anyway. Her hands trembled just enough to annoy her.
Lady Ashcombe gave a nervous laugh. "Evelyn has a steady hand when she chooses to. She's quite the accomplished pianist as well. Plays Chopin like a true Parisienne."
"I dislike Chopin," he said evenly.
Lady Ashcombe's smile faltered.
Evelyn held out the teacup regardless. "Perhaps you'll like my rendition better."
He looked at her directly. Took the cup. Their fingers brushed. Evelyn quickly took back her hand as if she has been burned.
"Perhaps I will," he murmured, looking at her with amusement.
She didn't look away.
"Lady Evelyn," he said after a pause. "May I request a private moment with you?"
Lady Ashcombe froze. Her father cleared his throat.
"Well," her stepmother stammered, "I don't think..."
"Of course," Evelyn said.
Nathaniel stood. "Walk with me."
He didn't ask. He never did. But she rose and followed.
They walked through the corridor and into the gardens beyond the terrace. The April air was brisk, but not unpleasant. She could smell lavender and wet stone.
Neither of them spoke until they reached the stone bench beneath the old ash tree.
He stopped. She did, too.
"I imagine you have questions," he said.
She crossed her arms. "Only if you'll answer them."
A ghost of a smile. "I'll try."
"Why me?"
"You're intelligent. Composed. You carry yourself with dignity. Your family has lineage, if not coin. And I require a duchess."
"That's hardly romantic."
"I don't deal in romance."
He said it without apology, without hesitation.
"Then what do you deal in?"
His eyes met hers. "Power. Order. Control."
Evelyn felt something in her spine react. Her breath quickened barely, but she knew he noticed.
"And love?" she asked.
His lips curved, not quite into a smile. "Love is a concept men sell to women who want to be lied to."
She should have been offended. But she wasn't. She was fascinated. Appalled. Intrigued.
"Are you a cruel man, Duke?"
"No," he said, "but I'm not gentle."
They were silent again. She looked away first, out across the hedges and ivy.
"My father is ruined," she said softly. "He's a proud man. This marriage... it saves him."
"I know."
"And you'll own me."
"No," he said, moving closer. "I'll possess you."
She turned toward him, heart galloping.
"There's a difference?"
"Yes. One is duty. The other is... devotion."
The way he said it slowly, darkly made her breath catch. He stepped into her space. Close enough to see the flecks of steel in his eyes. Close enough to make her knees feel loose beneath her gown.
"I require honesty, obedience, and loyalty," he said. "In return, you'll never lack for anything. And you'll know what it is to be truly desired."
His hand reached up, gloved fingers brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.
Evelyn instinctively took a step back to avoid his touch. His eyes darkened.
"Are you frightened, Evelyn?"
"Yes," she whispered.
His thumb ghosted over her jaw. "Good."
Then he stepped back.
"I'll speak to your father about the engagement," he said, his tone now clipped, formal once more. "You'll have until the wedding to decide if you can accept what I am."
"And if I can't?" she asked.
His mouth curled into a slow, knowing smile. The kind of smile a wolf might give before the kill.
"Then you'll spend the rest of your life wondering what you missed."
He left her in the garden, trembling not from fear, but from something far more dangerous.