The Ashcombe estate had never hosted so many carriages.
Evelyn stood at the top of the staircase, hands clenched in her silken skirts, staring down at the sea of bonnets and top hats. The drawing room glittered with candles and polished silver, her mother's shrill laughter bubbling over the hum of the arriving guests.
Every detail of the evening had been arranged with frantic precision: the embroidered table linens, the musicians in the corner playing Brahms too softly, the footmen in freshly pressed livery. All to celebrate one thing.
Her engagement.
To a man she barely knew.
To a man who unsettled her in ways that shook her to her bones.
"You're not wearing the necklace," Lady Ashcombe hissed behind her, appearing like a specter from the shadows. "The pearls, Evelyn."
"I didn't want pearls," Evelyn replied flatly, not turning around. "They feel like chains."
"Don't be ridiculous. They're heirlooms your grandmother wore them when she was presented at court."
"She didn't have to sell herself in them."
Her stepmother's eyes narrowed, but she smoothed her expression. "Tonight is important. Daughters do not marry dukes every day. Especially not when their fathers have squandered every coin and reputation."
Evelyn exhaled slowly. "I'll wear the pearls."
Her stepmother brightened and vanished back into the corridor. Evelyn touched her bare throat, the memory of Nathaniel's voice whispering there still far more vivid than any strand of pearls. I'll possess you.
She descended the stairs just as the orchestra began a low, rolling waltz. All heads turned toward her. She felt every gaze like a weight.
The Duke of Wycliffe stood near the marble fireplace. He was dressed in black with an ivory waistcoat, his expression carved from stone. When his eyes met hers, a flicker of something passed through them - approval or perhaps appraisal.
He made no move toward her.
She joined her parents instead. Her father looked uncharacteristically somber, wine in hand, his brow furrowed.
"My darling girl," he said softly. "You look... beautiful."
"Thank you, Papa."
"You're saving us, you know."
Evelyn nodded. "I know."
"Do you...do you dislike him?"
She considered that. "No."
"Do you fear him?"
A pause. "Yes."
Her father closed his eyes briefly. "Then be careful. Fear is not always a poor foundation. It keeps us cautious. Alive."
Lord Ashcombe raised his glass and turned to the room.
"Friends, esteemed guests," he said, voice loud and theatrical, "thank you for joining us on this most joyous evening. It is with great pride that I announce the engagement of my daughter, Lady Evelyn Ashcombe, to His Grace, the Duke of Wycliffe."
A chorus of polite applause followed, but Evelyn heard the whispers even more clearly.
A duke marrying a bankrupt's daughter?
They say he keeps a mistress locked away in one of his country homes...
I heard his first fiancée ran away in the night and was never seen again...
Evelyn's spine straightened as she lifted her chin. She caught sight of Lady Honora across the room, her dearest childhood friend, standing with a gloved hand over her mouth in wide-eyed delight. Evelyn gave her the faintest nod.
She felt Nathaniel appear beside her before she saw him.
"You wore your hair down," he murmured.
"You said I could choose."
"I approve."
He offered his arm. "Dance with me."
"Do I have a choice?"
A faint smirk. "Not tonight."
They stepped onto the floor. As the strings swelled, Evelyn moved with him, awkwardly at first, but he was graceful, fluid. He guided her effortlessly, as if even in movement, he sought to control.
"You're used to getting your way," she said under her breath.
"Not always. But I've learned to prefer it."
"I won't be easy."
"I don't want easy."
Their eyes locked. Around them, the ballroom dissolved into candlelight and motion. She was aware only of his hand at her waist, the heat of his palm through the fabric of her gown, the slow, insistent pull of his body against hers.
"Why did your last engagement end?" she asked suddenly.
A beat. A flicker in his eyes.
"She feared me," he said simply.
"And was she wrong?"
"No."
Evelyn's breath caught. She searched his face looking for malice, for warning, for cruelty.
She found none.
Only truth.
Raw, unapologetic truth.
When the dance ended, he leaned in and murmured near her ear. "Meet me in the study. Five minutes."
"I shouldn't..."
"You will."
He stepped away, leaving her trembling slightly in a room full of guests.
She waited seven minutes. She didn't want to go but something in her kept telling to go.
Then she slipped from the ballroom.
Nathaniel was waiting, seated beside the fire, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. The door clicked shut behind her.
"You shouldn't be here," she said softly.
"No," he agreed. "But you came."
"I don't know why." She admitted.
"Because you're curious."
He stood up. Slowly. Like a beast unfolding. He moved toward her, shadows from the firelight crawling over the sharp planes of his face.
"You want to understand me," he said, circling her. "You want to know why I chose you. Why I say things that make your pulse rise. Why your body leans toward mine even when your mind protests."
She turned to face him. "You think highly of yourself."
"I think accurately."
She flushed.
"Come here," he said.
"No." She shook her head.
His voice lowered. "Evelyn."
The way he said her name, it made her stomach flutter, her breath shallow.
"I don't take orders," she said, but she stepped toward him anyway.
His hand rose, trailing from her shoulder down to her wrist, where he gently took her hand and brought it to his chest.
"You feel that?" he asked.
His heartbeat. Steady. Strong.
"You make it race."
She tried to speak, but her throat was dry.
"I want you to know," he said, "what I expect. When we marry, I will touch you where I please, when I please. Not in cruelty. But because I will not pretend to be a man I'm not. I will not ask you to close your eyes and think of England. I want you present. Awake. I want your eyes on mine when I take you."
Her knees went weak. She tried to take back her hand but he held it tighter. Evelyn's face flushed with shame. How could he say such things to her. Shameless.
"I'll never lie to you," he continued. "But I won't be soft. I'll teach you to surrender, not submit. There's a difference."
"Why are you telling me this?" She asked softly.
"Because I want you to walk into our marriage with eyes open." He replied.
"And if I run?" She asked.
"I'll chase you."
He kissed her then.
Not gentle.
Not tender.
Evelyn's eyes widened in shock at the evasive kiss.
His mouth captured hers with fire and command. Her back hit the door. His hands were in her hair, at her waist, down the curve of her hip. She gasped into the kiss, hands flattening against his chest, not to push him away but to steady herself.
When he pulled back, her lips were swollen, her breath ragged.
"I won't ruin your reputation," he said, smoothing a hand down her bodice with something like regret. "Not yet."
He stepped back.
She stared at him.
"What... what are you?"
Nathaniel smiled.
"Yours."