The Morning After - Wycliffe Manor Gardens
The sun had barely crested the hedgerows when Evelyn stepped out into the garden, the dew clinging to the hem of her pale muslin gown.
The party was a blur behind her eyes: too many eyes, too many smiles, and Honora's thinly veiled barbs still echoing in her ears.
She made her way to the swing beneath the old elm, a relic from childhood days. Her slippers brushed the earth as she sat, folding her hands in her lap, letting her thoughts drift like mist.
She wondered if this would be her life now, carefully curated appearances, constant eyes watching for cracks. Her heart still ached when she thought of the only man she love, but his memory was growing quieter.
A soft rustle behind her.
Cora approached with a silver tray and a sealed envelope.
"This just arrived, my lady. Sent by hand from Lady Rosalind's residence."
Evelyn blinked. Lady Rosalind Wycliffe, Nathaniel's formidable aunt.
"Thank you, Cora."
She opened the letter. The handwriting was crisp, the tone polite, but unmistakably commanding.
"Lady Wycliffe cordially requests your presence for tea at Greymount Hall this Thursday. She wishes to speak with you privately before the formal announcement of your engagement."
Evelyn folded the note slowly.
Something in her stomach twisted.
Cora looked at her cautiously.
"You all right, miss?"
"Yes." Evelyn stood, brushing her skirt. "Though I expect this tea will taste more like interrogation."
"Want me to poison the sugar bowl?" Cora offered cheerfully.
Evelyn cracked a smile. "Tempting."
They turned back toward the manor, the crisp morning air trailing behind them.
Ahead lay tea with a matriarch, a future steeped in secrets and a marriage that might yet consume her.
Thursday, Greymount Hall
The drawing room at Greymount Hall was a study in precision and discipline much like its mistress. Not a cushion out of place, not a painting hung a fraction off center. The curtains were a pale lavender damask, coordinated to the flower arrangements and the tea service.
Evelyn entered with the grace she had practiced for years but never truly relied on until now.
Lady Rosalind Wycliffe, seated like a queen behind her tea table, did not rise. She was clad in mourning grey despite having lost no one recently. Her steel-grey hair was pinned into an elegant knot, her mouth pursed as if her tea had turned sour.
"Miss Ashcombe," she said, her tone clipped. "Come closer. Let me get a proper look at the young woman who has so swiftly become a Wycliffe concern."
Evelyn stepped forward, resisting the urge to flinch.
"Lady Rosalind. Thank you for inviting me."
"Thank you for accepting. Though I imagine declining wasn't an option." Her smile was razor-thin. "Sit."
Evelyn obeyed.
"Cream?" Rosalind asked.
"Yes, please."
"Sugar?"
"Two."
Lady Rosalind dropped one cube in and stirred, not bothering with the second.
They sipped in silence for a moment. The air was thick with judgment.
"Tell me," Rosalind said, folding her hands. "Are you clever, Miss Ashcombe?"
Evelyn blinked. "I'd like to think so."
"Thinking so and being so are not the same. My nephew may be a man of mystery and control, but even he is not above making foolish choices when sentiment stirs."
She set her cup down. "You are beautiful, and from what I've heard, not entirely brainless. But your family's debts and social precariousness are not small things."
Evelyn met her gaze calmly.
"We are not without flaws, Lady Rosalind. But I respect the name I am to take."
Lady Rosalind snorted,"Respect is not love. Nor is it protection."
Evelyn's voice remained even. "Is that what you think I'm after? Protection?"
Rosalind tilted her head. "I think you are surviving, Miss Ashcombe. And I do not begrudge you that. But understand this, if you do anything to damage the Wycliffe name, the manor, or the reputation we've scraped together with blood, you will find I am far more dangerous than I appear."
There was a beat of silence.
Then Rosalind added, her voice softening minutely:
"But if you prove useful, loyal, and discreet... you may find an unexpected ally in me."
Evelyn set down her teacup.
"I have no intention of being a liability. Only a wife. And perhaps, in time, a duchess who does not flinch so easily."
Lady Rosalind's eyes narrowed. Then, just briefly, something like amusement flickered across her expression.
"We shall see."
Later That Evening - Lady Rosalind's Private Study
The fire had burned low, casting long, wavering shadows across the wood-paneled walls. Lady Rosalind sat at her writing desk, a decanter of port half-drained beside her, when the door creaked open.
Emilio, her son, stepped in.
He was younger than Nathaniel by a few years, lean and soft-eyed, but there was a nervous energy to him tonight, an edge that made him look older.
"You should be asleep," Rosalind said, without turning.
"I can't. Cousin is really getting married for real this time. Why didn't you stop him."
Rosalind's pen did not pause. "How can l stop him. He's the Duke and has the power to wed a thousand brides if he wishes to".
"Mother can be so calm like this. That's what worries me." Emilio's eyes narrowed.
She finally looked up.
"Speak plainly."
"If Nathaniel takes a wife and sires an heir, everything we've planned, everything we've invested in goes to dust." His voice sharpened. "We lose the estate, the investments, the title, all of it becomes his son's. Not mine. How can you not panic?"
Rosalind leaned back slowly in her chair.
"You think I haven't accounted for that?"
"He's never taken a wife before. Never even entertained the idea. Why now?"
She stood and walked to the fireplace, gazing into the embers.
"Because something in her appeals to him. Maybe her innocence. Maybe her fear. Maybe he simply wants something untouched to claim." She turned to her son, her voice cold and certain. "But it won't matter."
"How can you be so sure?" Emilio asked, his expression worried.
She crossed the room, stopping inches from him.
"Because I've known Nathaniel since he was a boy. Because I know what blood runs through his veins. Because I know the sins of his father... and the curse they left behind."
Emilio looked pale.
"You think...?"
"I know, Emilio." She laid a hand on his arm. "No woman will bear Nathaniel Wycliffe a child. Not Evelyn. Not anyone. And until that boy is laid to rest or disgraced... you are the future of the Wycliffe name."
He swallowed hard.
"And if he tries anyway?"
Rosalind's eyes glittered like cut glass.
"Then we will remind him quietly, thoroughly that some bloodlines were never meant to continue."
She turned away and poured herself another glass of port.
"Sleep, my darling. Your cousin may have found a bride. But he will never have an heir."