Lady Evelyn Ashcombe had always imagined wedding preparations would feel joyful. A dream spun in lace and laughter.
Instead, each morning felt heavier than the last.
As maids swept into her chambers, measuring tapes in hand and bolts of silk rustling like whispers, Evelyn sat frozen on a velvet stool, clutching a cup of cooling tea.
"Chin up, my lady," chirped the dressmaker, Madame Bellamy, a Frenchwoman with a discerning eye and no patience for hesitation. "A duchess cannot look like a frightened rabbit. We are sculpting a masterpiece, not dressing a girl for a funeral."
"A masterpiece to please my jailor," Evelyn muttered under her breath.
"Did you say something, my lady?"
Evelyn smiled tightly. "Just musing on the embroidery."
Bellamy clucked her tongue and waved her assistants forward. Fine silks and delicate Chantilly lace were draped over Evelyn's shoulders. Her engagement gown would be a vision of pale gold with embroidered roses, soft as moonlight, and deceptively fragile.
But it was the corset that changed everything.
It was not the demure, tightly laced sort Evelyn had grown up with but this one was sleek and subtly constricting, made with imported whalebone, satin ribbon, and a single hook in the back that only fastened if the wearer stood perfectly straight. It reshaped her and elevated her posture, pushed her breasts up, and narrowed her waist into a vulnerable, waspish line.
"This isn't… modest," Evelyn protested as the maid pulled the laces tight.
Madame Bellamy's eyes gleamed. "It is not meant to be modest. It is meant to be remembered."
The air was thick with perfume and expectation.
Then, suddenly a cold voice came in "Leave us."
Evelyn was startled.
The voice came from the doorway.
Lord Nathaniel Wycliffe.
Her maids dropped into deep curtsies, scurrying away. Bellamy hesitated, clearly irritated, but obeyed.
Evelyn stood in only her shift, corset, and stockings, arms crossing instinctively over her chest. Her cheeks flushed red.
Nathaniel stepped into the room, his gaze cool but hungry. "Don't cover yourself. I asked to see the fittings for a reason."
"I'm not a mannequin," she snapped.
"No," he agreed, circling her slowly. "You're a woman I intend to marry. And undress. And corrupt thoroughly."
"You speak of corruption as if it's courtship." Evelyn's voice trembled, looking down nervously at her provocative attire.
"For me, it is." Nathaniel cooed.
Her breath hitched.
"You'll wear this on our wedding night," he said, brushing a hand over the silk. "No other fabric should touch you first. Not until I do."
His fingers ghosted along her waist, pausing at the tightest point of the corset.
"You resent it, don't you? The restriction. The way it forces you into shape."
"I resent being molded." She replied curtly.
His lips curved faintly. "And yet, part of you aches for it."
She opened her mouth to protest but nothing came.
Because it was true. The corset forced her to stand straighter, breathe shallower, feel more.
She didn't feel dainty.
She felt… exposed. Controlled.
And it burned somewhere deep inside her.
"I will not be broken," she whispered.
"No," he said, leaning close. "You'll bend, willingly. And that is infinitely sweeter."
Then he left, without touching her again.
Later that afternoon, Evelyn found herself in the drawing room with Lady Pamela, who'd returned to help plan the flower arrangements. But her friend noticed something immediately.
"You're quiet."
"I'm tired."
"You're glowing."
"I am not."
"Evelyn," Pamela said slowly, "has he touched you?"
Evelyn swallowed. "Not beyond a kiss."
"But you want him to."
It wasn't a question.
"I don't know what I want anymore," Evelyn admitted, twisting a silk ribbon in her fingers. "He terrifies me. But when he's near, I can't breathe. And when he's gone, I can't think."
Pamela reached out. "You must be careful. Desire is not the same as trust."
Evelyn stared at her. "Have you ever wanted someone so badly it made you ashamed of yourself?"
Honora's gaze dropped. "Yes."
There was silence between them.
Finally, Evelyn stood. "Help me choose the roses. Everything else is unraveling so I'd like to get something right."
By evening, Evelyn returned to her room to find a box resting on her bed.
A note was tucked beneath a velvet ribbon.
"Wear this when you think of me. It's not a command. It's a promise. N."
Inside, nestled in midnight blue silk, was a pair of silk stockings and a garter of jet-black lace. At the center was a single embroidered rose.
She felt the breath leave her lungs.
It was obscene.
And beautiful.
She stared at it for a long moment but then slammed the box shut and locked it in the bottom drawer of her vanity.
She couldn't destroy it.
But she couldn't wear it.
The morning sun poured softly through the tall windows of the Ashcombe townhouse, falling in golden rectangles across the embroidered carpet. Evelyn sat stiffly on the rose settee in her mother's sitting room, hands clasped tightly in her lap.
Lady Ashcombe closed the door behind her with deliberate grace. She was not only Evelyn's stepmother but also her deceased mother's sister. She had married her father after her own husband had passed away so that she could raise them.
"I've sent the maids away," she said, smoothing her skirts as she took the seat across from her daughter. "What I have to say is not for the ears of servants."
Evelyn swallowed. "Yes, Mama?"
Her stepmother's pale eyes, cool and calculating, studied her for a long moment. Then, with a sigh, she reached for her tea, stirred it once, and set it down untouched.
"You will be a duchess within the fortnight. That comes with responsibilities beyond wearing tiaras and issuing invitations."
Evelyn nodded, nerves prickling beneath her corset. "Yes, I know."
"You don't," Lady Ashcombe said crisply. "But you will. And I intend to make certain you're not entirely ignorant when your husband takes you to his bed."
Evelyn's cheeks flamed. "Mama...!"
"Oh, don't be silly," she waved a gloved hand. "There's no virtue in entering marriage as a blushing lamb. A man like the Duke of Wycliffe will expect you to be obedient in society and eager in the sheets."
"I...I don't wish to hear..."
"Hush, Evelyn. This is important." Lady Ashcombe leaned forward slightly, her voice firm but not unkind. "Your husband is a man of particular tastes. Older, yes, but wealthy, titled, and used to power. Do not mistake his politeness now for softness. Once you are wed, he will want what is his. You."
Evelyn could barely meet her mother's eyes.
"And you must give it to him," Lady Ashcombe continued. "Willingly. With grace. And, at times, a touch of... enthusiasm."
Evelyn made a strangled sound. Her ears felt hot.
Her mother, unbothered, went on. "The marriage bed is not simply a place for duty but it is leverage. If you make him desire you, he will grant you freedoms. Indulgences. Perhaps even kindness."
"How do you expect me to..."
"To begin with," Lady Ashcombe said, lifting her cup at last, "you must not lie there like a statue. Men like women who respond. Breathe heavily. Make sounds, if you must. Touch him. Don't shrink from the weight of him but pull him closer."
"Mama!"
"Oh, Evelyn, really," she said briskly. "You'll survive. I did. Twice. With far worse than Nathaniel Wycliffe, let me assure you. Now, listen carefully. Once the act is done, you must take steps. Elevate your hips with a pillow. Do not rise too quickly."
"What?" Evelyn was practically strangling on her tea now.
"You heard me. We must ensure conception takes hold."
Evelyn blinked at her, appalled.
"You must give him an heir," Lady Ashcombe said firmly. "As soon as possible. Do it swiftly, and your place will be secure. He will treat you better once your belly swells. It reminds men they are powerful."
A long silence.
Evelyn looked down, face burning, heart galloping.
"Must I... enjoy it?" she asked faintly.
Lady Ashcombe's mouth twitched. "Enjoyment is a pleasant accident, but hardly the point. You must pretend to, at the very least. That is what respectable wives do."
Evelyn said nothing. Her hands trembled slightly in her lap.
Lady Ashcombe rose, brushing imaginary dust from her sleeves. "It is not all corsets and candlelight, darling. You must be clever. Use the marriage bed to make him believe you are pliant and pleasing, and you may shape your life more than you think."
She reached out and tucked a stray curl behind Evelyn's ear.
"Be brave. Be cunning. And for heaven's sake, don't act as though your body is some sacred relic. It's a tool. Learn to wield it."
And with that, she turned and left the room.
Evelyn sat frozen, the sunlight now too bright, too hot on her skin.