The sky was pale when Evelyn awoke, the kind of gray that promised rain by afternoon. A gentle breeze stirred the gauze curtains of her bedroom, fluttering them like ghosts of thoughts she hadn't dared to speak aloud.
Outside, bells were ringing. Church bells. Perhaps a wedding. Not hers.
Not yet.
But soon.
"Lady Evelyn," said Mrs. Adley, her appointed lady's maid, "we've received confirmation from the Duke's estate. The housekeeper awaits your arrival next week. She wishes to know your preferences in furnishings, wardrobe storage, and pardon....the layout of the master suite."
Evelyn looked up from her writing desk, pen still in hand. She had been composing a thank-you note to a baroness she didn't like, for a dress she didn't want.
"The master suite?" she asked, voice brittle.
Mrs. Adley hesitated. "Yes, my lady. You will be sharing quarters with the Duke."
Evelyn's spine straightened, prim as a corset rod.
"I see."
Mrs. Adley did not comment further. She bowed slightly and left the room.
Evelyn stood before the mirror for a long time that evening.
The dressmaker had come that morning with the final wedding gown fitting: ivory silk, hand-sewn pearls, a bodice so tightly structured it left little room to breathe.
"You'll make every woman at the ceremony weep with envy," the seamstress had said proudly. "You'll look every bit the duchess."
But Evelyn wasn't thinking of envy. Or pearls.
She was thinking about what it meant to share a bed with a man like Nathaniel Wycliffe.
Their engagement had been mostly cold by design. Formal dinners. Polite appearances. Fleeting glances and rare touches.
But there had been moments of glimmers.
One night, after a gathering, he had kissed her once without warning. His hand had been rough beneath her chin, his mouth unapologetic. She had gasped into it, her body startling to life like a struck match.
And then he had left her standing there.
Since then, she'd dreamed of him more than she dared admit.
Not the man. The mouth. The hands. The heat.
It infuriated her.
She hadn't asked for desire.
She had asked for survival.
That night, Evelyn found herself walking alone in the gardens. Moonlight bathed the hedgerows, and the flowers were heavy with dew. The air was scented with honeysuckle and the sweet rot of dying roses.
She wasn't surprised when she heard footsteps behind her.
"You should be asleep," came Nathaniel's voice, low and quiet.
"You're not."
"I rarely sleep much before a journey."
She turned slowly to face him. "Is that what this is? A journey?"
His gaze lingered on her mouth for a beat too long.
"No. That begins after the vows."
A shiver danced up her spine.
"I suppose you've come to remind me," she said bitterly. "To keep my place. To honor duty. To become a duchess in a dress that doesn't breathe."
Nathaniel stepped closer. "I came to see if you would run."
"Would you stop me if I did?"
His eyes were unreadable. "No. But you wouldn't get far. Not from yourself."
Her heart thudded.
He reached out, not to touch her, but to brush a strand of hair from her face. His knuckles grazed her cheek like a question.
"Evelyn," he said softly. "You don't know what waits behind the door you're about to walk through."
She swallowed. "Then tell me."
A pause.
Then, with maddening restraint, he stepped back.
"No."
Anger flared. "You want me obedient but not informed?" She asked.
"I want you brave enough to learn."
"By fire?"
"By desire."
She didn't know if she hated him or wanted him in that moment. Maybe both.
Probably both.
Later that night, Evelyn stood in her room, barefoot, clutching another nightgown she didn't recognize. It had arrived in a box tied with black ribbon. No note, just scent of a perfume that wasn't hers.
The nightgown was also silk and more revealing than the last one. Sheer. Scandalously sheer.
Not meant for sleep.
She stared at it. Her breath caught.
How can a duke be so shameless. She thought.
She didn't put it on.
But she didn't throw it away either.
The next morning, she bathed in rose oil and allowed Mrs. Adley to lace her into a traveling dress of sapphire blue. It was the color of bruises. Of secrets. Of sea storms.
"The Duke is ready," said the footman at her door.
She stepped out into the hall and saw him waiting beside the carriage.
He looked like sin dressed in mourning black coat, gray gloves, and a hat tipped low over shadowed eyes.
As she reached him, he offered his hand.
Not a word passed between them.
She took it anyway.
He helped her into the carriage.
And they rode away toward a wedding she hadn't asked for, bound by silence and duty.