Ashcombe Hall,
The sky had the nerve to be beautiful.
Blue as a robin's egg, dotted with trailing clouds, as if nature itself had dressed for the occasion. But within the grand, echoing halls of Ashcombe, the atmosphere was suffocating. Flowers choked the air with perfume-lilies, garden roses, white peonies all symbols of purity and wealth. Servants moved like ghosts down the corridors, murmuring congratulations that felt like mourning rites.
Lady Evelyn Ashcombe stood before a mirror so tall it dwarfed her. It reflected her in full corseted, gloved, veiled. A stranger in white silk. Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the lace at her wrist.
"You look like a queen," said Lady Pamela quietly behind her, the only friend she had left from childhood. "A tragic queen, but still."
Evelyn let out a soft breath, the closest she could allow herself to laughter.
"I feel like a prize mare," she said. "Polished. Paraded and sold."
Pamela's gaze lowered. "It's not too late. We could run. Disappear into the country. Or France. I know someone in Calais..."
"No," Evelyn interrupted. "The Ashcombe name is already bankrupt. If I run now, it will be ruined."
And her father would be humiliated. She could still see him, that broken man seated in the drawing room weeks ago, whisky shaking in hand, begging for her to save them with a marriage.
She swallowed hard.
Outside, the carriages had begun to arrive. Nobles, barons, and socialites in absurd hats and tight shoes were arriving in droves, gossiping already. She could hear the murmur through the stone walls. She knew what they would say. That it was a match of desperation. That the bride came with no dowry. That the Duke of Wycliffe was too enigmatic, too cold, too...
Too dangerous.
Evelyn turned toward the mirror again. Her gown was an opulent creation of Parisian lace and London tailoring. The neckline dipped scandalously low. The corset beneath it pressed her ribs like a steel hand. She looked... expensive.
"You don't have to love him," Pamela said softly. "Just survive him."
Evelyn's mouth twisted. "That's hardly reassuring."
Then the door creaked open and her father stepped in.
"Darling Evelyn," he said.
He was dressed in black, but he had made an effort, his cravat straight, his cuffs clean. Yet his eyes betrayed it all. Red-rimmed. Ashamed.
"You look like your mother would have," he rasped.
"I doubt she'd be marrying a man she's met only a handful of times."
He looked away, throat bobbing. "I failed you, my girl. I've recklessly spend too much, drank too much. And now you're paying the price. I hope someday you can..."
"Papa," she said, walking forward. "It's done. Let's not ruin what little ceremony we have left."
He nodded. There were tears in his eyes. She didn't want them. Not today.
Later That Morning
The small private chapel on Nathaniel's estate was grander than most cathedrals. Its high vaulted ceilings stretched like reaching arms. Candles lined the long pews, bathing everything in soft golden light. Red rose petals had been scattered down the aisle, though Evelyn doubted Nathaniel had anything to do with that detail.
He was a man who spoke with silence.
And now, there he stood at the altar. Tall, broad-shouldered, impeccably dressed in a dark suit with a waistcoat of deep navy. His black hair was brushed back, lips firm, eyes unreadable.
He did not smile when she walked toward him.
Nor did she.
Her father escorted her down the aisle with stiff, trembling dignity. Gasps echoed as she passed; not for her beauty, but for the daring slit in the front of her gown, the bare skin of her collarbones. Whispers about a desperate bride willing to tempt a dangerous man.
Nathaniel did not offer his hand.
She stepped into place beside him, heart thudding like a drum. She could feel the heat of him, though they did not touch. The clergyman began to speak, but the words were distant, like surf crashing on some far-off shore.
She glanced sideways. His profile was carved of marble. No warmth. No welcome.
Then his voice: deep, cool, certain.
"I do."
The vow struck her like thunder. She hadn't expected it to move her. And yet…
When it was her turn, her mouth went dry.
Say it. Say it.
"I... do."
The Kiss
"You may kiss the bride," the clergyman said.
The words sounded obscene.
Nathaniel turned to her, and for the first time since she'd stepped into that chapel, his eyes truly met hers. There was no affection there. But something else. Possession. Hunger cloaked in civility.
He lifted her veil slowly, deliberately.
She didn't move.
His hand was warm as it touched her jaw. His lips were firm, barely grazing hers. It was not a kiss of romance. It was a claim.
When he pulled back, her heart was thudding so loudly she could barely hear the applause.
The marriage had begun.
Reception -That Afternoon
The gardens were a feast of white tents, champagne towers, and musicians playing delicate waltzes. But Evelyn felt like a porcelain figure on a display stand. Nobles approached with rehearsed flattery. Nathaniel was cordial but distant, only speaking when etiquette demanded.
They were seen. Toasted.
He did not once take her hand.
When Lady Belgrave, with her too-red lips and vulture smile, approached to offer congratulations, she leaned in just enough to whisper: "You do know what they say, don't you? About what he likes in bed?"
Evelyn froze.
"Oh, my dear," Lady Belgrave laughed, "you'll find out soon enough."
Later that Night.
The scent of roses was everywhere. Sickly sweet. Cloying.
Evelyn stood in the doorway of her bedchamber, barely recognizing it. The pale lilac wallpaper she'd loved as a girl had been replaced with ivory silk. The wooden dressing table was gone and replaced with a lacquered vanity draped in lace. Candles flickered from every corner. Petals scattered over the bedding in theatrical handfuls. Her mother's doing, no doubt.
A bride's chamber.
She stepped inside slowly, her silk skirts whispering over the floor. The bed loomed large and unfamiliar, as if even it knew its purpose had changed.
Behind her, the sound of polished boots against the floorboards signaled his entrance.
Nathaniel closed the door quietly. He did not look around. He didn't need to. His presence filled the room regardless.
Evelyn's pulse picked up.
He looked composed, as always. Immaculate shirt sleeves. Waistcoat unbuttoned. Cravat loosened at the throat. Just enough to remind her they were no longer in company.
He glanced toward the bed, then at her. "It seems your mother went to some trouble."
She gave a small, tight nod.
Neither of them moved closer.
The silence stretched.
Evelyn cleared her throat. "There's… only one bed."
A slight smile touched his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Yes. That is customary."
She looked away, her fingers curling into the soft silk at her sides. The candles crackled in the quiet, casting a golden glow over the velvet curtains. She could still see her childhood out the window - the garden hedges, the fountain she used to run past.
Now she was someone's wife. A duchess.
His wife.
And he was watching her with a stillness that made her tremble more than any violence might have.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and unreadable. "I'll take the chair."
She looked up. "What?"
He gestured faintly to the upholstered chair in the corner near the fire. "You're clearly exhausted. There's no need for ceremony tonight."
She stared at him. Confused. Relieved. Embarrassed by her own relief.
"I…" She swallowed. "Thank you."
He nodded once. Then, as if it were settled, he removed his coat and folded it over the chair's back. The firelight kissed his profile, sharp cheekbones, unreadable mouth.
Evelyn turned away and walked to the dressing screen, her hands trembling slightly as she undid the buttons of her gown. Behind the silk partition, she slipped into her nightgown, her mother's choice, of course. Ivory with lace trim. Virginal and delicate.
She padded back to the bed, climbed in carefully, and pulled the coverlet up to her chest.
Nathaniel sat in the chair, one leg crossed over the other. He looked like a man in a study, not a honeymoon suite.
"I won't ask for anything you're not ready to give," he said quietly. "But we are married. And marriage, Evelyn, will come with its demands. Just not tonight."
His voice held no threat. Only certainty. Inevitable, like gravity.
Evelyn nodded, unable to speak.
She lay back against the pillows, eyes fixed on the carved ceiling beams, her heart still fluttering like a trapped bird.
Eventually, the candlelight dimmed.
She heard the quiet creak of the chair as he shifted, perhaps settling in for a sleepless night.
Sleep did not come easily for her either.
But as the clock in the hall chimed midnight, her last thought before slipping under was this:
He hadn't touched her.
And that, somehow, made his presence even more terrifying.