The drawing room had never looked so crowded.
There was a particular kind of silence in noble drawing rooms, the kind that didn't belong to peace but to performance. Silk skirts rustled like secrets. Tea was poured with dainty clinks and spoons stirred with unspoken tension. Everything polished. Everything tight-laced.
Lady Evelyn Wycliffe sat on a tufted settee at the mid-morning gathering, a plate of untouched lemon cakes on her lap and her gloves folded beside her. The duchess now, with an emerald brooch at her throat and gold thread in her sleeves.
Yet she didn't feel like royalty.
She felt like she'd been placed in a glass case, admired and untouched.
She'd thought herself safe for the morning. Nathaniel had departed shortly after breakfast to tend to "pressing matters" in the city. Their departure to Wycliffe Manor was postponed by a day.
She hadn't expected company. Certainly not this kind.
"Oh, Evelyn...Her Grace now, I must say! What a beautiful bride you were," cooed Lady Phoebe Ellington, her curls bouncing as she leaned in. "The lace on your gown! French, I presume? So terribly expensive."
"Yes, it was," Evelyn replied, gently. "Thank you, Phoebe."
"I heard it was stitched in Paris itself," added another young woman. "You must tell me if it was Baroness Olivet who designed the veil."
Evelyn said nothing. Only smile.
"I simply had to congratulate you," Lady Celia said, taking the adjacent seat and smoothing her skirts. "The wedding was splendid. Truly. The cathedral has never seen such lavish roses, and of course, the groom…"
She trailed off with a knowing hum.
Evelyn stiffened. "The Duke was… generous."
"Ah," Celia said, sipping her tea, "such generosity. I imagine it must be quite an adjustment, stepping into the Wycliffe estate. I daresay no one truly knows the duke."
Evelyn's gaze cooled. "I'm doing my best."
"I don't doubt that. My mother said a wife should do the most to please her husband especially a man of such importance. "
Before Evelyn could answer, the door opened again.
And in swept Lady Honora Belgrave.
The room seemed to shift around her. She wore dove grey trimmed in jet beads, far too somber for a congratulatory visit. But Honora had never bothered much with subtlety.
She smiled as she approached Evelyn, a smile so polished, it shone like a blade.
"My dearest Evelyn. How quickly time turns. It feels like only yesterday we were children together at Lady Whitcombe's garden parties."
"And now I am married," Evelyn said softly, bracing herself.
"Yes, to the Duke of Wycliffe no less," Honora said, pausing just long enough for the weight of the name to land. "How… brave of you."
"Brave?" asked one of the ladies, blinking.
Honora sat beside Evelyn, laying a gloved hand over hers. Her touch was soft. Her tone was not.
"Oh, come now. We're among friends." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper that the entire room could hear. "Surely you've heard the whispers."
The room fell still.
Evelyn tried to keep her expression even. "What whispers?"
Honora's eyes gleamed. "About the Duke's... predilections. Certain tastes. Certain… arrangements."
A few of the girls shifted uncomfortably. One coughed into her glove.
Evelyn's voice was tight. "I'm not sure I follow."
The breath caught in Evelyn's chest.
"What habits?"
Honora gave a delicate shrug. "Nothing explicit. Of course. Merely whispers, you know. No woman's reputation is safe if she dwells too long on them. But some say he's… well, particular in his tastes. Rather singular."
Evelyn's heart thudded. She had whispered something similar to her on her wedding day too.
"What are you implying?"
"Nothing" Honora tilted her head, faux innocent. "I just hope you're not too shocked on your first real night at Wycliffe. I've always thought you too gentle for the more… baroque corners of a marriage bed."
Phoebe gasped, half amusement, half outrage. "Lady Honora, really..."
"Oh please," Honora said smoothly, "everyone knows the Wycliffe line has always run... unconventional. Some say the old duke was just as..."
"Honora," Evelyn interrupted, voice low, "what are you getting at?"
Honora leaned in, her breath perfumed and poisonous. "Only that you should prepare yourself, darling. The Duke has a reputation. One that doesn't often align with… softness."
She sat back, as if she'd paid a compliment.
The tea tasted bitter in Evelyn's mouth, though she hadn't even sipped.
Honora touched her arm lightly. "I only mention it to be helpful. I should hate for you to be caught unawares."
Evelyn held her gaze. "If there's something I need to know about my husband, I'll ask him."
Lady Belgrave's smile tightened. "Of course."
But the damage had been done.
The words hung over her for the rest of the gathering. Evelyn drifted from polite conversation, her fingers numb against the rim of her teacup, her eyes tracking the wallpaper patterns like they might distract her.
Cora, who had been standing stiffly by the mantle, moved forward with the teapot. "Would anyone like a fresh pour?" Her tone was bright and falsely sweet, so obviously defensive, it made Evelyn's throat tighten.
"No thank you," Evelyn whispered.
"Oh, Evelyn, don't look so worried," Lady Beatrice offered from the corner. Honora's cousin. She wore a sly smile, enjoying the spectacle. "A little mystery in a man keeps things exciting. Surely you knew what you were marrying."
The others tittered, some halfhearted, others gleeful.
"I married a duke," Evelyn said, more to herself than the room. "Not a myth."
But even as the words left her mouth, they felt uncertain.
Honora rose. "Well, I mustn't stay. Just thought I'd extend my congratulations. Do rest, Evelyn. You'll need it."
With a last, poisoned smile, she swept from the room, satisfied with the cracks she'd left in her wake.
One by one, the others followed, offering air kisses and hollow farewells.
When the door finally closed and the last carriage rolled off, Evelyn slumped in her chair, face pale.
Cora knelt by her side. "Don't listen to them. They don't know a damn thing."
Evelyn gave her a shaky smile. "But what if they do?"
She looked toward the window, where her mother's roses bloomed in soft, careless pinks.
What lay ahead at Wycliffe Manor?
A husband she barely knew.
A house filled with rumors.
And a bed she wasn't sure she wanted to share.
Nathaniel had kissed her only once. Touched her like a man possessed, but said so little. Was that coldness his nature… or was it restraint?
And what had Honora meant by salons?
That night, Evelyn found herself wandering the library, the marble floors cold beneath her slippers. The scent of leather and parchment calmed her somewhat, but not entirely. Not when the thought of him lingered between the pages.
She found him there.
Nathaniel stood by the hearth, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, reading a letter by firelight. His profile was sharp as a statue's, his expression unreadable.
She approached quietly.
He didn't look up. "Do you make a habit of walking in unannounced, wife?"
"You didn't knock either," she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
He folded the letter. "Are we keeping score?"
"Should we?"
He glanced at her then. "What's wrong?"
She swallowed. "I spoke with Lady Belgrave today."
That earned his full attention.
"And what did the minister's daughter have to say?"
"She implied things. About you."
He said nothing. Just watched her. And waited.
"She said you frequented… salons in Paris. Private ones. That you had particular tastes."
He stepped away from the fire, slow and calm. "Did she mention what those tastes were?"
"No," Evelyn said. "Just that I should be careful."
Nathaniel circled the chair between them. "And are you?"
"Careful?" She wondered.
"No," he said softly. "Afraid."
She straightened her spine. "I don't want to be."
"Good."
He stopped in front her and said, "You listen to the gossip from the mouths of others who knows nothing about what they're talking about. As a duchess, it's demeaning."
"But is there truth?"
He reached for her. Traced her lower lip with his thumb. "If I tell you I've visited places where desire isn't diluted by shame… will you think less of me?"
Evelyn's breath caught. "No."
"If I tell you I've seen things… done things… that would make your cheeks burn, would you run?"
She shook her head.
"I'd ask you to look at me," she said, "and tell me who you really are."
His hands cupped her face.
"I'm a man who was raised to own everything he touched. And for the first time, I've touched something I don't want to break."
That admission landed harder than any threat.
She leaned into him, trembled when his lips brushed her temple. The fire cracked again behind them.
"I don't want to be a thing," she whispered.
"You're not."
"I want to matter."
"You do."
And when he kissed her again, it was not with hunger, but with a strange gentleness that terrified her more than roughness ever could.
Because gentleness meant risk.
It meant feeling.
And Evelyn didn't know if she was ready to feel all of him just yet.