Morning, the Great Hall
The long oak doors to the great hall creaked open, and Evelyn entered. Mrs. Carroway was already waiting, standing with impeccable posture at the front of a neat line of servants. Sunlight filtered in through tall arched windows, pooling across the polished floor.
Evelyn drew in a breath.
This was her first moment of real authority as Duchess of Wycliffe.
Mrs. Carroway stepped forward. "Your Grace," she said with a slight curtsy. "Allow me to present the household."
Evelyn nodded, her chin lifted slightly, trying to quiet the flutter in her chest.
There were at least thirty in attendance; footmen, maids, gardeners, a cook, and a liveried butler near the end of the row. Each bowed or curtsied as Mrs. Carroway introduced them in turn.
Beneath her composed expression, Evelyn's mind raced to remember names: Mr. Pelham the butler. Agnes and Tilly, the chambermaids. Cook, just Cook. Julio, the stablemaster, who offered a curt nod and smelled faintly of hay.
Then there was Mrs. Carroway herself. Tall, grey-eyed, with a mouth set in a line that rarely curved. She held herself like a general surveying a battlefield.
"Should you require anything," she said, "it will be handled. If discretion is needed, you'll find it here."
There was something in her voice, firm, almost possessive that Evelyn couldn't quite read.
"Thank you," Evelyn said. "I know it takes time for a household to adjust to change. I only ask for your patience. And your honesty."
A few heads lifted, surprised at the warmth in her tone.
Mrs. Carroway nodded once, clearly approving. "Very well, Your Grace. Breakfast is ready in the east dining room. Shall I have it served?"
"Yes, please. And thank you, all of you."
As the servants dispersed with a murmur of acknowledgment, Evelyn caught Julio lingering behind. His eyes met hers, calm, almost curious and then he was gone.
She turned to Mrs. Carroway as they walked toward the stairs. "I'm sure you've seen more duchesses than I have fingers," Evelyn said dryly.
The housekeeper allowed herself a faint smile. "Perhaps. But few of them ever asked for honesty."
That stayed with Evelyn long after the doors closed behind her.
Later that afternoon, Evelyn was invited to a private tea by Lady Rosalind.
Lady Rosalind was seated by the tall windows, a silver tea service laid out before her, gloved hands folded neatly in her lap. Her steel-grey gown was immaculate, a cameo at her throat. She looked like she'd stepped out of a portrait and perhaps knew it.
"Ah, Evelyn." She didn't rise, but gestured toward the opposite chair. "Come. Sit."
Evelyn complied, smoothing her skirts. Today's dress was a deep forest green, chosen carefully with a maid's help. Subtle but commanding.
Rosalind poured tea with mechanical grace. "Milk?"
"Yes, thank you."
"Sugar?"
"Just one."
This familiar scene reminded Evelyn of her first meet with her. She couldn't help but smile a little.
They sipped tea in silence for a moment. Then Rosalind spoke, eyes never leaving her cup.
"The staff seemed pleased."
"I hope so," Evelyn replied. "I was nervous."
"Good. That means you haven't grown too proud yet."
Evelyn blinked.
Rosalind looked up at her now, the scrutiny unmistakable. "You may find the house will accept you faster than society. Wycliffe's walls are old. They've seen many faces, many women trying to carve themselves into something presentable."
Evelyn held her gaze. "And how many succeeded?"
Rosalind arched a brow. "That's a matter of opinion."
They paused again. A breeze stirred the curtains. Evelyn took another sip, then said, "Juliana has been very kind."
"She's still young," Rosalind said. "And still foolish. She hasn't yet learned that kindness is a luxury most women can't afford, not in homes like this."
It wasn't cruelty but something else: a brutal honesty Evelyn recognized.
"I'd like to make this home," Evelyn said quietly.
Rosalind's eyes sharpened. "Then make it. But do not expect it to welcome you like a daughter. You must make yourself a duchess before anyone else will see you as one."
Evelyn nodded, letting the words sink in.
"I intend to try."
Lady Rosalind finally smiled, just barely.
"Good. That's more than most ever manage."
That evening, dinner was a silent affair as the four had to eat without Nathaniel. He had been busy in the study and hadn't come down. No one dared to disturbed him. Evelyn retired to bed after chatting with Juliana for a while.
The fire had died low in the hearth, but the air in Evelyn's chambers was anything but cold.
She stood by the window in a silk robe, the moonlight bathing her in silver. Her thoughts tangled. Last night's passion still thrummed through her veins like a second heartbeat. The memory of Nathaniel's hands, his mouth, the way he had devoured her slowly, had kept her restless well into dawn.
And now…he was back.
She turned at the sound of the door closing behind her. He was there—coat off, waistcoat unfastened, hair still damp from the cold night air. Nathaniel.
He didn't say a word. He never did unless he have to, not in these moments.
Their eyes locked. A silent understanding passed between them.
Evelyn swallowed hard. "You didn't come to dinner," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I wasn't hungry," he replied simply, stepping closer.
She felt her breath catch as he reached her. His hands found her waist, rough fingers sliding along the silk fabric. She gasped softly as he pressed her back gently against the wall, one hand lifting to cup her jaw.
"You're shaking," he murmured.
"I'm not cold."
That earned the barest smirk from him. "No," he said, his voice low. "You're not."
His lips met hers, fierce and full of barely leashed restraint. He tasted like whiskey and cold fire, like something dangerous she couldn't resist. His hands cupped her jaw, then tangled in her hair as she arched into him, her robe slipping off her shoulders.
She clung to his shoulders, pulling him closer. Her robe fell open and his touch burned against her bare skin, fingers tracing up her ribs, brushing the curve of her breast. Evelyn arched into him, heart pounding, her body desperate to finish what had begun.
His mouth trailed down her neck, leaving a path of heat and ache. She felt his restraint pulling thin with tension humming just beneath his skin.
Evelyn gasped as he pressed her back against the bedpost, his thigh sliding between hers, parting them. His mouth moved down her throat, to the swell of her breast, biting just enough to make her cry out softly.
"My Lord..."
"Quiet," he growled against her skin. "I want to hear you breathe."
His hand slid between her thighs, slow and sinful, teasing her through thin silk. She trembled, clutching at his shirt, her knees almost giving out. He pushed her onto the bed, following her down, kissing her hard then stopping.
Just as he began to undo the last button of his shirt, a knock shattered the silence.
Three beats. Firm. Unapologetic.
Nathaniel cursed under his breath, lowering her slowly, his body taut with unspent desire. Evelyn clung to him, dazed, her legs trembling.
"What is it?" he barked, his voice suddenly sharp.
A muffled voice answered through the door. "Forgive the hour, Your Grace. A royal messenger has arrived. A sealed letter. Marked urgent."
Nathaniel pulled away. The chill returned to his face like a mask snapping into place. His jaw ticked once. "Wait here."
He stepped out, fastening his waistcoat, leaving Evelyn breathless, aching, and alone in the soft moonlight.
She exhaled shakily, fingers curling in the folds of her robe. The fire had gone out completely now. But her skin still burned.