The study was lit only by a single lamp. Nathaniel stood at his desk, the wax seal already broken, the parchment unfolded with careful, practiced hands.
Nathaniel stood by the hearth, still dressed in his open shirt and coat. The letter from the King's Court lay in his hand, the wax seal broken cleanly, the edges already smudged with oil from his fingers. He read it again, though he'd already memorized every word.
"His Majesty is gravely unwell . The Queen has summoned trusted allies. A closed council will be held within the fortnight. All noble houses must send their voice. The Duke of Wycliffe is expected to show his loyalties remain unchanged."
Nathaniel exhaled through his nose, folding the letter slowly. He turned the letter over, saw the insignia burned into the parchment's edge, the Queen's own seal. And that was when the decision was made. He had to go to London. Not a flicker of emotion crossed his face. Not fear, not surprise.
He walked to the hearth and tossed the parchment into the flames, watching it curl and blacken in the blaze. Only then did he speak aloud though only to the fire.
"So it begins."
Nathaniel's jaw tensed.
The King had ruled too long, too stubbornly, ignoring the shifts in court, the plots of reform, and the hungry ambitions of younger lords eager to redraw the lines of power. Nathaniel had always played his cards close, never swearing full allegiance to the monarch's inner court, nor aligning openly with the opposition.
But now?
Now the chessboard was changing. And he was no longer free to linger on the sidelines.
"Expected," he muttered to himself. "Not requested."
He poured another glass of dark liquor and walked to the window, looking out at the sleeping grounds of Wycliffe. The wind stirred the hedges below, but his gaze was fixed on something farther - something neither trees nor stone could hold.
The King's death would change everything. The court would fracture like ice under a boot. Old promises would be dredged up. Old alliances tested. Old sins remembered.
And Nathaniel Wycliffe had sins worth remembering.
He stared at the embers
Wycliffe was a title, but Nathaniel had inherited far more than land or prestige.
He had inherited ghosts as well.
A soft knock at the study door barely drew his attention.
"Yes," he said, without turning.
Mrs. Carroway entered, always quiet, always composed.
"Shall I inform the duchess that Your Grace will not be returning to her chambers tonight?"
He nodded once, glass still in hand. "Yes."
"She may ask why."
Nathaniel's jaw twitched. "Then tell her l have things to do."
Meanwhile – Evelyn's Bedchamber
The candle had nearly burned to the base when Evelyn turned her face toward the door once again. It remained closed. Her skin still bore the memory of Nathaniel's touch, but the warmth was fading now, replaced by the silence of an empty room.
She curled up under the velvet covers, the silk of her nightdress clinging to her thighs. Her thoughts drifted to the kiss they had shared, the way he had looked at her, and then… the way he had left.
She stared up at the canopy above, tracing the gold stitching with her eyes, but finding no comfort.
I should have asked him about Cora, she thought. She would've made this room feel less like a stranger's tomb.
She missed her lady's maid. Cora would've known how to ease her mind, how to make her laugh with some foolish gossip from the kitchens or the town. And she would've brushed Evelyn's hair, told her she looked beautiful even if she didn't believe it herself.
I'll ask him tomorrow. I want her here.
She sat up as a knock tapped against the door.
It opened to reveal a thin, freckled maid with downcast eyes. One Evelyn had not yet learned the name of.
"Yes?" Evelyn asked, lifting her chin.
The girl curtsied. "Begging your pardon, Your Grace. The Duke asked me to inform you he won't be returning to your chambers tonight."
A pause.
"He said you are not to wait up."
Evelyn swallowed. "I see. Thank you."
The door closed.
And Evelyn lay back down, staring once more at the ceiling.
The covers felt too heavy. The room too wide.
She had expected loneliness.
But she hadn't expected it to feel so cold, so soon.
The Next Morning
The morning broke gray and low-hanging, the clouds swathed like mourning veils across the Wycliffe sky. The courtyard below echoed with the crunch of boots and the snort of horses being readied.
Evelyn stood at the window of her chamber, arms wrapped tightly around her dressing gown, watching the small entourage being prepared for travel.
A valet handed a sealed satchel to the footman. Another adjusted the straps on the Duke's stallion. The air was thick with quiet purpose.
Nathaniel was leaving.
She had not seen him since the knock the night before.
She heard the door open behind her, and for a breathless second, she thought and hoped it was him. But it was Mrs. Carroway.
"His Grace requests your presence in the front hall," the housekeeper said, her face unreadable as always. "He departs within the hour."
Evelyn dressed quickly, brushing her hair back into a simple twist and wrapping a dark shawl over her pale morning dress. The stone floor felt colder than usual beneath her slippers as she moved briskly through the manor.
She found him already gloved, his long coat draped over his shoulders, sword strapped at his side. He was a man carved out of granite and snow, immovable and impeccable.
Nathaniel glanced up as she entered. "You're late."
"I didn't realize it was formal," she replied softly.
"It's not."
His gaze swept over her, pausing briefly on her bare throat. Then, just as quickly, it returned to neutral.
Evelyn took a step closer. "Will you be gone long?"
"Possibly. London's in turmoil." He looked toward the open door, where the wind tugged at the dark carriage waiting below. "If the King dies, everything changes."
"You're… part of that change?"
"I'm part of the old debts," he said quietly. "And those always come due."
She reached for him without thinking, her fingers grazing his gloved hand but he didn't meet her halfway. Didn't move.
"I'll send for your handmaid Cora," he said. "She'll arrive within days."
Evelyn blinked, surprised. "You knew I would ask?"
"You were lonely. And you don't yet know how to wear it well." He gestured at her slightly unkempt hair.
There was no malice in his words. Just observation.
She swallowed. "My Lord..."
He leaned down and kissed her cheek, barely more than a brush of cold lips. A farewell, not affection.
"I'll write," he said. And then he turned, his coat billowing like a shadow behind him.
She watched as he mounted his horse and disappeared through the iron gates without a backward glance.
No drawn-out goodbye. No lover's sigh. Just the clatter of hooves and the knowledge that whatever war awaited him in London, she was not part of the battlefield.
Back inside, the house fell quiet once more.
Evelyn turned toward the empty hall, her shawl still clutched tight.
And this time, she didn't just feel like a duchess.
She felt like a ghost in a grand house.