“Um…” Miss Caldwell looked stricken. He felt instantly remorseful. None of this—least of all his abrupt manner—was fair to her.
“I believe matters are simple,” Sebastian said, attempting gentleness and secretly fearing he had no talent for it. He had witnessed so little gentleness in his life. “All necessary papers have been secured. Nothing remains but your consent.”
He paused. “I also assure you this shall be a marriage of convenience only.” His throat tightened with embarrassment. “I do not… expect anything of you. In terms of… wifely duties.”
Her eyes widened. Brown and luminous, they held his in a way that sent a sharp jolt through him. She was undeniably desirable. He had spoken of convenience—but he did notwantconvenience. He wantedher.Entirely. And that was precisely why he could not allow such a desire to take root.
He waited, heart pounding. She bit her lip, thinking, then drew a breath to answer.
Chapter Eight
“Yes,” Evelyn said.
The word left her lips before she quite knew she meant to speak it.
“Yes. I will do it. I will marry you.”
She stopped, seeing the Duke’s blue eyes widen in unmistakable astonishment.
“Thank you for your offer,” she added quickly, cheeks warming. “It is… generous.”
Part of her—the sensible, practised part that had managed the household for years—knew it was the wisest solution available. She could help James, save herself, and protect their mother from ever learning of the scandal. Lady Evandale had shielded them at the ball, but even her influence could not restrain gossip forever.
Another part of Evelyn—smaller, softer, rarely permitted a voice—was simply staring at the Duke in wonder. He had an unsettling effect upon her, awakening feelings she could not name. She had dreamed of him since the ball—dreams that left her flushed and breathless, though she did not fully comprehend why. Marriage to him… intimacy of the sort whispered about by the housemaids… such thoughts were beyond imagination.
“Thank you, Miss,” the Duke replied, though she scarcely heard him. Her mind reeled, trying to steady itself between practicality and the dizzying unreality of it all.
“I must inform my brother. He would wish to speak with you.” She forced her thoughts into order.
“Thank you. I would be pleased to speak with him,” the Duke said, formally composed.
“I shall fetch him.”
He inclined his head. The movement was slight, but his gaze—sweeping over her—made her body grow warm. It felt as though he saw far too much. She swallowed, caught between fear and a strange, bewildering delight.
“Thank you,” he murmured. He paused. “No—wait.”
Evelyn halted. He reached to the table beside him—she had not noticed anything there—picked up a small object, and held it out to her.
“Your Grace, I…” she began, assuming it was a gift she could not possibly accept. Then she saw it and gasped.
“My Shakespeare book!”
It was the volume she had mourned losing. She had been convinced someone had stolen it. Her heart swelled at the sight of the familiar cover and the faded gold lettering in the title.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“I had to return it to its owner,” the Duke replied softly.
For a fleeting moment, his gaze held hers—warm, searching, dangerously gentle. Evelyn felt her heart melt, heat rushing through her like warm honey.
He gazed back at her, and without intending to, she leaned closer. He leaned forward, then jerked back, eyes widening in surprise. Evelyn’s face flushed crimson, and she straightened up hastily.
“Excuse me,” she murmured.
She dropped a quick curtsey and hurried from the room. In the hallway, she pressed a hand to her ribs and forced a breath. Every part of it felt unreal. But the book in her hands proved she had not dreamed it.
She tucked the precious volume in her chamber and went to fetch James.
