***
James met with the Duke while Evelyn retreated upstairs. She sat on her bed, trying to slow her racing thoughts. Memories flooded her—vivid, unsettling—of the Duke’s strong body beneath hers, his firm chest beneath her cheek, his arms wrapped around her with startling strength.
“Stop it,” she muttered, annoyed with herself. The Duke had spoken plainly enough; nothing romantic—certainly nothing tender—lay in his intentions.
Yet she could not erase the moment when she had looked into his eyes and felt… something. Something she dared not name.
“Rubbish,” she whispered. She must have imagined it.
A knock startled her.
“Miss Caldwell? The viscount wishes to speak with you,” Mr Soames said through the door.
“I shall come directly.”
She smoothed her hair and hurried downstairs.
James was waiting in the study. Evelyn’s heart dipped when she realised the Duke was no longer there—though she had not truly expected him to be.
“Sister…” James began, voice thick. “I cannot—” He stopped, struggling for composure. “I cannot let you. And yet… yet…”
“I wish to do this,” Evelyn said gently. “I want to help you, James. In any way that I can.”
“But this…” James looked down, tears brightening his eyes. “Sister, the man is cold and feelingless. I cannot let you.”
“I will do what must be done,” she insisted softly. “And besides—it resolves my own difficulty. It protects my name. We cannot allow Mama to learn of the scandal sheets. That much is certain.”
“Yes,” James whispered. Relief flickered through his gaze. “Yes.”
They spoke at length. He had already given the Duke tentative agreement, and he now wrote a formal letter confirming it. Then the two of them went to speak to their mother.
“It will be next week,” James explained gently, omitting anything that might trouble her. “The Duke has arranged it.”
“But...but...” Mama gazed up, eyes troubled. “But it’s soon; too soon.” She turned and took Evelyn’s hand. Evelyn’s heart ached. It had been a long time since her mother had shown her even that much physical affection.
“I will visit often, Mama,” Evelyn assured her. “The journey to Brentfield is not a long one.”
“I cannot quite believe it,” her mother whispered.
Evelyn bit her lip. She could barely believe it either. The solution to all their troubles had come so swiftly—and yet the prospect of it frightened her.
“All will be well, Mama,” she said softly.
***
The wedding preparations filled the week. The Duke had engaged one of London’s finest seamstresses for the gown. Evelyn submitted to the fittings in a daze, scarcely recognising the world she found herself in.
On the morning of the ceremony, a maid from Brentfield Manor dressed her in the finished gown and arranged her hair. Evelyn stared at her reflection, startled at the elegant stranger looking back.
The gown was white silk with a slight train, the fashionable high waist and a modestly low oval neckline. The bodice shaped itself to her curves; the silk fell in a graceful sweep to her slippers. Her hair was arranged in curls pinned with pearls, crowned with a wreath of flowers and a gauzy veil.
Her reflection was pale, lovely, bewildered. She hardly knew the young woman gazing back.
“Here, miss,” the maid—Becca—said softly. “Your flowers.” Ivory roses, a shade warmer in colour than the white dress.
“Thank you,” Evelyn murmured. She accepted the bouquet and walked towards the door, her mind blank. None of it made sense. In a matter of a few hours, she would be wed to the Duke, and they would return to his home, Brentfield Manor. She could not imagine it. It was frightening, but it was not just fear that coursed through her body. It was longing, too.
She walked to the door and went out into the hallway, her breath catching in her throat.
