“Sister.” James was waiting in the hallway. His eyes widened, their dark depths showing an admiration so great that it made Evelyn’s heart twist.
She swallowed hard, her throat tight with the realisation of just how much her brother cared for her.
“Come. We should go down,” he said gently. He wore a navy-blue tailcoat and dark grey trousers, his appearance carefully groomed, cravat neatly tied. Evelyn felt touched by the effort he had made.
“Thank you,” she murmured as she slipped her arm through his. She leaned on him, seeking support.
They walked down the hallway and turned left. Becca had followed Evelyn downstairs and, just before Evelyn entered the room, she turned the thin, gauzy veil so that it covered her face. Evelyn blinked, the world suddenly hazy, seen through the misty gauze. James was still holding her arm, and she leaned on him, more grateful than ever for the help. She felt disoriented and confused.
She stepped into the room, her eyes slowly adjusting to the muted view through the veil. At the front stood a small altar, adorned with a bowl of white roses. Before it waited a vicar, whooffered her a faint, uncertain smile. Behind her, Evelyn sensed the presence of a few witnesses—her mother with Lady Evandale and Lucy, Lord Nicholas seated a short distance away. Her gaze skimmed past them and fixed immediately on the tall man standing at the front.
The Duke.
His dark hair blended with the dark tailcoat and black knee-breeches that he wore, his white stock hugging his muscled calves. His presence was imposing; his big shoulders seeming to fill the space before the altar, his posture rigid but somehow also relaxed. It was a posture that commanded attention without trying. Evelyn swallowed hard, feeling a knot of apprehension and something far less nameable in her belly.
The vicar beamed kindly as she approached, and she clung to the comfort of that expression, though the world felt far removed from anything she had ever known.
He cleared his throat and began the ceremony. Evelyn heard little of it. The words drifted over her like a distant hum. She risked a sidelong glance at the Duke; when his gaze lowered to hers, her stomach fluttered violently. His blue eyes revealed nothing—neither warmth nor coolness—yet the feel of that gaze upon her made her heart pound.
A shift in the room startled her. Silence. Expectation. She snapped her attention back to the vicar.
“Evelyn Adelia Caldwell,” the vicar repeated, “will you take Sebastian Gerald Brentley to be your wedded husband; to live together in mutual regard and constancy; to support him, honour him, and keep him in times of ease and in times of hardship;
and, forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto him for as long as you both shall live?”
“I will.” The words fell from her lips before she had time to think about it. She had said it. She had agreed to it, and there was no turning back.
The vicar continued speaking, but Evelyn’s mind was racing, her heart fluttering, palms sweating with a sensation that was fear and confusion and that elusive something that she could not name. When the vicar stopped speaking again, her heart nearly stopped.
The Duke turned toward her.
He lifted her veil, his fingertips brushing her hair with an unexpected gentleness that sent a shiver coursing down her spine. Then he inclined his head and pressed his lips to her forehead.
Evelyn shut her eyes. The touch was soft yet commanding, exquisitely intimate in its restraint. His breath warmed her skin; his nearness wrapped around her like a living thing. Heat flooded through her, her pulse tripping wildly at the strange, thrilling sensation that raced through her veins. It was excitement—yes—but also a trembling awareness of stepping into the unknown. His presence drew her irresistibly, and she longed—achingly—to feel his arms around her as she had that day in the street, to rest against the solid breadth of his chest. His scent—clean, warm, unmistakably his—caught her breath and stirred a deeper longing she could scarcely admit even to herself.
All too swiftly, he straightened.
They turned to face the witnesses. Evelyn’s gaze found James, whose expression was a mingling of pride and guilt. Her mother watched with an unreadable stillness. Lady Evandale and Lucy looked on with a kind of cautious hope, while Lord Nicholas studied his brother with a face that revealed nothing at all.
Slowly, they withdrew from the chapel, the witnesses and vicar following behind. Lady Evandale had arranged a luncheon before their departure for Brentfield Manor, though Evelyn was barely aware as the Duke led her to the dining room. His hand rested lightly upon her arm, yet even through her daze, she felt the tingling spread of warmth from that point of contact—a trail of fire racing up her skin.
They sat at the dining table side-by-side, and a footman in brown livery served cold meats, cheese of different kinds and a selection of other things that barely registered on Evelyn’s thoughts. She was too aware of the man who sat beside her, his muscled leg close to her own. Every word that he spoke seemed to resonate in her bones, and her body was aware of his every movement as if he were a magnet, drawing on some deep, unknown pull within her.
“…and it’s been frightfully rainy lately,” Lady Evandale was murmuring to Mama across the table. Lady Evandale kept up most of the talking, leading an often one-sided conversation about the weather, the state of the roads or the plays and operas showing at Covent Garden. The rest of the guests were mostly silent.
“Might you pass the salt, please?” Lord Nicholas asked politely from beside her. Evelyn handed him the silver saltcellar automatically. His gaze moved to Lucy, across from him, his dark eyes wide and admiring. In spite of her own confusing thoughts, she had to smile.
The luncheon passed in a blur, and before Evelyn realised that it had been well over an hour since they sat down to eat, the fruit basket was brought out and soon, people were excusing themselves for a rest or to retire to the drawing room.
Beside her, the Duke—Sebastian, she must think of him as Sebastian now—stood. She could sense tension within him,almost like irritation. He stood abruptly, and she hastily stood up with him, her heart thudding hard.
It was the moment that she had tried not to think about, and yet which had recurred in her mind a hundred times since that morning. She would depart the house for Brentfield Manor, where she would be expected to...
Her mind stopped at that thought. Of what exactly was expected of her she had only the sketchiest of ideas. Everything that she had heard about it sounded strangely improbable, and yet something inside her drew her to the notion, unable to stop trying to imagine it. The Duke’s hard, lean body called up strange longings—to be close, to feel his skin pressed against hers and to kiss and be kissed and lie close.
“Come,” he said firmly, turning to her. “It is best we depart now. I do not wish to travel this road after dark.”
Evelyn nodded and followed him out of the room. His tone was so compelling and his posture so imposing that she did not dare do anything else.
