He led her to the hallway, Lady Evandale following. Mama and James were with her, Lord Nicholas and Lucy following them.
“I will see you soon,” Evelyn promised her mother. She held her gaze, willing her to believe it—to trust that Evelyn was not going away forever. Her mother’s dark eyes widened with aching hope, as if she longed to accept the reassurance.
“You will… you will come back to see me?” she asked softly.
Evelyn nodded, swallowing against the tightness in her throat. “I promise. I will come as often as I can. Every week, for the latest edition ofLondon Scandals.” It was the name of a weekly scandal sheet that her mother favoured—though she had once read Shakespeare to Evelyn, and the memory stung her heart.
Her mother held her gaze. “Promise me?”
“I promise,” Evelyn repeated. She squeezed her hand, turning away so that her tears were hidden.
She gave James the same reassurance, embraced Lucy, thanked Lady Evandale—and then she was walking down the stairs beside the Duke.
Outside, he guided her silently to the waiting coach—a large, elegant vehicle with the Brentfield coat of arms gleaming upon the door. He stepped inside, then reached to close the door once she had taken her seat opposite him.
The coach lurched forward.
Evelyn sat rigid, too tense to speak. Across from her, the Duke leaned back as if at ease, yet the coiled readiness in his lean frame suggested anything but relaxation. She studied him in fleeting glances: the long, straight nose, the refined lines of his forehead, the determined angle of his jaw. He was beautiful in a severe, arresting way.
His gaze flicked to her.
She dropped her eyes at once, heat blooming across her cheeks. The look had seemed… appreciative.Ridiculous. Impossible. She fixed her attention on her silk shoes, mortified that he might have caught her staring.
The trees slipped past the window in a blur, their leaves casting shifting patterns of light across the countryside road. Evelyn realised she had no true notion of how far Brentfield lay. He had mentioned avoiding nightfall, so it must be a distance.
“How far will we travel?” she asked. Her voice was so soft that she was not certain it had reached him. She cleared her throat, preparing to repeat herself—
“About ten miles,” he replied, eyes still closed. “Two and a half hours, perhaps three, with a coach this size.”
“Thank you, your Grace.”
His eyes snapped open, fixing her with a sharp look.
“Sebastian,” he said, firm and uncompromising. “Call me Sebastian.”
“Sebastian,” she echoed. The name felt intimate—shockingly so. Heat crept up her neck, flooding her face with warmth.
He offered no reply, but she thought—only for an instant—that his gaze softened. When he remained silent, she convinced herself she must have imagined it. His expression was impossible to decipher.
She leaned back, watching the countryside roll past, her thoughts tumbling into a knot of apprehension.
Soon she would be at his home—Sebastian’s home. Alone with a man she scarcely knew. A silent, unreadable man whose nearness seemed to unravel every steady thought she possessed.
She turned her face to the window, trying to breathe evenly, trying to imagine—fearfully, futilely—what awaited her when the coach turned into the long drive of Brentfield Manor.
Chapter Nine
Evelyn shifted uneasily in her chair in the drawing room at Brentfield Manor. Sebastian sat opposite her, still in his high-collared shirt and formal cravat, his velvet tailcoat as immaculate as it had been in Lady Evandale’s townhouse. She herself still wore her silk-and-gauze gown, its skirt whispering against her ankles whenever she moved.
She sipped her tea and tried—yet again—to think of something to say.
“Do you prefer the countryside to London?” she ventured. She had been attempting to draw him into conversation for nearly an hour, with very little success. The shadows were lengthening; evening pressed quietly at the windows.
“In summer, certainly.” His reply was abrupt, guarded—much like all the others, as though even an opinion on the weather were a trap designed to catch him unawares. “In summer, it is … less unpleasant.”
“Yes,” Evelyn agreed, oddly relieved. At least it was something. Two full sentences—more than she had received earlier. She reached for the teapot, gripping the handle a little too tightly. Speaking with him was difficult enough; the strange, simmering tension between them made it almost impossible. Whenever he drew near, she felt her body warm, acutely aware of his voice, his posture, even the smallest shift in his expression. His gaze—when it touched her—sent something deep and urgent through her, the same bewildering sensation that had rippled through her during the ceremony, that longing to be close, to feel the press of his chest against her own, his breath at her cheek, his lips—
She took another sip of tea, flustered.
