The young lady was tall, with black hair and big dark eyes—the very features society praised in its beauties. She wore a white gown of silk with few embellishments, the silhouette fashionable and elegant. A thin silver chain was about her neck, and her black hair sported no adornments. She was extremely poised and graceful, and she drifted into a chair beside her mother at the table. Evelyn looked away.
Her gaze caught the Dowager Duchess, who smiled widely at the guests. Evidently, she was pleased to see them. Nobody else at the table looked pleased. Lord and Lady Chelmsworth were looking seemingly everywhere to avoid making eye contact with anyone at the table, and Sebastian glared at his mother with unconcealed anger. Lord Nicholas’s seat was still empty.
“Lord and Lady Carlington. Lady Belinda! A delight to welcome you,” the Dowager cried.
Evelyn kept her gaze on her plate.
Conversation began, brittle and formal. Lady Carlington sniffed over the journey; the duchess cooed in response. Lady Belinda offered a poised remark about the oppressive summer heat of London. Evelyn shifted, keenly aware of her own plain hairstyle and ill-fitting gown.
The soup offered a temporary refuge. She concentrated on lifting her spoon without rattling it, grateful for any excuse not to look up.
One course followed another. Lady Belinda’s laugh—light, elegant, perfectly measured—floated across the table. Evelyn stared miserably at the fish on her plate, wishing she could disappear like Lord Chelmsworth, who seemed to be attempting precisely that by sinking into his chair.
By the time the main course and dessert were done, Evelyn’s nerves were raw. She wished fervently that she, like Nicholas, had remained in her chamber.
When the footman approached with cordial and wine, she leaned toward Lord Chelmsworth, who sat closest to her.
“I beg to be excused,” she murmured.
Lord Chelmsworth offered her a gentle smile. “We will all retire to the drawing room in a moment or two,” he said softly—an unspoken warning that she might wish to avoid the gathering.
Evelyn stood and walked with dignity to the door—and the moment she was out of sight, she fled down the corridor to her chamber.
Her maid had prepared the room: lamps lit, curtains drawn, the space bathed in soft gold. Evelyn glanced at the clock. Only ten minutes past ten. Yet she felt utterly drained.
She considered calling for her maid to help her undress—but she had not required such assistance in years. It was kinder to do it herself. She unfastened her gown, painfully aware of how threadbare it seemed compared to Lady Belinda’s immaculate attire. Tears prickled again.
She slipped on her nightgown and crawled into bed.
It was a hot night. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. Though exhausted, she could not quiet her mind. Images from dinner tormented her—Lady Belinda’s composure, the Dowager Duchess’s delight, her own awkwardness and sense of not belonging.
She turned her face into the pillow, wishing sleep would take her and blot out the evening entirely.
After half an hour of restless tossing, she gave up. She sat up, slipped from the bed, and reached for her night-robe. Something—anything—to read would help quiet her mind. Her Shakespeare volume was still in the drawing room, and so, wrapping the robe around her, she tiptoed to the door and slipped out.
With the intention of fetching a book from the library instead, she crept softly down the hallway. The house was sunkin total darkness; only the drawing room spilled light beneath its door, and from within came the low murmur of voices—polite conversation, laughter, and the Dowager Duchess’s unmistakable tones. Evelyn’s stomach tightened. She kept close to the opposite wall and hurried past, unseen.
She slipped down the stairs and into the library, closing the door behind her with a quiet click.
Inside, she leaned against it, breathing deeply as her eyes adjusted.
A few oil lamps glowed faintly on the mantel. She lit another, lifting it by the handle. The warm circle of light revealed row upon row of books—more than she had ever seen in one private collection. Her family’s library had been well-loved but modest. This, by contrast, was vast: volumes of history, natural philosophy, travel, poetry, novels, and many she did not even recognise.
The shelves rose from floor to ceiling. She stared upward, marvelling, knowing she could not reach the higher rows even with the small ladder in the corner. It seemed imprudent to attempt it in such dim light.
Instead, she drifted to the large table in the centre, where several books lay open or stacked haphazardly. Someone—Nicholas, perhaps, or William, or even Sebastian—had been reading here recently. A French novel lay beside a treatise on natural history and a volume of theProceedings of the Royal Society. She smiled, imagining which brother had left them so disordered.
She picked up the French novel.Perhaps this,she thought. She lifted it and turned away.
It was unbearably warm, and she slipped off her silk night-robe, leaving herself in her linen nightdress. It was modest in cut, falling to her toes—but the weave was thin enough to seem delicate in lamplight.
“There is nobody here,” she whispered to herself. The robe was stifling, and she intended to stay only a few minutes—just long enough to see whether the novel pleased her or if she must search for another.
She settled into an upholstered chair near the cold hearth. The room was peaceful, the lamplight soft, a faint breeze stirring from an open window. For the first time that day, she felt her muscles ease. She opened the book.
The door creaked.
Evelyn started violently and spun around.
