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.
***
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.
“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, who offered 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.