Chapter Eight #2
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.
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 of London 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.