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.
Sebastian pushed back his chair and stood. “I must ask you to excuse me, Evelyn. My mother and sister will be returning home shortly. I need to speak with them.”
“Of course,” Evelyn agreed. He had explained earlier that his sister had escorted their mother for the day so that Evelyn might arrive quietly, without the pressure of ceremony.
The tone in which he had said it suggested she would prefer not to face the Dowager Duchess today—on a day when Evelyn already felt uncertain about nearly everything.
“Thank you.” He bowed and left the room, posture rigid, controlled. As soon as he had gone, Evelyn let herself lean back and close her eyes. She was exhausted.
The coach ride had not been overly long, but she had felt every minute of it. Sebastian had spoken little; she had been unable to think of anything to say—her heart aching at the thought of Mama and James, her pulse thrumming with awareness of the man across from her.
She opened her eyes and allowed her gaze to drift around the room, studying it properly.
It was a big room, with long glass windows, a yard or so apart, on the west-facing side.
They let light flood into the room, making it bright and uplifting.
The display of so much glass in one place was a clear display of wealth, but that was not the reason why Evelyn appreciated it.
She could not help thinking of the townhouse where she had lived for so long and wishing that her mother could have so many windows.
They might lift her mood. Despite the evident opulence and the bright, airy room, the house had a tense, hushed air that troubled Evelyn.
She could not identify what the cause of the oppressive atmosphere was, and she studied the room more closely, wondering if she could place it.
The walls were covered with white flocked silk, bearing a pattern of acanthus leaves in white.
The curtains were ochre velvet, and the upholstery had a dark red stripe that matched them.
A fireplace with a marble mantel was on the eastern wall, though no fire burned there since the day was not cold.
Paintings of landscapes hung on the walls.
A bookshelf stood in the corner, made of dark wood.
Evelyn stared at it, curiosity filling her despite her exhaustion.
She went to the bookshelf and studied the volumes there.
A voice from the hallway made her jump, spinning sharply round.
“Your Grace, I beg your pardon for disturbing you,” the butler murmured with a small bow. “But his Grace requested that I summon Miss Heathfield to show you to your chamber.”
“Oh.” Evelyn’s gaze moved to a young woman wearing a black uniform, with reddish curls covered by a cloth bonnet. “Thank you,” she murmured. She was still reeling from the shock of being addressed as ‘your Grace’. It felt surreal, like everything about her life of late.
“Your Grace, if I may escort you to your chamber?” the young woman asked. “I am to be your lady’s maid.”
“Thank you,” Evelyn replied distractedly.
This was the moment she had tried not to think about—yet had thought about constantly since dawn.
Half-formed impressions of what might be expected of her drifted uneasily through her mind: apprehension tangled with that inexplicable pull toward Sebastian, that sensation of being drawn to him whether she willed it or not.
She followed Miss Heathfield down the hallway until they reached a large door. Perspiration prickled down Evelyn’s spine as it opened.
“If you should need anything, the bell-rope is here,” Miss Heathfield said, indicating the long cord beside the mantel. Evelyn nodded.
“Thank you.”
Her maid went on to point out the adjoining boudoir, the washstand, the wardrobe.
Evelyn scarcely heard. Her gaze moved over the chamber, searching as though for clues.
This was the room adjoining Sebastian’s, and his presence was everywhere.
The very air carried the sense of a man of discipline, precision… and privacy.
Miss Heathfield curtseyed and slipped out.
Evelyn sat on the edge of the bed, drained. The bodice of her gown felt stiflingly tight, and she reached behind to loosen a few buttons—an easy task after years of dressing herself. The loosened fabric allowed her to breathe at last.
She rose and crossed to the window. Twilight had settled, turning the sky a clear, sapphire blue. The garden below was shadowed and mysterious beneath the tall trees—one more unknown in a life now full of them.
Her suitcases waited near the wardrobe. They held only a few garments; most of her wardrobe belonged to her old life, not to that of a duchess. She knelt to open one and lifted her Shakespeare volume. If anything might settle her thoughts, it would be that.
She had barely begun to read when a knock sounded. Before she could respond, the door opened, and Sebastian entered.
Evelyn gasped, instantly aware of the loosened bodice.
The neckline had fallen slightly, and though her shift covered her, more of her cleavage was revealed than she wished.
She hastily drew the fabric together. His gaze flicked there—just for a heartbeat—before rising to her face, sending a flush scorching across her cheeks.
“I trust you feel at ease here,” he said quietly, stepping into the room.
“Um… yes,” she managed, her voice thin with embarrassment.
“I regret that I was so long detained by my family. I hope the room is to your liking.” His eyes flicked briefly toward her loosened bodice, but if he noticed anything amiss, he chose not to remark upon it.
Evelyn nodded. “It is.”
He came to sit on a low stool beside the bed. His knees were only inches from hers, the nearness making her pulse quicken painfully. His gaze fixed on her face with the same unyielding attentiveness she had felt from him since the ceremony—disconcerting, unsettling, yet somehow compelling.
“I presume you have met your lady’s maid?” he asked. His tone sounded slightly strained, as if the topic itself embarrassed him.
“Yes, I have. Thank you.” The words came out breathless. Heat coursed through her, her heartbeat loud in her own ears. His gaze held hers, and something inside her tightened and unfurled at once—longing braided with apprehension.
“You also found something to read,” he observed, his voice unexpectedly gentle.
“Yes.” Evelyn’s heart lifted. “Thank you for returning it. I am very glad to have it with me.”
He inclined his head, saying nothing for a moment. His gaze moved to the book. “What are you reading?” he asked, his tone lifting with inquiry.
“Othello,” she replied, momentarily forgetting her discomfort. “It is one of my favourites. There are so many emotions in it.”
“Jealousy, guilt, inadequacy,” he mused with a low chuckle. “Hardly uplifting sentiments.”
“No—perhaps not,” Evelyn allowed. “But fascinating. If Othello had not felt so unworthy, Iago’s plot would never have succeeded.”
“We cannot know that,” Sebastian countered lightly.
“Yes, we can,” she insisted. She opened to a passage and, without thinking, pointed at a line—requiring him, in effect, to come sit beside her.
He obeyed, settling on the edge of the bed so close that his thigh brushed hers. The faint friction sent a tremor spiralling through her. As he bent nearer, she caught the warm scent of him—leather, spice, and something distinctly male—and her breath caught.
“That is certainly one interpretation,” he said, reading where her finger rested.
She drew her hand back quickly, her whole body alive with a deep, involuntary tremor. It was not fear—though fear was tangled somewhere in it.
“I cannot interpret it differently,” she managed, though concentrating on Shakespeare felt suddenly impossible.
“To be honest,” he murmured, lifting his gaze to hers, “nor can I.”
Evelyn laughed softly. His mouth curved, the brief smile transforming his stern features.
His blue eyes—intense, intent, rimmed with faint lines carved by sun or laughter—held her captive.
Her chest tightened. He was not frightening.
But the way he looked at her—almost studying her—made something inside her shiver and warm at once.
He leaned closer.
Before Evelyn had any idea what he was going to do, his lips pressed, hard and hot, against hers.
She gasped, her eyes fluttering closed as he drew her with some force against his chest. His mouth was upon hers, his lips prying at her own, tasting them in a way that made the fire inside her grow even hotter, seeming to melt her within.
His tongue, hot and eager, pressed in between her lips, exploring her mouth, probing it eagerly.
Before she could stop herself, a low moan of longing escaped her.
Sebastian’s breathing was audible as his mouth moved briefly from hers, then returned, clinging to her lips with fresh intensity.
His weight pressed against her, pushing her back onto the bed.
She gasped as he lay on top of her, his weight muscled and heavy, one knee moving up between her own in a way that thrilled and delighted her, making her body tremble with a feeling that was as confusing as it was remarkable.
His knee moved higher, and, suddenly, she tensed.
Sebastian halted. He lifted himself away at once, though his cheeks bore a faint flush and his chest rose in quick, uneven breaths—as though he had felt the same ungovernable pull she had.
“I apologise,” he murmured. His voice was rough, strained.
“I did not mean to alarm you.” He stood, gathering his composure.
“I must join my family for dinner. I have already said that you may dine here, should you prefer. You may find you feel more yourself by morning—better prepared to meet them.”
“Thank you,” Evelyn whispered, though her throat felt too tight to shape the words properly.
He bowed slightly, then withdrew, closing the door with careful softness.
Evelyn remained where she was, still half-reclining on the bed. Her Shakespeare tumbled from her lap; she collected it absently and set it on the table. Her lips burned with the memory of his mouth—its heat, its insistence, its tenderness. She leaned back, closing her eyes, her body trembling.
What had just happened?
And why—despite her confusion and her fear—did some part of her ache for him to return?