Chapter Eleven
Evelyn stared at her reflection in the looking glass. She swallowed hard, feeling apprehensive. Her silk dress swayed when she moved, the fabric cool against her skin.
“You are certain that this is a modish style?” she asked her maid unsurely.
Miss Heathfield smiled. “Yes, your Grace. A looser chignon is considered most fashionable nowadays.”
“Thank you,” Evelyn murmured distractedly. Usually, matters of fashion did not concern her overly much. But being Duchess of Brentfield brought with it a range of expectations that she could not begin to understand and that made her afraid. She stared at her reflection again.
The dress she wore was turquoise, its fashionable high waist topped by a bodice with a low, oval neckline that showed more skin than she would ever have chosen.
The sleeves were little puffs of gauze, the long skirt falling smoothly to her ankles, cool silk brushing her skin.
She studied the gown—easily the most beautiful and fashionable she owned.
Sebastian had ordered it made for her, and she hoped that it was suitable.
Since she had attended so few balls, she had no idea what was fashionable any longer.
She examined her face. Her pale skin looked paler still against her dark hair, arranged in loose curls that brushed her cheeks, the back gathered into a chignon held with a pearl clasp. Her large dark eyes stared back at her with unmistakable anxiety.
“Where are my gloves?” she asked.
“I will fetch them, your Grace,” Miss Heathfield replied, retrieving a thin pair of satin opera gloves from the wardrobe. Evelyn slipped them on; the fabric clung cool and smooth to her skin. She swallowed.
“Thank you. I will go to the stairs to wait,” she murmured.
“Of course, your Grace. I will see to your chamber for your return.”
“Thank you,” Evelyn murmured.
She stepped into the hallway, closing the door softly behind her. Her heart raced, her palms damp. It was her first ball as the Duchess of Brentfield, and that frightened her.
As Miss Caldwell, she had passed through most assemblies in near obscurity. As a duchess—even at a neighbour’s ball—she would be the object of scrutiny. She had been a duchess scarcely a week; it still felt unreal.
She drew in a breath and walked toward the stairs.
“Gemma!” she greeted warmly as Sebastian’s sister came into view. “Good evening.” She dropped a light curtsey. Gemma returned it with an affectionate smile.
“You look ravishing,” Gemma declared. “A fine choice.”
“Thank you,” Evelyn murmured. The Dowager Duchess’s earlier critiques had lodged like splinters in her mind, making her painfully conscious of every detail. “Your gown suits you wonderfully,” she added, meaning it.
Gemma’s red dress made her look bright and alive, her eyes sparkling with joy.
“Thank you!” Gemma exclaimed, evidently pleased.
Evelyn smiled back, comforted by her kindness. The uneasy knot in her stomach loosened slightly as they reached the foyer.
Sebastian stood waiting.
He lifted his head as she entered, and his gaze—startled, unguarded, admiring—struck straight through her.
Her heart lurched, heat blooming across her cheeks.
She dropped her gaze to her slippers; when she looked up again, he had turned away.
The warm glow from the lamps framed his profile, and she drew in a breath. She had never seen a man so handsome.
His slim nose and firmly set mouth should have lent him severity, but his blue eyes—capable of such startling fire—gave his face a compelling intensity.
His high cheekbones caught the light. He wore a dark blue coat and grey knee-breeches, the fitted cloth drawing attention to the strength of his legs and thighs.
Evelyn swallowed hard, cheeks flaring with delicious shyness at her own bold thoughts.
“Good evening,” Sebastian murmured as she approached. He bowed. His voice was low and smooth, tightening something deep in her throat. She curtseyed.
“Good evening.”
They stared at one another for a long moment. Her heart raced. There was longing in his eyes—she was certain of it—and yet he could be so distant at other times. It bewildered her.
Gemma and William’s lively conversation drifted around them, pulling Evelyn faintly back to the present.
“When shall we depart?” she asked quietly. His cologne—warm and spiced—clouded her thoughts.
“My brother must still prepare,” he replied. “And Mama, of course.”
“Oh. Yes,” Evelyn murmured. She had half-hoped the Dowager Duchess might elect to stay home. The thought of facing her again tonight made Evelyn’s pulse flutter wildly.
“Brother!” Nicholas called from the stairwell. “I apologise for my lateness. I hope I have not delayed you unduly?” He grinned at Evelyn, offering her a low bow.
“No, not unduly,” Sebastian said coolly, then grinned. Evelyn stopped breathing, seeing that breathtaking smile. He was usually broodingly handsome, but the boyish grin was delightful. She wished he would do it again.
“Perdition,” Nicholas murmured. “It’s hot down here.” He adjusted his cravat and breathed deeply. “I shall be pleased to be outdoors.”
Sebastian did not answer, and Evelyn wondered if he was vexed. But then the Dowager Duchess appeared on the staircase.
She descended with regal grace, her sage-green gown immaculate, her grey hair arranged perfectly. Her gaze drifted over Evelyn without stopping—without even acknowledging her. Colour burned in Evelyn’s cheeks.
“Well. We are all assembled early,” the Dowager Duchess observed as she reached the group.
Sebastian bent his arm towards Evelyn. “May I?” he murmured.
“Thank you,” Evelyn whispered, placing her gloved hand on his arm. His nearness unsteadied her; the warmth of his body, the scent of him, the solid strength beneath the cloth.
They reached the coach, and Sebastian helped her in.
His gaze locked with hers for a moment as he helped her into the big Landau, and for a moment, he seemed to stare ravenously at her.
She sat down opposite him in the coach; certain that she was misinterpreting what she saw.
It was surely not possible that he would feel as much longing for her as she did for him—after all, she was inadequate, a nobody like his mother seemed to imply.
She was silent as the coach rattled down the drive.
Gemma and William were keeping up a conversation, chatting in an amused, lighthearted way.
“Let us hope the musicians are better here than at Almack’s,” Gemma laughed. “I would swear the violin was out of tune the whole evening.”
“I should not be surprised,” William said fondly.
Evelyn leaned back, listening distantly. She wished she could be so comfortable, so confident. Words deserted her whenever Sebastian sat near, and she was sure that he must think her uninteresting.
But then, that night in the bedroom...she reminded herself. He had certainly seemed to find her interesting then.
Nothing made sense. If their marriage was only a matter of mutual convenience, why did his gaze keep flicking toward her across the coach, those blue eyes kindling with unmistakable longing?
If she was such a dreadful duchess—as his mother so plainly believed—why did Sebastian look at her as though he could not help himself?
She could not decide what was real and what she had imagined, and by the time the coach rattled up the long approach to the manor, she felt dangerously close to losing her composure.
“Allow me,” Sebastian murmured as he descended from the coach.
He helped her down first, his grip warm around her gloved hand, then turned to assist his mother.
Evelyn did not dare to look, but she felt the Dowager Duchess’s indignation like a blast of heat at her back.
When she finally turned her head, the older woman was inwardly seething, lips pinched tight.
Sebastian ignored it entirely, and Evelyn forced herself to do the same, though she remained painfully aware of that simmering displeasure as she walked beside him up the steps.
Pine torches flickered beside the doors, throwing shifting light up the stone facade.
The manor rose three storeys above them; she craned her neck to follow the sweep of the gable until it disappeared into the night.
By the time she lowered her gaze again, they were already stepping into the wide, lantern-lit hallway where Lord and Lady Elridge waited to greet their guests.
“Good evening, Lord Elridge. Lady Elridge,” she murmured, dropping a curtsey she wished desperately she had been trained to do properly. The Dowager Duchess’s curtseys always looked effortless, elegant—nothing like Evelyn’s awkward attempt.
Sebastian exchanged a few light remarks with Lord Elridge, and then they moved on, drifting down into the ballroom.
Whispers fell like a veil over the room the moment they entered—every eye turning, every conversation dipping into silence before resuming in sharper tones.
Evelyn’s palms grew slick inside her gloves.
She could almost hear the murmurs: the unsuitable bride, the scandalous choice, the Duke’s inexplicable decision.
Lies, all of them—and yet she felt exposed, raw, foolish under the weight of so many stares. Tears pricked her eyes.
Beside her, Sebastian walked with perfect composure, as though utterly unaware.
“Come on!” Nicholas said cheerfully, oblivious—or pretending to be. “Let’s go and find some refreshments, shall we?” he demanded of Sebastian. “I, for one, am feeling the lack of dinner.”
Evelyn smiled, trying to forget her own worries and enjoy the evening.
“I am not hungry,” Sebastian murmured beside her.