CHAPTER ONE #3
There had been surprise in those storm-grey eyes. And beneath the surprise, something else. Something almost like…
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.
"Come in," she called, grateful for the distraction.
A maid entered, young and nervous, carrying a pitcher of hot water. "For washing, miss. And Mrs. Graves said to tell you that your trunk has been brought up. It's just there, by the wardrobe."
"Thank you." Evangeline summoned a smile. "What is your name?"
The girl looked startled, as though guests did not typically ask such questions. "Molly, miss."
"Thank you, Molly. That's very kind."
Molly set down the pitcher and bobbed a curtsey, but hesitated at the door. Her eyes darted to Evangeline's face, then away, then back again.
"Is something the matter?” Evangeline asked.
"No, miss. It's only…" The girl bit her lip. "You're not afraid of him, are you? The master."
The question hung in the air between them, weighted with something Evangeline could not quite identify.
"Should I be?" she asked quietly.
Molly's eyes were wide, earnest. "Everyone's afraid of him, miss. Everyone. He shouts something terrible when he's in a temper, and the way he looks at you, like he's seeing straight through to your bones…" She shuddered.
"He hasn't always been this way, they say. Before the fire, before his brother but that was a lifetime ago. Many a year has passed since then…”
"The fire?"
But Molly shook her head, already backing toward the door. "I've said too much, miss. Please don't tell Mrs. Graves I was prattling. She'd have my head."
"I won't say a word," Evangeline promised.
The door closed.
Evangeline stood very still, her mind turning over this new piece of information like a scholar examining a fragment of ancient text.
A fire. A brother. Something that had happened years ago, something that had transformed the Duke into the cold, scarred, isolated creature he was today.
He has had very little in his life worth appreciating.
She moved to the window and looked out at the grounds of Blackthorn Hall.
The rain had eased to a grey drizzle, and through it she could see formal gardens, overgrown and melancholy, and beyond them the dark mass of woods that gave the estate its name.
Everything was grey and brown and lifeless, as though colour itself had fled this place.
Somewhere in this great, grey house, the Duke of Ashborn was probably glowering at something.
Evangeline thought of his voice, rough and cold.
She thought of his eyes, pale and piercing, fixed on her face with an intensity that had made her forget how to breathe.
She thought of the way her heart had lurched when he stepped toward her, and the strange disappointment she had felt when he stepped away.
This is foolishness, she told herself firmly. He is rude. He is cold. He does not want you here, and you should not want to be here.
All of this was true.
And yet.
When she finally turned away from the window, she found that her hands were trembling again.
And it had nothing whatsoever to do with the cold.
***
Dinner was a catastrophe in the making.
It lacked the grace to fail quickly; instead, the discomfort gathered like a slow-moving storm.
The dining room was vast, because apparently every room in Blackthorn Hall was required to be vast on pain of architectural disgrace.
A table that could comfortably seat thirty held exactly three place settings, clustered at one end like survivors of a shipwreck.
Candelabras cast pools of golden light that somehow failed to warm the atmosphere.
Evangeline had changed into her best evening dress, a deep green silk that her father said made her look like a Christmas tree but which she privately believed was quite becoming. She had managed to tame her hair into something respectable and had pinched her cheeks until they held some colour.
None of which mattered, because the Duke did not look at her.
He sat at the head of the table like a king holding court, magnificent in black evening clothes that should have been severe but instead served only to emphasise the breadth of his shoulders and the sharp angles of his jaw.
The candlelight caught his scar differently here, turning it to shadow and gold, and Evangeline found herself watching the way it moved when he spoke.
Which was not often.
"The pheasant is excellent," Professor Harcourt offered, after a silence that had stretched long enough to become actively hostile. "Is it from the estate?"
"Yes."
"Marvellous, marvellous. And the…ah…the wine? Also local?"
"French."
"Of course, of course. French wine. Excellent choice. The French do know their wines, don't they? Not like the Italians. Well, no, the Italians are quite good as well, particularly in the southern regions, where the climate…"
"Papa," Evangeline murmured.
"…allows for a longer growing season, which produces a sweeter grape, though some argue that sweetness is not necessarily…"
"Professor Harcourt." The Duke's voice cut through the rambling like a blade. "I did not invite you to Blackthorn Hall to discuss viticulture."
Professor Harcourt blinked. "No?"
"No. I invited you because your work on the Mercian boundary disputes may prove relevant to a legal matter concerning my northern estates.
We will discuss this tomorrow, in my study, at nine o'clock precisely.
" Those pale eyes swept briefly toward Evangeline, then away.
"Your daughter will, I am certain, find ways to occupy herself. "
It was a dismissal. A clear, unmistakable dismissal, delivered with the casual cruelty of a man who was accustomed to being obeyed.
Evangeline felt something spark in her chest. Something hot and sharp that was definitely not attraction and was absolutely, certainly not the desire to challenge this impossible man.
"I am certain I shall, Your Grace," she said sweetly. "Blackthorn Hall is so very large. I imagine one could wander for days without encountering another soul. How... peaceful that must be for you."
The barb landed. She saw it in the slight tightening of his jaw, the almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes.
"I prefer solitude, Miss Harcourt."
"Clearly."
"Evangeline," her father said, with unusual alertness to social undercurrents.
But the Duke had turned to look at her now. Really look at her, for the first time since she had entered the dining room. His gaze moved over her face with an intensity that made her skin prickle, lingering on her eyes, her mouth, the pulse she could feel fluttering at the base of her throat.
"You disapprove of solitude, Miss Harcourt?"
"I disapprove of rudeness, Your Grace."
The words escaped before she could stop them. Beside her, she heard her father make a small, strangled sound.
The Duke went very still.
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the distant crack of the fire and the faint whisper of wind against the windows. Evangeline held herself motionless, her heart hammering against her ribs, watching those storm-grey eyes for some indication of what was coming.
When he spoke, his voice was soft. Dangerously soft.
"You think me rude."
"I think you make very little effort to be otherwise."
"And why should I? This is my home. I did not ask for guests. I do not want them." He leaned forward slightly, and Evangeline caught a trace of something, sandalwood, perhaps, and beneath it something darker, smokier. "If my manners offend you, Miss Harcourt, you are welcome to leave."
"And if I don't?"
The question surprised her as much as it seemed to surprise him. His brows drew together, and for a moment…just a moment, something flickered behind the ice in his eyes.
"Then I suggest," He said slowly, "that you develop a thicker skin."
He rose from the table without waiting for a response, without offering the customary pleasantries, without so much as a glance at Professor Harcourt.
At the doorway, he paused.
"Nine o'clock, Professor. Do not be late."
The door closed behind him with a sound like a thunderclap.
Evangeline let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.
"Well," her father said, after a moment. "I thought that went rather well, all things considered."
Evangeline reached for her wine.
***
Later, alone in her room, she stood once again at the window and stared out at the darkness.
The rain had stopped, and the clouds had parted enough to reveal a sliver of moon. Its pale light silvered the overgrown gardens, transforming them into something ethereal, almost beautiful.
She should be angry. She should be plotting ways to convince her father to leave this dreadful place and its dreadful master.
Instead, she found herself thinking about the way his voice had softened when he said her name. The way his eyes had traced the line of her throat. The way he had leaned toward her, just slightly, as though drawn by some force he could not control.
You are being ridiculous, she told herself. He despises you. He has made that abundantly clear.
But she remembered the way he had stepped back from her in the drawing room. The way his hands had clenched at his sides.
She remembered the look in his eyes when she had refused to flinch.
Not anger. Not disgust.
Fear.
The Duke of Ashborn was afraid of her.
Evangeline pressed her palm against the cold glass of the window, feeling her heart beat too fast, feeling something dangerous and impossible unfurl in her chest.
I should be afraid of him, she thought. Everyone says so. Even Molly. Even Mrs. Graves.
But she wasn't.
And as she finally turned away from the window and began preparing for bed, she realised something that should have terrified her.
Why?