Chapter 88: Unwilling to let go

The candlelight in Evelyn's dressing room flickered against the pale lilac wallpaper, casting long shadows over the covered canvas that stood against the wall like a waiting ghost.

Evelyn had tried to ignore it all day, tried to bury herself in her embroidery and books, but her eyes always found their way back to the draped painting. Her thoughts were no longer her own.

They belonged to the sea-salt memory of Julian's smile, the heat of his hand wrapped around hers, and the way he used to whisper poetry in a voice like sin and silk.

She hadn't told Nathaniel. She couldn't. Not yet. Something inside her insisted on protecting that single, fragile piece of the past as if exposing it would shatter it forever. Or perhaps she simply wasn't ready to choose. Between duty and desire. Between the man who claimed her name and the one who had once claimed her heart.

Even now, her fingers hovered near the draped linen, itching to reveal the image again, to confirm that the longing in Julian's painted strokes wasn't a figment of her imagination. Her fingers found the edge of the cloth.

She pulled it away.

The portrait gazed back at her with devastating intimacy. Every brushstroke screamed of a love that had never quite died. The eyes, her eyes, stared out from the canvas as if they knew more than she did. They were a mirror to the past.

And then, a sound behind her.

She turned, heart thudding, but it was only Cora, who had entered without knocking, carrying a tray of tea and a worried frown.

"Begging your pardon, Your Grace," Cora murmured, setting the tray down gently. Her eyes flicked to the unveiled portrait. A pause. "That man. The one who painted that... he returned, didn't he?"

Evelyn blinked. "Yes. "

Cora smiled, nostalgic. "I remember back when you were young, and he used to wait outside the conservatory with his sketchbook and wild eyes. Your mother tried to have him turned away once. I remember thinking, even then, that nothing would keep him from you."

Evelyn lowered herself to the seat beside the fire, the weight of her past pressing down on her like a soaked cloak.

"Do you still have him in your heart?" Cora asked gently.

Evelyn shook her head,"I don't know ".

Cora poured the tea and, after a moment's hesitation, laid a hand on Evelyn's shoulder. "You're now the Duchess of Wycliffe. You can't go back to the past now but whatever you do, I'll support you wholeheartedly."

Meanwhile at the Stable

The stable was hushed except for the occasional rustle of hay and a horse nickering softly from its stall. Juliana paused at the threshold, hands twisting nervously in her skirt as she searched the dim light for him.

"Thomas," she called gently.

He was there, brushing one of the bays with slow, methodical strokes. The moment he heard her voice, his shoulders tensed, and he kept his back to her a breath too long before turning around.

"My lady," he said, bowing his head in a way that felt stiff and unfamiliar.

Her brow creased. "Why so formal? It's only me."

Her steps were light as she crossed the stable floor toward him, but Thomas took one careful pace back, as if trying to put space between them.

Juliana stopped short, her hands trembling. "Have I done something to upset you?"

He didn't quite look at her. His hands flexed at his sides before curling into fists. "No," he answered lowly. "You've done nothing wrong."

"Then why are you like this? The last time …" Her voice faltered, memories of their kiss and being caught by Mrs Bramble warming her face.

He finally met her gaze then, something like pain glimmering in his dark eyes. "That was a mistake," he said, forcing the words. "We shouldn't see each other like this anymore."

The words hit her like a cold splash of water. Juliana's lips parted in shock. "You don't mean that."

"I do," Thomas replied, jaw tightening. "You're a lady. The Duke's sister. I'm a stable boy. Being seen with me will do nothing but tarnish your name."

Her heart thudded painfully. "I don't care what anyone thinks," she whispered, stepping closer as if to reach him.

Thomas held up a hand, not touching her but creating a wall all the same. "I care," he said firmly. "Your reputation means too much to risk. Please, my lady. Let this go."

Tears pricked her eyes at the distance in his voice. "Is that what you truly want?"

He finally looked at her then, gaze filled with an ache he couldn't hide. "No," he breathed, so quiet it was nearly lost in the stable's hush. "But it's what must be."

The raw honesty in his admission broke something in her. Juliana took an unsteady breath and nodded, hands gripping the fabric of her skirt to steady herself. "I see," she murmured, her voice trembling despite her best efforts.

For a long, aching moment they simply stared at one another, two hearts pulled in different directions. Finally, Juliana turned away, blinking back the sting of tears as she left him standing there alone in the dim light of the stable.

That night, when Nathaniel returned, he was unusually quiet. He dined with them, spoke little of his business, and retired to his study with a glass of brandy. Evelyn stood outside the door for a long while, the portrait folded and hidden beneath her bed once more, her fingers curling into her skirts with uncertainty.

When she finally entered, Nathaniel was standing by the fireplace, staring into the flames. His glass sat untouched on the desk.

"You look troubled," she said.

He turned slowly, his dark eyes unreadable. "Do I?"

She nodded, cautiously. "Is something wrong?"

"The King has fallen into a coma."

Evelyn's eyes widened. "The King? But... how? Was he ill?"

"Yes. They say it was sudden. His condition had worsened." He rubbed the back of his neck, a rare display of visible tension. "The court is in disarray. No one knows how long he'll remain unconscious or if he will recover at all."

She stepped closer, her brow creased. "What does this mean for you?"

"It means I'll be busy." His tone grew clipped. "Far more than usual. There will be emergency councils, closed-door meetings, and power plays. I will be expected to stand firm in court, to keep the lesser lords in check, and… possibly, to prepare for the worst."

Evelyn reached out instinctively, her fingers brushing the sleeve of his coat. "You mean… a regency?"

"Or worse," he muttered, then caught himself and met her gaze. "I won't lie to you. The next few days, perhaps weeks, will be chaotic. You may not see much of me."

She nodded slowly, eyes searching his face. "Will you be all right?"

His eyes softened, just briefly. "I've survived worse storms."

Her hand lingered on his sleeve. "Still, take care. I know court can be cruel."

A beat passed. Then, very quietly, he added, "And keep yourself safe, too. These times… they stir ambition in the worst kind of men."

Evelyn tilted her head, puzzled by the sudden protectiveness in his tone. "I will."

Nathaniel hesitated, as if he wanted to say something more. But then he stepped back, his expression once again schooled into the cool composure of the Duke.

"I'll be gone by first light. If I don't return by week's end, a letter will reach you."

Later, in her chambers, Evelyn lay wide awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the tension in every inch of her skin.

The portrait was hidden. But it was still there.

So was the memory of Julian's hands.

And the question that would not leave her:

Was she Nathaniel's wife?

Or Julian's unfinished story?