Chapter 2: The Duke's Proposal

The morning after her father's announcement, Evelyn awoke with a cold, metallic dread in her chest. The air felt too sharp, as though the house itself was holding its breath. Sunlight filtered through the heavy damask curtains, but it did nothing to warm the chill in her bones.

Her maid, Cara, entered without knocking. "Milady, your father requests you to break your fast in the east parlor," she said. "He says the Duke of Wycliffe will arrive shortly."

Evelyn sat up slowly, the sheets tangled around her legs. "That soon?"

Cara hesitated. "He was expected last night, my lady. But his message said he prefers morning light for first impressions."

Evelyn scoffed under her breath. First impressions? What sort of man schedules a meeting like a business transaction?

Still, she rose. Cara helped her into a pale lavender morning gown that cinched tightly at the waist and fell in soft waves to the floor. Evelyn stared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes looked bruised from lack of sleep, her mouth drawn.

She was nearly twenty. She had lived through two seasons, dozens of suitors, and not once had she found someone she could picture spending her life with except only Him but now she was about to meet the man she would be forced to marry.

She found her father pacing in the east parlor, the breakfast tray untouched. He stopped when he saw her.

"You look lovely," he said, voice taut. "Remember, be gracious. He is doing us a great favor."

Evelyn said nothing.

They waited in silence until the butler announced the arrival. She turned as the doors opened.

Nathaniel Wycliffe entered like a shadow cut from winter stone.

He was tall, taller than any man she'd met, dressed in black from boots to cravat. His coat was finely tailored, hugging broad shoulders and a lean waist. His dark hair was combed neatly back, revealing a strong brow and sharp cheekbones. But it was his eyes that arrested her, grey, cold, and unreadable, like rain falling over a frozen lake.

He bowed.

"Lady Evelyn."

She dipped into a stiff curtsy. "Your Grace."

He did not smile. He looked at her the way one might inspect a piece of art for flaws.

"You are as described," he said simply.

Evelyn's mouth tightened. "And you are as... punctual as rumored."

To her surprise, the corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile.

Lord Ashcombe cleared his throat. "Shall we sit?"

Breakfast was a strained affair. The Duke spoke sparingly, and when he did, his questions were curt, almost clinical: What were her interests? Could she manage a large household? Did she ride, host, paint?

Evelyn answered with a measured voice, her pride simmering beneath the surface. She felt like a filly being appraised before auction. Her father watched her like a hawk.

Finally, after the meal, the Duke set down his cup. "May I speak to Lady Evelyn alone?"

Her father hesitated, then nodded and withdrew.

Nathaniel turned to her fully. "I am not a romantic, Lady Evelyn. I find sentiment to be a distraction. But I am a practical man. And I require a wife."

She stared at him. "How charming."

"You are clever. That pleases me."

Evelyn stood, the force of her anger making her chest rise. "If you think I'll marry a man who treats marriage like a contract, you're mistaken."

He rose too, slowly. "Your family is drowning in debt. Without this union, Ashcombe will fall. Your family, your staff, your legacy...gone. I am offering you security, not affection. That is a rarer gift than you seem to understand."

"And what do you get in return?"

He stepped closer, and her breath caught.

"An obedient wife."

Her spine stiffened. "Then look elsewhere."

"No," he said, almost gently. "You'll say yes. Not today. But soon. Because you are not foolish. And because you will see I can give you everything... except freedom."

He brushed past her, the scent of bergamot and leather lingering in his wake.

Evelyn stood alone in the parlor, fists clenched, heart pounding.

He was unbearable, arrogant and controlling.

But something about him had unsettled her.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Evelyn could not focus on her embroidery, nor could she find solace in the garden. The Duke's presence lingered, like smoke clinging to her skin. She replayed their conversation over and over, disturbed not only by his proposal but by her reaction to it.

That night, she dined alone. Her father was out, meeting with creditors—or perhaps securing the engagement. The silence in the dining room was oppressive. Her brother Graham was away too, probably in a gambling den somewhere. Evelyn pushed her food around her plate, then finally left it untouched.

As she climbed the stairs to her chambers, she paused before her mother's portrait. A beautiful woman with stern eyes, forever gazing down from the canvas. Evelyn had never lived up to her expectations. And now, she was expected to marry for duty, not for love.

Her heart ached.

Later, she sat by her window in a nightgown, the wind rustling the ivy beyond the panes. She should hate Nathaniel Wycliffe. She should refuse him and find another way.

But in her heart, she knew there wasn't another way. And deep down, beneath the confusion and resentment, something else simmer.

Not quite fear but a terrible curiosity.

A part of her wanted to know what kind of man he truly was behind the mask of icy civility.

That part scared her more than anything.

And she feared what would happen if she ever let it take control.

Evelyn's dreams that night were strange. She stood in a grand room filled with mirrors. She wore a gown of deep crimson, cut scandalously low. A man...Nathaniel..stood behind her, eyes heavy with possession. She met his gaze in the mirror as his hand slid around her throat, not tightly, but with absolute control.

She shivered awake, panting, one hand clutching her sheets.

She touched her neck. It was warm.

Realization dawned in horror and shame.

She had dreamed of him.

And her body had liked it.

Outside, the first light of dawn painted the horizon.

And the first steps toward surrender had already begun.