Chapter 11: Fire Beneath the Frost

There were things a lady simply did not admit.

That she dreamed of her husband-to-be's mouth on her throat.

That she thought of his hands while being laced into her gown.

That, when she woke from tangled, aching dreams, her body was wet and wanting.

Evelyn Ashcombe had never been one for foolishness. But lately, her body betrayed her.

She couldn't look at Nathaniel without remembering the way he touched her waist during the fitting. She couldn't eat without hearing his voice in her head, low and steady, whispering what he wanted to do to her. She couldn't sleep.

It was like he'd slipped something into her blood. Something slow, smoky, and entirely wicked.

She hated it.

She hated how much she wanted more.

The next morning, she stormed through the halls of Wycliffe TownHouse with the purpose of someone seeking war. A maid tried to curtsy but Evelyn barely noticed. She found Nathaniel in the greenhouse, hands behind his back, surveying the orchids like they were chess pieces. He wasn't alone.

A woman leaned into him, laughing, her hand grazing his sleeve with overly familiar ease. She was stunning.

She was tall, curvaceous, with thick black hair twisted into a glossy chignon and skin like snow. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, feline, knowing. Her gown, a deep garnet satin fit her like sin itself, and when she smiled, it was with the assurance of a woman who had been on many bedroom floors and had never once apologized for it.

"This one," she purred, holding up a red rose to Nathaniel's chest, "matches your eyes. You know how I adore you in crimson."

Nathaniel didn't pull away.

In fact, he smiled faintly.

Evelyn's heart twisted in her chest like it wanted to claw free.

She stood frozen, clutching the box, aware that she looked like a country mouse in her practical grey cloak and plain bonnet. The box felt suddenly ridiculous in her hands.

The woman's laugh floated in the air again; low, and intimate.

Evelyn turned to go.

"Miss Ashcombe?"

The voice, Madame Violette's stopped her mid-step.

Nathaniel looked up.

His eyes found her immediately.

And something shifted in his eyes, not guilt but alertness. As if catching her watching stirred something darker in him.

The beautiful woman turned, arching a brow with feline interest. She looked Evelyn over like she was trying to decide whether to laugh or pity her.

"Oh," she said, honey-thick. "This must be the bride."

Evelyn didn't flinch, though the word struck like a whip.

Nathaniel stepped forward, slow and measured.

"Evelyn," he said, his voice smooth but cool. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Clearly," she replied. Her gaze flicked to the woman, then to the red rose tucked in his chest. "But I see you've had company to keep you occupied."

The tension was sharp enough to cut through linen.

The woman smiled at her with the serenity of someone entirely unbothered.

"What is this?" she snapped, throwing the silk box onto the table beside him.

He didn't look surprised. He barely looked at her.

"Stockings," he said calmly. "And a garter."

"You don't send things like that to a lady..."

"You are not simply a lady," he interrupted, finally turning to face her. "You are my future duchess. And I will gift you what I please."

"I'm not some courtesan you can dress up in lace and command."

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "You misunderstand the gift. I am not commanding you to wear it. I am waiting for the day you choose to."

Her breath caught.

"Do enjoy the nightgown, Milady. The Duke does have exquisite taste." Madam Violette said, her voice dripping with unbridled temptation.

Evelyn didn't respond. She couldn't. Her throatfelt tight, her fists clenched at her sides.

Evelyn lifted her chin in defiance. "I don't want it. I came to return it," she said flatly. Her voice rang a little too loud in the hush of silks and murmurs.

Nathaniel dismissed the woman with a wordless glance. She drifted off like perfume in a breeze.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You're angry."

"I'm insulted." Evelyn retorted.

"Because I sent you something to remind you you're desired?"

"Because you sent it like I was some...some courtesan you'd paid for, not a woman you intend to marry."

She gestured toward the returned box. "I am not yours to unwrap. Not now. Not like that."

His jaw ticked, his eyes darkened.

"You'll be mine soon enough."

Evelyn glared at him, wishing to wipe that smug smile off his face.

"You presume much."

"I presume only what I see." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You're angry because your body has begun to betray you. Because when you lie alone at night, you don't dream of escape...lyou dream of surrender."

Her cheeks flushed hot.

"Don't flatter yourself, Your Grace."

"I don't need to. You're already thinking about what it would feel like… if I touched you here." He reached toward her jaw, didn't quite touch it. "Or here." His fingers hovered near her waist. "Or lower." His fingers move further down her waist.

PA!!!

She slapped him.

It wasn't hard. But it wasn't gentle.

The greenhouse rang with the sharp sound.

Evelyn's eyes widened with horror by the time she realised what she has just done. She had just slapped the Duke of Wycliffe. Nathaniel's eyes darkened slightly at the sudden attack. No one had ever slapped him before in his life. Such a thing should be extremely humiliating to his title but strangely he wasn't angry. Interesting.

They stared at each other, silence stretching tight as a wire.

Then Nathaniel's voice dropped to a velvet threat. "You've mistaken restraint for gentleness. I allowed your outrage. Don't mistake me, Evelyn...I don't take what isn't given. But when it is… I do not ask twice."

Her skin prickled. Her mind screamed. But her heart the traitor beat harder.

She turned and fled.

That night, Evelyn soaked in her bath far longer than usual.

The water had gone lukewarm. Her fingers had pruned. Still, she sat there, knees drawn up, staring at the flicker of candlelight on the rippling surface.

She hated him.

She hated that he saw her. That he knew she was restless and afraid. That a single word from his mouth made her body betray her.

But more than that, she hated herself.

Because when she closed her eyes, it wasn't Julian she imagined anymore.

It was Nathaniel.

It was his voice in her ear, low and terrible. It was his hands guiding her, pinning her, freeing her in all the ways that frightened her most.

She rose from the water trembling, wrapped herself in a robe, and climbed into bed.

She didn't sleep.

Instead, she reached for the bottom drawer of her vanity.

The box waited, dark and silent.

She opened it.

Pulled out the garter.

She didn't put it on.

But she didn't put it away, either.

The following morning, Pamela visited again, finding Evelyn bleary-eyed and pacing.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," she said lightly.

"I feel like I've become one," Evelyn muttered.

Pamela tilted her head. "He's getting under your skin, isn't he?"

Evelyn nodded, bitter. "Like a splinter I can't remove."

Honora sighed. "You could still run."

"No. I could not."

"You could."Pamela insisted.

"Pam." Evelyn stopped. "If I run now, my family is ruined. My family's reputation will never recover. My father will never recover. I have no fortune. No future. Nathaniel is the devil I must dance with."

"But must you enjoy the dance?" Pamela asked.

Evelyn's silence was answer enough.

That night, Evelyn dreamed of silk again.

Only this time, it wasn't on her skin. It was binding her wrists.

And Nathaniel was there, faceless in shadow, whispering things she didn't understand but felt deep in her bones.

When she woke, she was breathless. Desperate. Unspeakably wet.

She didn't dare touch herself.

But she didn't stop imagining his voice, even as she closed her eyes again.