Chapter 37: Trespass of Intimacy

The road to Wycliffe estate was quiet at dusk, the forest shadows stretching long across the winding lane. The manor's towering silhouette had just come into view over the trees when Nathaniel Wycliffe shifted in the carriage, suppressing a grimace.

His side throbbed deep and hot. The wound, hastily dressed on the road, pulsed with each bump of the wheels. Blood had soaked through the bandage hours ago, but he'd said nothing to his remaining guards. He never did. A Duke didn't show weakness.

He straightened his back, adjusting the fall of his black wool coat to hide the stain bleeding faintly through his crisp white shirt. The effort made his vision blur for a moment.

"Almost home," he muttered under his breath.

As the carriage rolled to a stop in the gravel court, footmen rushed forward. The butler opened the door just as Emilio emerged from the front steps, followed quickly by Lady Rosalind and Juliana.

Evelyn stood at the top of the stairs, hands clasped tightly in front of her. Her blue gown rippled in the breeze, the golden trim catching the last rays of sunlight.

Nathaniel's jaw tightened. He didn't want her to see him like this.

He stepped down carefully, hiding the stiffness in his movements as best he could. Each step sent fire shooting through his ribs, but he kept his expression unreadable, stone cold.

Juliana squealed with delight. "Brother!"

She threw her arms around him.

He barely caught the flinch in time, managing to return her embrace with one arm.

"It's good to see you too," he said, voice smooth but low.

Evelyn descended slowly, watching him.

His shoulders were slightly hunched. His stride had a measured stiffness, and his skin looked paler than usual. Her eyes flicked to his coat, where something darker soaked the fabric just beneath his ribs barely visible, but not invisible.

Her heart skipped. "My Lord?"

He turned to her.

"You look... tired."

"I'm fine," he said curtly. "The journey was long."

Emilio stepped forward. "We weren't expecting you until morning."

"I pushed through the night."

"Brother, you shouldn't exhaust yourself..." Juliana began.

"I said I'm fine," he cut her off, then softened just a touch. "I just want some quiet. I'll see you all at supper."

Without waiting for their responses, he started up the steps.

But Evelyn didn't move. Her gaze lingered on the spot near his ribs where the coat shifted oddly, betraying a slight tension in his torso like he was guarding one side.

She followed slowly behind him, and just before he reached the main doors, she said, "You're hurt, aren't you?"

He paused. Not visibly, not enough for the others to notice but she saw it.

Then he turned to her, his face unreadable.

"Don't fuss," he said. "It's nothing."

"I'm not fussing," she said, voice quiet but firm. "I'm your wife."

That word wife hung between them.

His eyes met hers, and for a fleeting second, something vulnerable flickered in his gaze. Then it vanished.

"I'll have it seen to," he murmured, more gently this time. "Go inside, Evelyn."

He walked ahead, and this time, she didn't stop him. But as he disappeared down the hall, she made a decision of her own.

She would find out what happened.

And who had dared hurt the Duke of Wycliffe.

Later that night - After dinner

Evelyn moved quietly down the west corridor, her silk night robe swishing at her ankles.

Nathaniel hadn't come down for supper.

He hadn't sent word either.

She'd waited. Listened for footsteps. Asked Mrs. Carroway if he'd summoned a physician. He hadn't.

And now she was at his door, her knuckles hovering just above the carved wood.

She hesitated then ignored her better judgment.

The door creaked softly as she eased it open.

The room was dim, lit only by the low glow of the hearth and a single oil lamp on the side table. Nathaniel sat on the edge of his bed, shirtless, his back half-turned to the door. He hadn't heard her.

His shoulders were broad, marred with old scars, but her gaze was immediately drawn to the angry, swollen wound beneath his ribs, deep, jagged, and freshly red. Blood clung to the cloth he'd used, a poor attempt at binding it alone.

He grunted softly, wincing as he peeled the makeshift bandage away, jaw clenched tight. His hand trembled for just a second.

"I knew it," Evelyn said, barely above a whisper.

He stiffened instantly, his head snapping toward the sound.

"What the hell are you doing here?" His voice was sharp, cold.

"You're hurt," she said, stepping in and shutting the door behind her, gently but firmly. "And you didn't tell anyone. Not even your sister."

He glared. "That's not your concern."

"I'm your wife," she said, refusing to shrink beneath the frost in his voice. "It is."

Nathaniel stood, towering, his bare chest rising and falling with the effort to hold himself steady. "Get out."

"You're bleeding, and you can barely reach the wound." Her voice softened, threading beneath the tension. "Let me help."

"No."

"Nathaniel," she said again, stepping closer. "You'll get an infection."

He opened his mouth then closed it again. The fight in his eyes flickered.

A long pause. Then, finally: "Fine. Quickly."

Evelyn crossed the room. She picked up the cloth he'd dropped, grabbed the basin on the side table, and poured warm water from the kettle into it. She found clean linen nearby and dipped it in.

"Sit," she instructed gently.

He did, reluctantly, his eyes never leaving her.

When she crouched beside him and pressed the damp cloth to his side, he flinched, his body tightening like a bowstring.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "It'll sting."

"I've had worse."

But the pain still showed in the slight tremor of his breath.

She cleaned carefully, dabbing away the blood. His skin was hot, and not just from fever. The wound was deep, but not fatal. Still, it would scar.

When he flinched again, she stopped.

"Let me..."

Without finishing her sentence, she leaned in, bowing her head low, her lips close to the wound and gently blew on it, soothing the sting the only way she could think to.

Nathaniel went rigid.

The warmth of her breath, the softness of it on raw skin, sent a jolt through him. He looked down at her hair falling over her shoulder, the delicate line of her neck, the way her lips hovered just above his flesh.

His breath caught.

Evelyn looked up, slowly. Their eyes met.

For a long, taut second, neither moved.

Then she looked away, her face flushing as she wrung out the cloth again and continued dressing the wound in silence. His heart thudded in his chest louder than he wanted to admit.

When she was done, she tied the bandage with gentle fingers, barely brushing his skin.

"You should rest," she said quietly, standing.

He didn't answer right away. Just looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time.

"Next time," she added, voice lower, "tell me when you're hurt."

She turned to leave, her hand on the door.

"Evelyn."

She paused.

"…Thank you."

Her fingers curled slightly on the doorknob. She nodded without turning back and left.

The room was silent again.

But Nathaniel could still feel the ghost of her breath against his skin.