Chapter 38: Yearning and Silence

Evelyn closed Nathaniel's door with a soft click behind her, the dim corridor swallowing her into silence. Her feet moved of their own accord, the long folds of her robe whispering with each step as she returned to her chambers. But her mind… her mind was far from calm.

She'd touched him.

Not as a wife expected to bear an heir. Not as a noblewoman playing the role of consort.

But as a woman—offering tenderness to a man who had only shown her ice.

And he'd let her.

She closed her door and leaned back against it, breath shaking, heart hammering like she'd run a mile. The room was cool, lit by the flicker of candlelight. But she was warm—too warm—still flushed from that moment her lips had hovered near his skin.

She'd felt it. Not just his wound. Not just the tension in his muscles.

But something else.

A shift.

A fraying in the walls he always kept so high.

She stepped away from the door, crossed the room in a slow daze, and sat before her mirror. Her fingers touched her lips as if the breath she gave him had somehow turned back on her.

What was that?

Why did it feel like… something had changed?

Evelyn glanced at her reflection. Her cheeks were still faintly pink, her pupils wide with some lingering, unsettled emotion.

She didn't dare name it.

---

Elsewhere in the Manor...

Nathaniel sat on the edge of his bed, unmoving.

The bandage she'd tied lay snug against his ribs, but it was not the wound that throbbed—it was something deeper, something he could neither suture nor suppress.

Her breath.

That damn breath.

The way she had leaned in, gently, unafraid. The way her gaze hadn't wavered when she saw him in pain, when she touched him. When she disobeyed his order to leave and chose to stay.

Most women—no, anyone—would have recoiled.

He'd known the ambush had been coming for someone like him eventually. Politics bred enemies, and neutrality was often a threat. He hadn't told his family, hadn't summoned a physician, not out of pride, but to avoid burdening them. And he certainly hadn't expected her to come looking.

He had thought Evelyn quiet. Soft-spoken. Obedient.

Tonight had rewritten that.

She was still soft. But she had thorns, too. And they pricked at him now, in places that had long gone numb.

Nathaniel leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and ran a hand through his hair with a low sigh.

He hadn't wanted a wife. He'd made peace with duty, not desire.

But Evelyn…

She had seen him broken and bleeding, and instead of recoiling, she had leaned in.

Why?

He didn't know what she wanted from him. He didn't know what he wanted from her.

But one thing was clear:

He would never forget the feel of her breath on his skin.

And that scared him more than the blade that had torn into his side.

Scene: Morning Light and Murmurs

The morning sun seeped softly through the silk curtains, drawing golden threads across Evelyn's bed. She stirred, eyes fluttering open, the haze of sleep still wrapped around her like a gauze.

But then she remembered.

Last night.

Him.

His wound.

The cool heat of his skin under her fingers.

Evelyn sat up slowly, her heart oddly heavy in her chest. She touched her temple, as if the quietness of the room would settle the chaos in her head.

It didn't.

The robe she chose was a soft sea-green, tied snug around her waist. Her hair she left loose, the waves falling in elegant disorder over her shoulders. She didn't know why she took such care with her appearance that morning—but something deep in her bones urged her to be ready. Ready for what, she couldn't say.

She stepped out into the hallway and was greeted immediately by Cora, already bright-eyed and carrying a folded shawl.

"You're up early, milady," Cora smiled, though her tone was cautious. "Did you sleep well?"

Evelyn gave a soft, hesitant nod. "As well as I could."

Cora tilted her head. "Is something troubling you?"

Evelyn opened her mouth to answer, then stopped herself. What could she say?

I tended my cold husband's wound. I touched him and something in me burned.

Instead, she just shook her head. "No. Just… tired."

Cora didn't press further. "Would you like to take breakfast in the morning room, or with the rest of the family in the dining hall?"

Evelyn hesitated.

Normally, she would have taken her tray in solitude. But this morning, she wanted to see him.

She shouldn't. But she wanted to.

"The hall," she said quietly.

---

The long dining table gleamed under the light pouring in from tall windows. A quiet fire crackled near the far end, and the scent of warm bread and roasted ham filled the room. Lady Rosalind sat near the head, reading the morning's correspondence with a pince-nez perched on her nose. Emilio was present too, sipping tea and scanning a newspaper.

But it was the figure at the end that made Evelyn's breath catch.

Nathaniel.

Dressed impeccably, as always, in dark navy and black. A cravat that nearly hid the bruising shadow at the base of his neck. But she noticed—of course she did—the way he sat slightly stiff, how his arm moved more carefully as he brought his cup to his lips.

His eyes flicked up the moment she entered. She met his gaze—just for a moment.

Then he looked away.

So did she.

"Good morning, Duchess," Emilio greeted with a friendly smile, rising briefly. "You look radiant this morning."

"Thank you," she replied, taking her seat at the side of the table.

Nathaniel hadn't said a word.

And yet, his presence seemed louder than any voice in the room.

---

Throughout breakfast, Evelyn felt him. Not his eyes—he never once looked directly at her again. But there was an energy between them, taut and unspoken. He moved with his usual grace, but every now and then his hand would brush the edge of his ribs, subtle but telling.

She knew he was hurting.

And pretending not to.

She wondered if he was embarrassed.

Or grateful.

Or—perhaps—just as unsure of what last night had meant as she was.

As the servants cleared the last plates, Evelyn rose. "I'll take a walk in the gardens," she murmured to no one in particular.

But when she passed by Nathaniel's chair, she didn't mean to pause. She didn't mean to look.

Yet she did.

And so did he.

A flicker—just a moment. His cold gray eyes met hers, unreadable but intense.

Then she walked on.