Chapter 48: Emerald Necklace Gift

The heavy doors of the study creaked open once more, and General Hawthorne stepped inside, his boots clicking over the polished floors. A seasoned man in his fifties, sharp-eyed and broad-shouldered, he offered a curt bow.

"Your Grace."

Nathaniel, now back behind his desk, inclined his head. "General."

The fire had dulled to a simmer behind them, casting long shadows across the room. The scent of wax and smoke lingered. Nathaniel gestured for him to sit, and the general did, resting a thick leather folio on his knees.

"You didn't ride all this way from Braxton's border just to exchange pleasantries," Nathaniel said coolly, pouring himself a glass of dark brandy but offering none.

"No, Your Grace." General Hawthorne's voice was equally clipped. "We've discovered something in the mines outside Silvergrove. During a routine inspection of the abandoned tunnels, one of my men noticed a vein in the collapsed shaft."

Nathaniel raised a brow. "Silver?"

"More than silver," the general said, voice lowering. "Pure lode. A massive deposit. Untouched. It's buried under the old Hartwell estate."

Nathaniel sat straighter, interest flickering in his eyes. "The crown doesn't own that land."

"No. Not yet."

"Hartwell's last heir died childless."

"Yes," Hawthorne confirmed. "And the local magistrate has marked the land as unclaimed. With your reach and influence, Your Grace, you could quietly have it transferred under a holding name. Before the others catch wind of it."

Nathaniel was silent for a moment, processing. "Does the Queen know?"

Hawthorne hesitated. "No. But Lord Percival has spies sniffing around. They're growing bold."

Nathaniel exhaled sharply through his nose. "He moves too openly."

"Desperation makes men careless." The general adjusted the folio on his knees. "This mine could change the balance, Your Grace. Fortunes are forged from less."

Nathaniel nodded once. "Secure it. Quietly. I'll draft the necessary orders."

Hawthorne stood, giving a short bow. He turned toward the door, the report in hand but Nathaniel's voice halted him just before he reached it.

"General."

"Yes, Your Grace?"

Nathaniel's voice was quieter now, laced with something uncharacteristic - hesitation, perhaps.

"If there was something you... wanted," he began, "something that stirs you but it's not something you can control. Not fully. What would you do?"

The general blinked, then turned, studying the Duke curiously. He wasn't a man prone to personal confessions, and this felt oddly out of place. But Hawthorne's answer came without delay.

"I'd follow it," he said plainly. "What's the point of desire if it's caged? Better to burn chasing it than sit cold and wondering."

Nathaniel's jaw tensed.

He gave a small nod. "That will be all, General."

As the door closed behind the man, the study fell silent once more. Nathaniel stared down into his glass, swirling the amber liquid.

What's the point of desire if it's caged?

The echo of the general's words clung to the walls long after he was gone.

And Evelyn's scent of wildflowers and firelight still lingered faintly in the air.

The fire had burned low, casting a molten amber glow across the Duke's chiseled features. Shadows cut across his cheekbones, his jaw tense as he leaned back in his chair, the general's words still pulsing through his mind.

Nathaniel stared into the empty brandy glass, but he wasn't seeing the polished crystal. His mind was elsewhere drifting where it shouldn't. Where it had no business lingering.

Her voice.

Her scent.

The softness of her hands as they pressed against his skin, her breath ghosting over his wound.

He let out a slow, barely audible exhale through his nose and reached forward, sliding open the drawer of his desk.

Inside, wrapped in a silk, lay the emerald necklace.

The stone caught the light as he peeled the fabric away, a stunning pendant of dark green, cut into a perfect teardrop and framed by delicate filigree. A single droplet of fire trapped in glass.

A gift he hadn't given. A gesture he had delayed.

His cold fingers hovered over it.

Gideon's voice drifted faintly in memory:

"If you return empty-handed, she'll think you've forgotten her entirely. Give her something to remember, My Lord. Something beautiful."

Nathaniel stared down at the pendant for several long, heavy seconds. The flicker in his eyes was unreadable; part hesitation, part quiet torment.

Then, without a word, he wrapped the necklace back in the silk kerchief, shut the drawer, and rose from his chair.

His bootsteps were deliberate as he crossed the study, the bundle tight in his palm.

The door clicked softly shut behind him.

And the empty study, for all its grandeur and order, suddenly felt hollow in his absence.

The candlelight in Evelyn's room flickered gently, casting warm pools of gold across the walls and ceiling. But she couldn't sleep.

Evelyn sat up in her bed, hugging her knees to her chest, the embroidered blanket pooled around her waist. She wore a pale silk nightdress trimmed with delicate lace, a gift from her stepmother, meant to be worn for her husband. But Nathaniel hadn't come to her since the night he left for London. And even since his return… he'd remained distant.

Her fingers brushed against the hem of her sleeve as she stared at the door, the flickering candle beside her bed the only sound aside from the distant rustling wind.

Would he come?

She touched her lips, remembering how his breath had hitched when she had leaned close. There had been tension in that room, thick and coiled like a spring.

"If he wanted to be here, he would come."

She sighed softly and pulled the blanket higher around her. A cold ember of disappointment curled in her chest silent but persistent.

Then a sudden knock broke the stillness.

Her head whipped toward the door. Her heart leapt, then dropped perhaps it was Cora checking in, or one of the maids.

Another knock. Firmer.

Evelyn hesitated for a moment, then slipped from the bed and padded across the floor, the silk hem of her nightgown brushing softly with each step.

She opened the door slowly.

And there he stood.

Duke Nathaniel Wycliffe.

Still dressed, though his coat was gone. His shirt was open slightly at the collar, the dark shadows beneath his eyes made him look like a man running from sleep or himself.

He said nothing.

Neither did she.

His eyes drifted down her form just a second too long.

Evelyn swallowed, suddenly all too aware of her nightgown, her loose hair falling over one shoulder, the soft lamplight behind her turning her into something almost ethereal.

He lifted a hand and slowly uncurled his fingers. In his palm, a silky bundle.

He extended it.

She looked down in confusion, then took it gently.

Her fingers unwrapped the silky kerchief. The emerald pendant gleamed inside, deep green, rich, glowing in the dim light like something alive.

A soft gasp left her lips. "It's beautiful…"

Still, he said nothing. But his gaze on her didn't waver.

And for the first time since his return, she saw something unguarded in his expression. A tension that wasn't just political or cold calculation, it was emotional.

Her voice was quiet, almost reverent. "Why did you bring it to me?"

Nathaniel's jaw flexed once. "Because I wanted to."

The silence between them was thick but not heavy.

Warm.

Unspoken.

A thousand questions clung to her tongue, but she didn't ask them. Not now.

She stepped aside without thinking, a silent invitation for him to enter.

His eyes met hers. And then, he entered.