Three days passed.
Evelyn stood before her vanity, her reflection staring back at her with a carefully schooled expression. Behind her, Clara adjusted the delicate laces of her dress, her fingers quick and efficient.
Since that night, Nathaniel had not spoken to her. He had not sought her out. He had not even looked at her.
He had not come to the room.
Evelyn pressed her lips together, suppressing the unease curling in her stomach. She needed to act fast—she needed to gain his trust. But at this rate...
"My lady, are you listening?" Clara's voice broke through her thoughts. "Is something the matter?"
Evelyn inhaled, schooling her features before turning slightly to meet Clara's gaze in the mirror.
"Clara," she murmured, keeping her voice measured. "Why is the duke avoiding me?"
Clara hesitated, her hands stilling for just a fraction of a second before she continued adjusting the fabric. "He has been in his study of late," she said carefully. "He barely leaves. Even his meals are taken there."
Evelyn's fingers curled over the edge of the vanity. What is he doing in there?
Had she misstepped that night? Had she only deepened his suspicions instead of easing them?
She met her own gaze in the mirror, and for the first time in years, she felt something dangerously close to doubt.
She had always been able to anticipate the next move.
But now—
Now, Nathaniel was unreadable.
A firm knock echoed through the chamber door, pulling Evelyn from her thoughts.
"Is the lady ready?" came a familiar voice from the other side—calm, composed. Sir Locke, no doubt, sent to summon her.
Clara smoothed the final folds of Evelyn's gown, stepping back with a small nod. "You look perfect, my lady."
But perfection was not what Evelyn needed. She needed control.
Drawing a breath, she lifted her chin, composing herself before answering. "Yes. You may enter."
The door eased open, revealing Sir Locke—impeccably dressed, his posture stiff with formality. "His Grace awaits you in the drawing room," he informed her. "Shall I escort you?"
Evelyn hesitated for only a moment. Three days of silence, of distance, of carefully placed avoidance—and now, at last, Nathaniel had summoned her.
She offered Locke a nod. "Lead the way."
Evelyn descended the grand staircase with effortless poise, each step deliberate, measured. Sir Locke walked a pace ahead, his presence as steady as ever, yet she sensed the subtle tension beneath his composed exterior. Even he must have noticed the duke's unusual behavior these past few days.
The air in the grand foyer was thick with quiet anticipation. Servants moved swiftly, making last-minute adjustments to her traveling cloak, ensuring every detail was impeccable. But Evelyn's mind was elsewhere.
Nathaniel awaited her.
As they reached the drawing room, Locke stepped aside to open the door. Evelyn entered, her eyes immediately finding him.
Nathaniel stood near the window, his back to her, gazing out at the storm-gray sky. The long coat of his traveling attire hung impeccably from his broad shoulders, his posture rigid, unreadable.
For a moment, he did not acknowledge her presence.
"Your Grace," she greeted, her voice smooth, betraying none of her thoughts.
Nathaniel turned then, his gaze sharp as it settled on her. His face revealed nothing, yet she knew better than to believe in such an illusion.
"The carriage is ready," he said simply.
No apology for his absence. No explanation.
Evelyn inclined her head. "Then we should not keep Duke Ashford waiting."
Nathaniel's lips pressed into a thin line. He studied her for a beat longer, as if weighing something unspoken between them. Then, with a curt nod, he extended an arm.
Evelyn hesitated for only a fraction of a second before placing her hand in the crook of his elbow.
His warmth was unexpected. Solid. Steady.
Yet as they stepped forward, side by side, she could not shake the feeling that the true storm had yet to arrive.
....
The carriage ride to Duke Ashford's estate was silent, thick with unspoken thoughts and measured glances. Nathaniel had yet to say more than a handful of words, but Evelyn could feel his gaze flicker toward her now and then—assessing, waiting.
She kept her composure, meeting his silence with practiced ease.
By the time they arrived, the grand estate was already alive with activity. The Ashford family was known for their extravagant gatherings, and tonight was no exception. Crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over the ballroom, illuminating elegantly dressed guests as laughter and conversation wove through the air like an intricate dance.
Evelyn knew why she was here.
Nathaniel wanted to observe her—to see if she truly was Eleanor.
So she would be Eleanor.
The moment they stepped inside, familiar eyes turned toward them, recognition sparking in their expressions.
"Ah, the Duchess arrives at last!" Lord Sinclair, a broad-shouldered man with a perpetual air of amusement, greeted her first. "We were beginning to think you wouldn't grace us with your presence."
Evelyn allowed a warm smile to touch her lips, stepping forward with ease. "Would I ever dare disappoint you, my lord?"
Sinclair let out a hearty laugh. "Ah, just as charming as ever!"
Another noblewoman, Lady Henrietta, slid closer, her gloved hand grazing Evelyn's arm in familiarity. "We have much to discuss, my dear," she purred. "I assume you still have your keen interest in the latest fashions from Paris?"
Evelyn inclined her head. "But of course. You must tell me what you think of the latest imports. I found some of them rather—" she lowered her voice conspiratorially, "—underwhelming."
Lady Henrietta gasped, delighted. "Finally, someone who understands!"
The conversation flowed effortlessly. Evelyn moved through the room with practiced grace, engaging each noble as Eleanor would—charming, teasing just enough to hold their attention, never too much to seem eager.
And all the while, she felt Nathaniel watching.
He stood at a distance, speaking little, his gaze never straying far from her. He was studying her every move, every word.
Then—
"Ah, Your Grace," Lord Montgomery, an older noble with graying temples and a sharp eye for courtly gossip, stepped into her path. He took her gloved hand, pressing a brief kiss to it. "Still as radiant as ever, I see."
Evelyn let out a soft, airy laugh—the kind Eleanor would have given. "You flatter me, my lord."
Nathaniel stiffened.
She noticed—the subtle twitch of his jaw, the slight curl of his fingers at his sides.
To anyone else, he appeared perfectly composed.
But Evelyn was watching for it.
He doesn't like this, she realized.
Had he always been this way with Eleanor? Was this jealousy, or something else?
"Tell me," Montgomery continued, his voice carrying just enough to be overheard, "will you be attending Lady Fairchild's gathering next month? It would be a shame to have such an event without your presence."
Evelyn tilted her head slightly, as if considering. "That depends on whether or not I receive an invitation worth accepting."
Montgomery chuckled. "Ever the elusive duchess."
A shadow loomed beside her.
Nathaniel.
He stepped in without a word, his mere presence commanding Montgomery's attention.
"My wife and I have other engagements to consider," Nathaniel said coolly. "We will decide in due time."
Montgomery's lips parted slightly in surprise before he recovered. "Of course, Your Grace."
Evelyn turned to Nathaniel, keeping her expression open, unreadable. "You wound me, husband," she teased lightly. "Are you suggesting I enjoy these gatherings too much?"
Nathaniel met her gaze, his expression unreadable. "You seem at ease," he murmured.
She tilted her chin. "Should I not be?"
A charged silence stretched between them.
Then, with a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, Nathaniel extended his arm to her. "Dance with me."
A challenge.
Evelyn smiled, slipping her hand into his. "Of course, Your Grace."
As he led her onto the dance floor, his grip firm yet controlled, his thoughts churned.
So she knows Eleanor's social life...
The orchestra swelled as they stepped onto the polished floor, the soft strains of a waltz weaving through the air. Around them, other couples parted slightly, making way for the Duke and Duchess of Everthorne. All eyes followed them—some curious, some admiring, others sharp with quiet speculation.
Evelyn kept her posture elegant, placing her hand lightly on Nathaniel's shoulder as he guided her into the first step. His grip at her waist was steady, his movements precise, practiced.
"You wear the role well," he murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
She lifted her gaze to his, her lips curving in a hint of amusement. "Is that approval I hear, Your Grace?"
His expression remained unreadable, but his hold on her tightened ever so slightly. "It's a simple observation."
They moved in perfect synchrony, gliding across the floor in seamless rhythm. Evelyn kept her demeanor poised, her smile effortless, even as she studied him. Nathaniel was testing her, she was sure of it—watching to see if she would misstep, if her mask would slip.
"Lord Montgomery seemed rather taken with you," he remarked, his tone deceptively neutral.
Evelyn tilted her head slightly, as if considering. "He is merely fond of pleasant conversation."
Nathaniel's gaze darkened, though his movements did not falter. "Is that what you call it?"
She let out a soft laugh, the sound light, almost teasing. "Are you jealous, husband?"
His jaw tensed, but his grip remained firm, controlled. "I have no reason to be."
A lie.
She could feel it in the way he held her, in the weight of his gaze. Whatever had been between Nathaniel and Eleanor, it had not been indifference.
"And yet," she mused, voice dropping just slightly, "you never answered my question."
Nathaniel's steps slowed just enough to be noticeable, his expression flickering with something unreadable before he quickly masked it.
"You play the part well," he repeated, steering the dance back into perfect rhythm. "But I wonder..."
Evelyn arched a brow. "Wonder what?"
His eyes held hers, dark and knowing. "If you ever tire of it."
Her breath caught, just for a fraction of a second.
It was an innocent enough remark. A casual observation.
And yet, Evelyn knew.
He wasn't speaking about Eleanor.
He was speaking about her.
The moment passed as quickly as it came. Nathaniel twirled her gracefully, leading her through the next steps with unwavering precision, his expression giving nothing away.
Evelyn recovered just as smoothly, a soft, practiced smile returning to her lips. "Whatever do you mean, husband?"
Nathaniel didn't answer.
The waltz neared its end, the final notes lingering in the air. As the last step brought them closer, his gaze remained locked on hers, unreadable, searching.
Then, with the slightest tilt of his head, he murmured, "You tell me."
The music faded, the applause rippling through the ballroom as they parted.
Evelyn curtsied, her heart steady, her mask unshaken.
But as Nathaniel took her hand once more, guiding her from the floor, one thought settled deep in her mind.
He's watching more closely than I thought.