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.
Amidst the polite clapping of nobles, a single slow, deliberate clap cut through the air with calculated ease.
Nathaniel stilled beside her. Evelyn turned her head just in time to see him—Duke Alexander Ashford.
Standing at the edge of the dance floor, he was dressed in sharp, midnight-black attire, his bearing effortlessly commanding. His applause was measured, almost lazy, yet it carried a weight that made the surrounding nobility shift uneasily.
"A beautiful dance from the newest couple," he remarked, his voice smooth, edged with something unreadable.
Evelyn felt his gaze settle on her, and for the first time that evening, an unfamiliar sensation crawled down her spine.
It wasn't admiration. Nor was it mere curiosity.
It was assessment.
The kind that came from a man who already knew the answer but was watching to see if she knew it too.
And then, like a whisper in the back of her mind, she remembered.
"The Duke is not a man to be taken lightly, my lady. His power does not lie solely in his land or wealth, but in the quiet way he moves the pieces around him. Few realize they are playing his game until they have already lost."
Sir Bastian's words had seemed cautionary at the time, almost an exaggeration. But now, standing beneath Alexander Ashford's gaze, she understood.
This was not a man to be ignored.
Nathaniel's grip at her side subtly tightened, a silent acknowledgment of the moment.
Duke Ashford's lips curved ever so slightly—not a smile, not quite.
"Shall I assume you are enjoying your return to society, Your Grace?" he asked Evelyn, though the way he phrased it made it feel less like a question and more like a move in a game only he fully understood.
Evelyn met Duke Ashford's gaze with a measured smile, tilting her head just slightly—an act of careful calculation rather than submission.
"I would be remiss not to," she replied smoothly. "Society has such… familiar comforts."
The words were carefully chosen, neither confirming nor denying anything. A game played between nobles, where every syllable carried weight.
Duke Ashford's expression did not shift, but something in his gaze sharpened.
"A diplomatic answer," he mused, amusement flickering in his tone. "Expected, I suppose." His attention briefly flickered to Nathaniel. "You must be quite pleased, Your Grace. The duchess carries herself as though she never left."
Nathaniel's expression remained impassive, but Evelyn felt the subtle tension in his posture.
"She is as she has always been," Nathaniel replied coolly.
Evelyn's pulse steadied. He was testing her. And more than that—he was testing Nathaniel.
Duke Ashford worked alongside the emperor. He was no mere noble playing courtly games. He was a man who moved the board itself, shifting pieces with a mere glance. And if Sir Bastian's words held true, then standing before him was as precarious as standing before the emperor himself.
Still, she could not afford to waver.
"Some things never change, Duke Ashford," she said, her voice laced with just the right amount of familiarity, as though she were truly Eleanor. "But I find myself wondering—what has changed in my absence?"
Duke Ashford chuckled—a soft sound, but no less unsettling. "Oh, my dear Duchess," he said, stepping closer, just enough to lower his voice, "the world does not pause for sentiment. Much has changed. Even the empire's Supreme Commander has taken on greater burdens, have you not, Nathaniel?"
Evelyn felt the shift in the air, subtle but undeniable.
Nathaniel stood unmoving, unreadable. But Evelyn—she saw it. The tension beneath the mask.
She did not know the details of what Duke Ashford alluded to, but she understood one thing—this was not idle conversation.
Duke Ashford was not simply making conversation—he was prodding, searching for weaknesses, for inconsistencies. He was a man who dealt in power, in influence, in secrets whispered behind closed doors. And now, his gaze rested upon them, sharp and calculating.
Evelyn forced a soft, amused smile, as if she remained unbothered by his words. "Burdens are a constant in a man's life, are they not?" she said lightly, glancing at Nathaniel. "But my husband has never been one to falter beneath them."
Nathaniel did not react outwardly, but she felt the weight of his gaze settle on her. A silent acknowledgment. A warning.
Duke Ashford exhaled a quiet laugh, taking a slow sip of his wine. "So it would seem," he mused. "The empire is fortunate to have a Supreme Commander so steadfast." His eyes flickered to Nathaniel. "And a wife who speaks with such confidence in him."
The tension was razor-thin now. Evelyn knew she had to tread carefully—too much eagerness to defend Nathaniel, and it would seem forced. Too little, and it would raise suspicions.
"Confidence is well-placed when earned," she replied smoothly. "Would you not agree, Your Grace?"
A beat of silence.
Then, Duke Ashford smiled, slow and deliberate. "Indeed."
The moment passed, but Evelyn knew the game had only just begun.
Nathaniel finally moved.
He extended his arm to her, his expression composed, but there was an undeniable finality in the gesture. "If you'll excuse us, Duke Ashford. My wife and I have much to discuss."
Evelyn placed her hand lightly in Nathaniel's, allowing him to lead her away from the watchful eyes of the gathered nobles.
But even as they stepped further from Duke Ashford, she could feel the weight of his scrutiny lingering behind them.
'She looks like her... but is that truly Lady Eleanor?' Duke Ashford mused, his gaze lingering for a fraction longer before he lifted his wine to his lips.
As they stepped away, Evelyn maintained her poise, her every movement measured, but beneath the surface, her thoughts churned.
The way Duke Ashford had regarded her—not merely observing, but scrutinizing, dissecting—left a cold weight in her chest. His doubt had been subtle, a flicker in his eyes, but she had seen it. And if a man like him was questioning her identity, then he was already searching for the cracks in her carefully constructed façade.
Nathaniel's grip on her arm was steady, his stride unhurried, exuding the practiced ease of a man who refused to betray even a sliver of tension. Only when they moved beyond the reach of prying eyes did he finally speak, his voice low.
"You handled that well." His words were measured—not reassuring, not approving. Merely stating a fact.
Evelyn exhaled, her gaze fixed ahead. "Did I?" A pause, before she tilted her head slightly. "I see."
"The whole event must be tiring. Would you like to rest?" Nathaniel's voice was smooth, deceptively polite, but Evelyn wasn't foolish enough to believe it was a simple offer.
She glanced up at him, keeping her expression carefully neutral. "A thoughtful suggestion, my lord."
Nathaniel's lips barely curved—a hint of amusement, or perhaps something darker. "You must be exhausted, after all. Dancing, socializing, deflecting Duke Ashford's attention." He let the last words linger as if testing her.
Evelyn held her ground. "It was a rather engaging evening."
Nathaniel made a thoughtful noise as he led her through the dimly lit corridor, away from the glittering chandeliers of the ballroom. The further they walked, the quieter the air became—until it was only the sound of their steps echoing against polished floors.
Then, without warning, he stopped.
Evelyn barely had time to react before he moved—swift, precise. One hand braced against the wall beside her, his other just grazing her waist as he stepped in close.
Too close.
Evelyn stiffened, her back pressing against the cool stone as she looked up at him.
Nathaniel's slate-gray eyes were unreadable, but his proximity sent a shiver curling through her. His scent—leather, clove, and something faintly metallic—was intoxicating in the hush of the corridor.
His fingers ghosted along the curve of her hip, light enough to be a suggestion, a warning. "You didn't answer my question," he murmured.
Evelyn swallowed. "Which one?"
His lips twitched. "Are you tired, wife?"
She could feel his breath against her skin, could sense the careful control in the way he loomed over her—like a predator watching for the slightest misstep.
Evelyn tilted her chin, feigning composure. "A little."
Nathaniel hummed low in his throat, his gloved hand trailing just barely over her waist before retreating. "Strange," he mused, his voice a quiet mockery of concern. "You seemed quite lively in the ballroom. Especially under Ashford's gaze."
A trap.
Evelyn met his stare evenly. "He's an influential man. It would be rude not to engage him properly."
Nathaniel's expression remained impassive, but his fingers lifted, tracing a slow, deliberate path along the silk sleeve of her gown, up to the hollow of her throat.
She didn't move. She couldn't.