That night, Evelyn sat by the window in her chambers, gazing out at the moonlit garden below. The cool night air filtered in, brushing against her skin like a ghost of a memory. Silence pressed in around her, amplifying the storm of thoughts that refused to settle. She had always prided herself on being composed, on the belief that every decision she made was deliberate—each step calculated toward the future she had painstakingly crafted.
But tonight, with Nathaniel's touch still lingering on her skin and the taste of his kiss still fresh on her lips, that illusion of control shattered. She felt exposed—vulnerable in a way she had never allowed herself to be. Her body, her heart—everything about her had betrayed the fortress she'd spent years building.
She had kissed him—or had he kissed her? He had drawn her into his storm, and for a brief, dizzying moment, she had let herself be swept away.
But she wasn't supposed to want this. She wasn't supposed to want him.
I shouldn't covet another woman's man. He doesn't love me. He loves Eleanor. He only looks at me because I remind him of her...
The door behind her creaked open. She stiffened, her heart stumbling as she turned, only to find Clara entering with a soft knock and a gentle smile.
"My lady, it's late. Perhaps you should get some rest," Clara suggested, her voice low and soothing.
Evelyn gave a slight nod, though her eyes remained fixed on the window. Rest was impossible when her thoughts refused to quiet, when every moment returned to him.
Evelyn hesitated, then asked softly, "Clara… do you think the Duke loves me?"
Clara paused, blinking in surprise, as though the question was unexpected. Then she smiled gently, reassuringly.
"My lady, I believe the Duke is completely devoted to you," she said with quiet certainty. "Anyone with eyes can see it. Even if he doesn't say it aloud, it's in the way he looks at you… as though no one else exists."
Evelyn's heart gave a strange, painful flutter. She wanted to believe it. She needed to believe it. But the truth clawed at her from the inside.
He didn't love her. He loved Eleanor.
And she… she was only wearing Eleanor's face.
She offered Clara a hollow smile. "Yes… of course. I am everything to him."
"Yes, indeed, my lady," Clara said warmly, mistaking the pain in Evelyn's eyes for quiet joy.
"You may leave now, Clara."
"Goodnight, my lady," Clara said with a small curtsy, then turned and left the room, the door clicking softly shut behind her.
As soon as she was alone, Evelyn drew her knees to her chest and buried her face in them, her thoughts spiraling.
What do I do? Why do I feel this way toward him… when none of this was meant for me?
---
Flashback – Six Months Ago
The scent of woodsmoke hung heavy in the air, mingling with the earthy damp of early spring. Evelyn stood by the hearth, hands raw from scrubbing, the hem of her dress damp with muddy water. Her mother sat at the spinning wheel, silent, lips pressed into a pale line. Outside, the village bell tolled noon.
Inside their modest cottage, silence was suffocating.
Evelyn finally spoke, her voice barely a whisper. "They've posted the lists in the square."
Her mother's hands faltered on the spindle. "And?"
Evelyn hesitated, then drew a folded scrap of parchment from her apron. Her fingers trembled as she read the name aloud, though she didn't need to. She had memorized it the moment she saw it.
"Theodore Carter. Age eighteen. Called to serve by His Majesty's Imperial Decree."
A sharp breath escaped her mother's lips. "They've taken him from us already."
"He's not gone yet, Mama," Evelyn said, though the words rang hollow in her own ears.
The elder woman turned to her daughter, her green eyes flashing with desperation. "He is but a child, Evelyn. He is not yet a man. What does he know of war? Of blood and death and misery?"
"He will know it soon, unless—" Evelyn stopped herself, heart pounding. She stood straighter, voice gaining strength. "I won't let them take him."
"But how?" her mother whispered. "There's no coin to buy him out. No noble sponsor to intervene. We are but cogs in the machine, Evelyn."
Evelyn clenched the parchment in her fist, her jaw tight.
"I don't know, Mother. But I will find a way. Don't worry."
Her mother looked up at her—at her daughter's mud-stained skirts, her blistered hands, the fierce resolve burning in her eyes. Something in her expression softened, and then with a trembling breath, she nodded.
"You always did take after your father," she said quietly. "Stubborn as the frost in winter."
Evelyn didn't smile. She couldn't. Her gaze had drifted toward the shuttered window, where the wind pushed against the frame like an impatient hand. Somewhere out there, nobles dined on silver platters, danced beneath gilded ceilings… while boys like Theodore were sent to die for their wars.
Something had to be done. And if no one else would save him—she would.
Even if it meant becoming someone else entirely.
---
The village market was bustling with noise—hawkers calling out their wares, the clatter of hooves on cobblestone, the scent of sun-warmed bread and dust filling the summer air. Evelyn adjusted the woven basket on her hip, her mother's preserves neatly stacked within. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and called out, "Fresh plum jam! Two coppers a jar! Good for winter stores!"
A child ran past her, nearly toppling her basket. She caught it just in time and sighed. It had been a long day. Her boots were dusty, and her apron smudged with flour and berry juice.
She had no time to dwell. Tomorrow, they might come for Theodore.
Her heart clenched at the thought of her younger brother. He had just turned eighteen, and the Imperial decree had been clear: every male of common birth was to be conscripted into the army. Her father had died in the Emperor's war when Theodore was just a baby. But how could she protect him from a royal edict?
She didn't notice the black carriage at first—large, lacquered, with polished silver fittings. It cut a striking figure amid the dust and haycarts of the market road.
Inside sat sir Bastian, steward of the late Countess Eleanor, returning from his errand in the western provinces. He had halted only to water the horses.
Through the lowered window, his tired eyes wandered—until they caught sight of a young woman standing by a fruit vendor's stall.
His breath caught in his throat.
"Lady Eleanor…?" he whispered, eyes wide with disbelief.
But no. The girl was in peasant's garb. Her dress was coarse, her hands stained with jam, and there was a wild, weary determination in her eyes. Not Eleanor. Eleanor was dead. Had been for nearly a year.
Still… the resemblance was uncanny.
He tapped the side of the carriage sharply. "Driver. Wait here."
Climbing down from the step, he made his way toward her. Evelyn noticed him only when he was nearly upon her.
"Sir?" she asked cautiously, stepping back, gripping her basket as though it might shield her.
"Pardon me, miss," he said with deliberate civility, bowing slightly. "I do not mean to startle you. Might I have your name?"
She hesitated. "Evelyn Carter, sir."
"Miss Carter," Bastian repeated slowly, as though tasting the name. "You wouldn't happen to have family in the northern provinces, would you?"
She frowned. "No, sir. We've always lived in Avonford."
"Indeed…" His eyes scanned her face. The cheekbones. The mouth. Even her voice, though a bit roughened by the village air, rang with a certain familiarity.
"Forgive my boldness, Miss Carter," he continued, "but you bear a striking resemblance to a… lady of high standing I once served."
Evelyn blinked, wary. "I assure you, sir, I've never been anywhere near nobility."
He gave a small, amused smile, though his eyes remained keen. "That may soon change."
She stiffened. "Sir?"
"Would you, perchance, be willing to hear a proposition? One that may keep your brother far from the Emperor's warfront."
Her heart stuttered. "What are you saying?"
"I am saying," Bastian said carefully, "that the Empire has lost a beloved daughter, and the Duke a fiancée. But… what if she were never lost?"
Flashback ends...
Nathaniel's Study, Later That Night,
The candle burned low beside an untouched glass of brandy. Nathaniel stood in his study, one hand braced against the carved mantel as shadows danced across portraits of ancestors. The steady patter of rain against the window and the faint chime of midnight coaxed memories from the depths of his mind.
He hadn't meant to kiss her.
Yet, his fingers still ached where they had curled into the fabric of her gown—her warmth, her silence, the way her lips had parted beneath his intense gaze.
He cursed quietly and reached for his brandy, but the fire in the amber liquid did little to soothe his thoughts.
She looked so much like Eleanor—yet, in that fleeting moment, she had seemed not her ghostly double, but a woman entirely of her own making.
Nathaniel clenched his jaw and turned away from the flickering fire. Love was a luxury his world could scarcely afford—not when the court watched his every move, nor when fresh scars of old betrayals still ached beneath his skin.
But when Evelyn touched him, the sensation was not spectral; it was the heat of life, the promise of something real.
He had long told himself she was nothing more than a fragile imitation arranged by fate. And yet, each time she entered the room, she unsettled him, shifting his carefully ordered existence.
A knock interrupted his reverie. "Enter," he commanded without turning.
It was Locke—his trusted steward. The man stepped in quietly, shaking the rain from his shoulders with a cloth. "My lord, you requested i investigate her ladyship."
Nathaniel nodded tersely. "And?"
Locke's eyes glittered with cautious intrigue. "I have found something rather curious—a girl," he began.
Nathaniel turned slowly, his brow furrowing. "A girl?"
"She lived in Avonford," Bastian explained. "Commonborn, yet her resemblance to the late Countess is unmistakable. She could be her twin. I inquired, and her mother confided that her daughter has been missing for six months, and that her younger brother, Theodore—an aspiring artist—who was set to be conscripted for the coming war six months ago had his conscript canceled."
Silence fell heavily between them.
Nathaniel's gaze sharpened, the flames from the hearth catching in his dark eyes. "And the name of this girl?" he asked, though he already knew—felt it in the marrow of his bones.
"Evelyn Carter," Locke confirmed, his voice low, aware of the weight that name carried in this house.
Nathaniel turned away again, his face carved in shadow. Evelyn. He had thought fate cruel to place her in his path. Now he realized—it had been deliberate.