Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

Evan

A s their carriage rolled to a stop before the sprawling facade of his estate, Evan descended first, his hand extending toward Emma as she emerged. She took it with a slight hesitation, her gaze sweeping over the grand estate. Built of pale limestone, its stately columns and intricate moldings were softened by the ivy that clung stubbornly to its sides. The house loomed larger than anything she had ever imagined living in, and the sheer unfamiliarity of it all sent a flicker of unease through her chest.

“Is something the matter?” Evan’s voice, steady but gentler than she expected, broke through her thoughts.

She glanced up at him quickly, startled that he had noticed. “No, Your Gr—” she caught herself, correcting with some difficulty, “Evan. I am perfectly fine.”

He studied her for a moment longer, his dark eyes narrowing slightly in what seemed to be contemplation. “You are far too poor a liar for that to be true,” he said at last, his lips twitching as if he meant to smile but hadn’t quite managed it. “This is your home now. I hope you’ll feel at ease in time.”

Emma nodded, unsure how to reply. Home. The word felt foreign when paired with this place, this man. Yet there was something in his tone, if not warm, then at least sincere, that made her believe he meant it.

Evan turned to the waiting staff, issuing brisk instructions. “Her Grace will need everything to her liking. Whatever she requires, see to it.”

The butler bowed. “Of course, Your Grace.”

Inside, the air was cooler, tinged with the faint scent of polished wood and distant lavender. The grand entry hall stretched before them, flanked by gleaming marble floors and high ceilings adorned with intricate plasterwork. Emma’s unease deepened, but she kept her composure as Evan gestured toward an adjacent corridor.

“This way,” he said, his tone more casual now. “I’ll show you the library. I believe you might like it.”

Curiosity sparked faintly in her eyes, and she followed without a word. The library was tucked away from the grander spaces of the house, its walls lined with rich walnut shelves, each brimming with books in various states of use. A large window overlooked a manicured garden, and a fire burned low in the hearth, giving the room an unexpectedly inviting warmth.

Emma’s expression softened. “It’s lovely,” she said, the faintest trace of wonder in her voice.

“What do you enjoy reading?” he asked, settling his hands behind his back.

She hesitated before replying. “I do enjoy reading, but more than that, I write. Stories, mostly.” A faint blush colored her cheeks as she admitted this.

He arched an eyebrow, intrigued. “Stories? What sort of stories?”

“Oh, nothing grand,” she said quickly, brushing it off. “Little tales, sometimes for the children at the orphanage. They’re hardly worth mentioning.”

“Nonsense.” His tone was firm but not unkind. “You must show me sometime.”

Emma’s blush deepened, but before she could reply, he gestured toward the far wall. “There’s another library in the east wing. Far grander than this, if I’m honest. Though I think this room has more charm.”

“You have two libraries?” she asked, faint disbelief coloring her words.

“Three, technically,” he admitted, a touch of amusement in his voice. “But one is more of a glorified reading room. I’ll show you the others when you’re ready.”

Emma let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “You make it sound as though books are spilling out of the walls.”

“Nearly,” he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

As her gaze wandered, it landed on a large portrait hanging above the mantel. It depicted a stern-looking man and a woman of striking beauty, both seated in regal poise. Their faces bore a striking resemblance to Evan’s.

“Are those your parents?” she asked quietly.

He followed her gaze, and a shadow passed over his features. “Yes,” he said shortly, the warmth in his tone cooling instantly.

Emma hesitated, unsure whether to press further but emboldened enough to try. “They seem?—”

“They’re gone,” he interrupted, his tone curt. “Long gone.”

The abruptness of his reply left her taken aback, and she instinctively retreated, her shoulders drawing inward. “I see. My apologies. I didn’t mean to pry.”

Evan seemed to catch himself, his lips parting as though he meant to say something more, but the words never came. Instead, an awkward silence settled between them, the warmth of their earlier exchange dissipating. He turned slightly, his posture stiff.

“If there’s anything else you require, you’ve only to ask,” he said finally, his voice measured but distant.

Emma nodded, retreating further into herself. “Thank you,” she murmured, her tone polite but subdued.

She cast one last glance at the portrait before turning away. Whatever softness she had glimpsed in Evan seemed to have retreated as quickly as it appeared, leaving her once again uncertain of where she stood in this unfamiliar world.

She followed Evan out into the grand hall again but instead of carrying on with her tour he walked to the corner and pulled the bell summoning – she was uncertain who.

“If you will excuse me, I have business to attend to.”

“Today?” she asked, confused. “I thought we might… That is to say…” Hadn’t he just told her he would show her the house? She’d hoped that this was a sign that their relationship would not be as horrible as she had feared but evidently Even was far more mercurial that she’d realized.

“I trust you will find your way around the estate. There are a great many staff on site who can help you and you have your own maid,” he nodded his chin to the back of the hall where a door had just opened.

Brigitte appeared her familiar presence a balm amidst the unfamiliar grandeur. Descending swiftly, she curtsied with practiced ease, her face breaking into a warm smile.

“My lady, at last,” Brigitte said, her tone as bright as her expression. “Welcome to your new home. I should say Your Grace, not my lady. I do beg your pardon.”

“Brigitte,” Emma replied, her voice softening with relief. “I trust you’ve managed all the preparations?”

Brigitte straightened, her tone brisk and proud. “Indeed, Your Grace. Your chambers are ready, and I’ve taken care to see that everything is in proper order. His Grace was most accommodating in ensuring the household complied with your wishes.”

Emma inclined her head. “Very good. Come, then. Show me to these chambers you’ve arranged with such diligence.”

Brigitte led the way up the grand staircase, her step light yet purposeful. As they ascended, Emma took in the opulence around her: polished banisters, walls adorned with gilt-framed landscapes, and the soft glow of chandeliers catching the afternoon light. Brigitte, sensing her mistress’s reticence, began speaking with her usual cheer.

“It is a fine house, my lady, finer than any I’ve yet seen,” she said. “The staff speak most highly of His Grace. They say he is a fair master—demanding, of course, but just—and generous when the occasion calls for it.”

Emma raised a brow at this. “That is a comforting assessment, though I suppose it is only natural they should hold him in some esteem.”

“Oh, indeed, Your Grace,” Brigitte replied, lowering her voice slightly. “But I must tell you, it seems they hold his friend, the Earl of Weston, in even greater regard.”

Emma cast her maid a sidelong glance. “The Earl of Weston? And why, pray, is he so well-regarded?”

Brigitte’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “He is, by all accounts, most charming. The maids all clamor for duty whenever he visits, for he treats everyone kindly and has a smile that could melt the iciest heart – at least that is what Hester, the house maid said. I’ve not yet met him so I cannot speak to the accuracy of the statement. Not to mention,” she added with a conspiratorial whisper, “he is said to be as handsome as any gentleman in London.”

Emma’s lips twitched in reluctant amusement. “And does the Earl make frequent visits to Haddington Hall?”

“Not so frequent as the maids would like,” Brigitte replied with a grin. “But often enough to keep them hopeful.”

They reached Emma’s chambers, and Brigitte pushed open the door to reveal a suite as grand as it was tastefully appointed. The main room was spacious, with tall windows draped in pale green silk that complemented the soft cream of the walls. A four-poster bed with intricate carvings stood against one wall, its coverings a rich damask in muted gold. A plush chaise longue occupied one corner, while a writing desk of polished mahogany was positioned near the window, its surface already adorned with a delicate vase of fresh lilies.

“Is it not splendid, Your Grace?” Brigitte asked, moving about the room to adjust a curtain. “You’ll be most comfortable here, I daresay. And the view from the window overlooks the rose garden—it is quite lovely in the morning light.”

Emma stepped further into the room, her gloved fingers brushing against the fine fabric of the curtains. “It is grand indeed, almost excessively so.”

“Nonsense, Your Grace,” Brigitte said with a smile. “It is fitting for a duchess, as you now are.”

Emma allowed a faint smile to touch her lips, though her thoughts were far from settled. “Thank you, Brigitte. You have done well.”

Brigitte curtsied. “It is my pleasure, Your Grace. Now, if you will excuse me, I must see to the unpacking. The footmen should be bringing up the remainder of your things shortly.”

With that, Brigitte departed, leaving Emma alone in the unfamiliar space.

As Emma moved about her new quarters, placing her belongings with care into the ornate wardrobe and drawers, she allowed herself a moment to take in the opulence of her surroundings. The chambers were grander than she had ever imagined—fitted with fine damask draperies, an intricately carved four-poster bed, and gilded sconces that cast a warm glow across the room. A fireplace of polished marble occupied one corner, and a mirrored vanity table stood elegantly against the wall.

But the elegance did little to settle her thoughts. She had hardly finished unpacking when her fingers brushed against something unexpected at the back of a drawer. Her curiosity piqued, she retrieved a bundle of letters tied with a faded ribbon. The vellum was aged but well-preserved, and each envelope bore the same recipient’s name in a confident masculine script: Rose.

Emma’s breath caught, her heart quickening as unbidden thoughts surged forward.

Rose .

The name had an intimacy about it, one that suggested familiarity, affection... perhaps even passion. Were these relics of one of his alleged conquests? One perhaps not so long ago? She thought back to the woman she’d seen the duke with at Hyde Park a few weeks ago now. Was this woman Rose?

Or another she had not yet learned about?

The Duke’s reputation had been that of a rake—no one had concealed it from her, least of all Evan himself. And yet, as she held the letters, an unfamiliar tightness coiled in her chest.

Without opening a single one, she set the bundle aside, placing it with an air of deliberate indifference atop a stack of unused stationery.

It is none of my concern. This marriage was never meant to be anything more than a convenience.

But her hands lingered on the ribbon for a moment longer than necessary.

The irritation and disappointment she felt surprised her. Why should she care if these were love letters—or something less innocent? Had she not vowed to keep her distance, to approach this union with detached resolve? She had been the one to insist on boundaries, to make it clear that her heart would remain untouched.

And yet... the existence of the letters unsettled her, and not because of their likely contents.

Why do I care? she thought, clenching her hands. I am a practical woman. My feelings—whatever they are—should hold no sway in this arrangement.

Still, as she resumed her unpacking, the sight of the letters lingered in her mind. She chided herself for her foolishness, for allowing such trivialities to vex her. But deep down, she could not entirely dismiss the disquieting notion that the letters mattered—not because of what they might mean for Evan’s past, but because of what they revealed about their future.