The Duke Asked May I Continue On Their Night — How a Forced Marriage in 1848 Became True Romance

Chapter 3

When it was over, the Duke turned to face her, and she felt the full weight of his attention for the second time in her life.

He was not what she had expected.

She had prepared herself for coldness, for cruelty, for the casual indifference of a man who saw her as a transaction. But his eyes, when they met hers, held something she could not name. Not warmth, exactly. But not emptiness either. He studied her face for a moment longer than necessary, and then he leaned forward to kiss her.

The kiss was brief. Careful. His lips barely brushed hers before he pulled away.

Evelyn’s breath caught in a way that surprised her.

The wedding breakfast was a blur of polite conversation and cold food. Lady Stanhope hovered at her elbow, whispering instructions about how to behave, what to say, how to sit. Evelyn nodded and did none of it. She watched Julian from across the room, watched the way he spoke to his guests, the way he carried himself, the way he glanced at her when he thought she was not looking.

Their carriage departed in the early afternoon. Lady Stanhope embraced her stiffly, her lips brushing Evelyn’s cheek without warmth. “You have done well for yourself,” she whispered. “Do not waste it.”

The carriage ride north took three days. They sat across from one another, speaking of the weather, of the landscape, of books they had both read. The conversation was polite, measured, careful. He asked her if she was comfortable. She said yes. He asked her if she was hungry. She said no. They lapsed into silences that were not uncomfortable, only cautious.

Evelyn watched him when he was not looking. She noticed the way his hands rested on his knees, perfectly still, as though he had trained himself to show nothing. She noticed the lines around his eyes, the gray threading through his dark hair, the way he looked out the window when he thought she was not watching. There was a sadness in his profile that she had not expected.

He caught her looking once. She looked away quickly, her cheeks burning.

“It is a long journey,” he said, without turning. “You should rest.”

“I am not tired,” she said.

He nodded, as though she had confirmed something he already suspected.

On the second night, they stopped at an inn. Evelyn ate alone in her room, staring at the plate of cold meat and bread without appetite. She heard Julian moving in the next room, the creak of floorboards, the sound of water being poured. She pressed her hand to the wall between them and wondered if he could feel it.

On the third evening, the carriage passed through a set of iron gates and began the long drive toward a house that rose from the landscape like a dark stone sentinel. Ashworth Park. Evelyn pressed her face to the window and felt her stomach tighten. The house was enormous, beautiful, and utterly uninviting. It had tall windows that reflected the dying light, a facade of gray stone, and a silence around it that felt deliberate. The drive was lined with ancient oaks, their bare branches reaching toward the sky like hands in prayer. Evelyn felt the carriage slow, heard the crunch of gravel beneath the wheels, and knew that this was the moment she had been dreading.

The servants were lined up at the entrance. Evelyn was introduced to each one — the housekeeper, the butler, the maids, the footmen. She remembered none of their names. Her head was spinning with exhaustion and the weight of the day. She smiled at them anyway, because that was what was expected, and she had learned to do what was expected.

Her rooms were on the second floor. They were larger than any room she had ever occupied, with tall windows overlooking the gardens, a fireplace already lit, and a bed that seemed impossibly vast. She stood in the center of the room and did not know what to do with herself.

A knock at the door. She turned.

The Duke stood in the doorway. He had removed his coat. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and the sight of his bare forearms struck her as strangely intimate.

“I will not force anything,” he said.

The words hung in the air between them.

“This marriage will move at your pace.”

Evelyn stared at him. She had prepared herself for obligation. She had prepared herself for duty. She had not prepared herself for kindness.

“I do not know how to respond to that,” she said honestly.

He almost smiled. “You do not have to respond. You only have to rest.”

He closed the door behind him, and Evelyn stood alone in the vast, warm room, more unsettled than she had been when she had expected the worst. She sat on the edge of the bed and pressed her hands to her face. She did not know what to do with a man who gave her choices. She had never been given choices before. She sat there for a long time, listening to the silence of the house, and then she undressed, climbed into the enormous bed, and fell into a sleep so deep it felt like surrender.