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

Chapter 7

The storm came in February.

It howled through the halls of Ashworth Park, shaking windows, rattling doors, filling the darkness with sounds that seemed almost alive. Evelyn woke to the wind screaming against the walls, her heart pounding, her skin slick with cold sweat.

She had dreamed of death again. Of her mother’s face, pale and still. Of her father’s hand, cold in hers. Of the silence that had filled Croft Manor after the fever had done its work. The dream had been so vivid that she could still smell the sickness in the air, could still feel the weight of her mother’s hand going slack in her own. She had been fourteen again, helpless again, alone again.

She sat up in bed, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The room was dark. The fire had burned down to embers. The wind was still howling, and she could not stay here, alone, with the memories pressing in from all sides.

She did not think. She rose, wrapped herself in a robe, and walked through the dark corridors of Ashworth Park without knowing where she was going. Her feet carried her to the west parlor, where a fire still burned low.

She was not alone.

Julian stood by the window, silhouetted against the glass. He turned when she entered, and the concern in his eyes was immediate.

“Evelyn.”

She could not speak. She crossed the room and stopped a few feet away from him, trembling.

“May I stay?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

She sat on the sofa. He sat beside her. The silence stretched, and then broke.

“I still dream of losing everything,” she whispered. “Of being alone again.”

Julian’s voice was steady. “You are not alone.”

She looked at him then — truly looked at him — and something inside her settled. The fear did not disappear, but it receded, like a tide pulling back from the shore.

“I trust you,” she said.

The words struck him with more force than she had anticipated. His composure, always so carefully maintained, flickered. He reached for her hand. Slowly. Giving her time to pull away.

She did not.

Their fingers intertwined, natural and sure. Evelyn leaned into him, her head resting against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat, steady and strong. He wrapped his arms around her with a reverence that made her eyes sting.

“May I continue?” he asked softly.

She nodded.

The kiss was gentle. Unhurried. It was not the kiss of a man claiming what he had purchased. It was the kiss of a man asking permission. It spoke of patience, of choice, of two people stepping forward together instead of being pushed.

When they parted, Evelyn felt no uncertainty. Only certainty.

The storm continued through the night, but they did not notice. They stayed in the parlor, talking until the embers turned to ash. He told her about his childhood — the lonely halls of Ashworth Park, a father who had been distant, a mother who had died when he was young. She told him about Croft Manor, about the summer before her parents died, about the way her father had laughed. They spoke of things they had never told anyone, and the words came easily, as if they had been waiting for this moment all along.

When dawn finally broke, gray and quiet, Julian walked her back to her room. He stopped at her door and took her hand. “I do not know what I have done to deserve you,” he said. “But I intend to spend the rest of my life proving I am worthy of it.”

From that night on, they were no longer a duke and a duchess sharing a house. They were husband and wife in truth — bound not by contract, but by the quiet decision to choose one another.

The servants noticed the change before anyone spoke of it. Mary caught Evelyn’s eye one morning and smiled. Mrs. Holloway began to hum while she worked. The house itself seemed to exhale.