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

Chapter 8

Spring came slowly to Ashworth Park, as if the land itself needed convincing that winter was truly over.

The snow melted. The gardens began to show green. The roses that Julian’s first wife had planted — the ones Evelyn had seen as bare branches — pushed out new leaves, then buds, then blossoms of deep crimson. Evelyn walked among them each morning, running her fingers over the petals, marveling at how something so beautiful could emerge from what had seemed so dead.

And she discovered that she was with child.

She knew before the doctor confirmed it. She felt it in the way her body changed, in the strange certainty that settled into her bones. The nausea came first, then the fatigue, then the quiet knowing that she was no longer alone in her own body. She waited until she was sure, and then she told Julian in the garden, among the roses, on an afternoon so warm that it felt like a gift.

He listened in silence. When she finished, he did not speak. He simply pulled her into his arms and held her, his face buried in her hair, his shoulders shaking.

“Our child,” he said, his voice thick. “We made this.”

Evelyn closed her eyes and let herself be held.

The news spread through the estate like sunlight through a window. The servants began to smile openly. Mrs. Holloway wept. Mary, the young maid, clasped Evelyn’s hands and said, “We are so happy for you, Your Grace.”

Julian became fiercely attentive. He walked with her every day, insisted she rest, asked about every discomfort, no matter how small. She teased him gently about his fussing, but she did not mind. She had never been cared for like this. She had never been precious to anyone.

The months of her pregnancy were the happiest of her life. She woke each morning to the sun streaming through the windows, to Julian’s hand resting on her growing belly, to the quiet miracle of the life growing inside her. She wrote to Lady Stanhope, a brief, formal note, and received no reply. She did not expect one.

The summer was long and golden. Evelyn spent her days in the garden, reading in the shade, watching the bees move among the roses. Julian found excuses to be near her — a meeting canceled, a letter delayed. They took tea together in the afternoons, and he would read to her from the newspapers, his voice low and steady. She would close her eyes and listen to the rise and fall of his words, feeling the baby move inside her, and think that she had never known such peace.

London came at the end of spring. They returned for the season, as was expected of a duke and his duchess. Evelyn attended balls and dinners with her growing belly hidden beneath carefully constructed gowns, and she felt the weight of a thousand eyes following her every move. She learned to read the room the way she had once learned to read her uncle — by watching, by waiting, by knowing when to speak and when to remain silent.

The whispers followed her, too. Some were kind. Some were sharp. She ignored them all. She learned to walk through a room full of enemies with her head held high, learned to smile at women who whispered behind their fans, learned to meet the gaze of men who looked at her as though she did not belong. She was not the girl they thought she was. She was something far more dangerous: a woman who had nothing left to prove.

But Julian did not.

At a grand gathering in the home of a marquess, he stood before the assembled aristocracy and made a declaration that changed everything. The room was filled with the most powerful families in England — earls and barons and ladies who had spent their entire lives looking down on girls like Evelyn. Julian raised his glass, and the room fell silent.

“My wife,” he said, his voice carrying across the room, “will have full legal control over her own property. She will have full authority beside me in all matters of this estate.”

The room froze.

Evelyn felt the shock ripple outward — felt the eyes turning toward her, measuring, judging. She reached for Julian’s hand instinctively. He held it firmly.

Later, alone in their carriage, she finally spoke.

“You did not need to do that.”

“Yes,” he said. “I did.” He looked at her then, not as a duke defending his decision, but as a man speaking to the woman he loved. “I will never allow this world to make you small again.”

Tears filled Evelyn’s eyes. “You have already given me more than I believed possible.”

“That is because you deserve more than you were ever given.”

She reached across the carriage and took his hand. He held it tightly, and they rode the rest of the way home in silence, the weight of the evening settling around them like a cloak. When they arrived at their London residence, he helped her down from the carriage and did not let go of her hand until they reached the door.