She Was Invited to Tea, Never Imagining It Was a Blind Date With the Duke—Until She Found Three Cups on the Table, His Mother Missing, and the Most Eligible Man in England Waiting for Her Alone

 PART 9

The final decision belonged to Evelyn, and it came on an ordinary afternoon.

No scandal forced it. No carriage crashed. No relative threatened disinheritance. No villain exposed herself before an assembled ballroom.

She was sitting with her father in the garden when Jonathan asked, “Do you want to marry him?”

“Yes.”

“Then what remains?”

She looked at the house where she had grown up.

“I am afraid of losing this.”

Jonathan followed her gaze. “You will.”

She turned sharply. He smiled.

“Not the house. Not us. But this exact life. Yes. You will lose it.”

Evelyn stared at him. “That is not particularly comforting.”

“I am your father, not an embroidered cushion.”

She laughed.

“Every choice closes a door, Evelyn,” he said. “Remaining here would cost you something too. The question is not whether marriage changes your life. It will. The question is whether the life on the other side is one you choose.”

She was quiet for a while.

“And if I make the wrong choice?”

“You may.”

“Papa.”

“What would you prefer?”

“A guarantee.”

“Yes.”

“Those are expensive,” Jonathan said. “I cannot afford one.”

She laughed again, this time through tears.

He took her hand.

“You were never frightened of Theodore.”

“No.”

“You were frightened of disappearing inside his title.”

She looked at him.

“Yes.”

“Do you still believe he would allow that?”

She thought about the past weeks.

The questions. The conversations. The east apartments, which Theodore had not touched. The school he had asked to visit rather than offering money without understanding it. The bridge. The way he had listened when she disagreed with him. The way he had trusted her when society offered him a more convenient version of her character, and he had set it aside and said: Because I know you.

“No.”

“Then perhaps you have your answer.”

Marianne was waiting inside.

She took one look at her daughter’s face. “You have decided.”

Evelyn nodded. Marianne smiled — and then her eyes filled.

“Oh no.”

Evelyn laughed. “What?”

“I promised myself I would behave sensibly when this happened.”

“You are crying before anything has happened.”

“I am preparing.”

Evelyn embraced her. For a moment they simply stood there in the hallway, among the coats and the umbrellas and the smell of the garden coming in through the open door.

Then Marianne whispered, “Are you happy?”

“Yes.”

“Then go.”

Evelyn drew back. “Now?”

“Before you invent another philosophical objection.”

“Mama.”

“I love your principles, darling. I simply do not wish to spend another fortnight listening to you walk the house at midnight.”

She went the following afternoon.

Constance saw the carriage from an upstairs window. She smiled. Then she did something extraordinarily difficult.

She stayed upstairs.

Evelyn was shown into the same drawing room in which everything had begun.

Theodore entered a moment later.

For a second, neither of them spoke.

The tea table was set. Two cups this time.

He noticed her noticing.

“My mother has apparently learned restraint.”

“Has she?”

“No. I had the third cup removed.”

Evelyn laughed. Theodore’s expression softened.

“What brings you here?”

“You.”

He became very still.

She crossed the room.

“I have an answer.”

Theodore did not move. Evelyn almost smiled at the sight of a duke suddenly afraid to breathe.

“When you asked me to marry you, I thought I had to decide whether I could become the Duchess of Alderwick.”

He waited.

“I was wrong.”

“About what?”

“I do not have to become some imaginary woman who already knows how to inhabit your life perfectly. I only have to remain myself while learning a new one.”

Theodore’s eyes changed.

“And I,” he said quietly, “have to remember that it will be our life.”

Evelyn nodded.

“Yes.”

He stepped closer. “Is that your answer?”

“No.”

His face fell.

She smiled.

“My answer is yes.”

Theodore stared at her. “Evelyn.”

“Yes, Theodore. I will marry you. If you intend to make me repeat myself, I may reconsider.”

He reached for her — and stopped.

Even now. Even at this moment. He waited.

Evelyn understood, and closed the remaining distance herself.

He kissed her. Not like a duke claiming a bride. Like a man who had spent weeks learning that love was not the same thing as possession, and who had just been entrusted with something infinitely more valuable than obedience.

When they separated, Theodore rested his forehead briefly against hers.

“You made me wait.”

“You needed practice.”

“At what?”

“Not getting everything immediately.”

He laughed, softly, under his breath.

“You are going to be a very difficult duchess.”

“I intend to be an excellent wife.”

“Is there a difference?”

“An enormous one.”

He kissed her again.

Upstairs, Constance had endured approximately twelve minutes.

She considered fifteen to be a heroic objective. At thirteen she descended halfway, encountered a footman on the landing, and whispered:

“Are they engaged?”

The footman went rigid. “My lady, I could not say.”

“Could not, or will not?”

“I never mind.”

She continued down — and then stopped herself before she reached the drawing room door.

For once, she turned around.