SHE WAS TOLD TO SIT QUIETLY AND LET HER SISTER SHINE — THE DUKE ONLY EVER LOOKED AT HER

Chapter 3

“You did more than that.” Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “You held him there. You monopolized his attention for a full ten minutes. Do you have any idea the damage you have done? He never even spoke to Cordelia. The entire ton is talking.”

“I did not ask him to approach me,” Evelyn insisted, a spark of defiance she had not felt in years beginning to smolder in her chest. “I was standing where I was told to stand. I was doing exactly what you asked.”

“And you will continue to do so.” Her mother stepped closer, her crimson gown rustling like flames. “This was a fluke. A moment of ducal eccentricity. Do not mistake it for anything more. At the Fitzwilliam musicale on Thursday, you will find a seat in the back, and you will not move from it. Is that understood?”

Evelyn dropped her gaze to the floor. “Yes, Mother.”

The familiar resignation washed over her, but this time it was tinged with something else. A flicker of memory. The way the Duke had looked at her book—not with disdain, but with what might have been recognition.

Thursday arrived, draped in a cold, persistent drizzle that turned the London streets to rivers of mud. The Fitzwilliam musicale was a more intimate affair, held in a gilded music room that smelled of beeswax and old roses. True to her mother’s command, Evelyn was seated on a small, uncomfortable chair behind a pillar near the back of the room. Cordelia, a vision in rose pink, was positioned perfectly in the front row.

Evelyn closed her eyes as the first notes of a somber sonata filled the room. She tried to lose herself in the music, to let the melancholy chords carry her away from the stifling room and her own anxious thoughts. She did not want to hope. Hope was a dangerous, fragile thing, and hers had been broken too many times to count.

But when she opened her eyes halfway through the performance, she found him.

The Duke of Ravenswood was not in his seat of honor near the hostess. He was standing at the back of the room, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. And he was watching her. A jolt went through her body, sharp and electric. His gaze was just as intense as it had been at the ball—unwavering, deeply unsettling, and fixed directly on her. He was not looking at Cordelia, who was pretending to be enraptured by the music while subtly angling herself to be in his line of sight. He was looking past the pillar. Directly at Evelyn.

Her breath hitched. She looked away, her cheeks burning. It had to be a coincidence. Her mind was playing tricks on her, inventing significance where there was none. She was the gray mouse, the shadow. Men like the Duke of Ravenswood did not look at shadows.

During the interval, she tried to escape to the retiring room, but her mother intercepted her.

“Stay put,” she hissed, her fingers digging into Evelyn’s arm. “He is here. Cordelia will need to be at her best.”

Trapped, Evelyn retreated to her pillar, her heart pounding against her ribs. She kept her head down, pretending to study the intricate pattern on her fan, pretending she was anywhere else. A pair of polished black boots entered her field of vision.

“Miss March.”

She looked up. The Duke of Ravenswood stood before her, holding two glasses of lemonade. He offered one to her.

“Your Grace,” she stammered, taking the glass. Her fingers brushed against his, and a strange warmth spread up her arm, as if she had touched a live coal.

“You should not—I mean, I should not—”

“Should not what?” he asked, one dark eyebrow arching slightly. “Bring a lady a refreshment? I was under the impression it was a common courtesy.”

“Of course, but my sister—”

“Your sister seems to have a great many admirers vying for her attention,” he said, his gaze flicking for a moment toward Cordelia, who was surrounded by a coterie of young officers. He turned his full attention back to Evelyn. “I find I prefer less crowded conversations.”

The directness of his words stole her breath. This was not accidental. This was intentional. He was choosing to speak to her. The invisible girl behind the pillar.

“Why?” she whispered, before she could stop herself.

He studied her for a long moment, his gray eyes unreadable. “The sonata was a rather melancholy choice for the evening,” he said, changing the subject with an ease that told her he would not answer—not yet.

“I thought it was beautiful,” Evelyn replied, finding a sliver of courage. “It spoke of a deep and profound longing. Of things left unsaid.”

A flicker of something crossed his features—surprise, perhaps, or interest. “You appreciate music, then. Not merely as a backdrop for social maneuvering.”

“I do,” she said simply. “And poetry.”

“Ah, yes. The book at the ball.” A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of his mouth. It transformed his severe face, making him look younger, less formidable. “May I ask the author?”

“Wordsworth,” she confessed. “A bit sentimental for some, but I find his words… comforting.”

“There is nothing wrong with comfort, Miss March.” His voice was softer than she had yet heard it. “In a world of sharp edges, comfort is a rare and valuable thing.”

They stood in silence for a moment, sipping their lemonade. The din of the party faded into a distant buzz, as if his presence created a circle of quiet that nothing could penetrate. Evelyn felt a strange sense of peace settle over her—a feeling so foreign she barely recognized it. For the first time, she was not shrinking from his presence. She was finding solace in it.