"Unless you have some objection to prompt action in this matter? I confess myself eager to have the business concluded, particularly given my upcoming departure for London. It seemsprudent to formalize our arrangement before I am called away on estate matters."
His phrasing reduced their wedding to a matter of business efficiency, which she supposed was entirely appropriate given the nature of their agreement. Yet she found herself wishing for some small acknowledgment that they were embarking upon something more significant than a commercial transaction, some gesture that recognized the magnitude of the step they were taking.
"No objection, Your Grace, though I confess myself somewhat overwhelmed by the rapidity of these proceedings."
"Would you prefer some time to prepare yourself? Mrs. Cromwell has laid out appropriate attire, should you wish to change from your traveling dress."
The practical consideration touched her unexpectedly, suggesting that beneath his businesslike exterior lay some awareness of feminine sensibilities and the importance women placed upon such occasions, even when they were matters of convenience rather than romance.
"That would be most thoughtful, Your Grace. Perhaps half an hour to make myself presentable for such an auspicious occasion?"
"Naturally. I shall inform the vicar that we shall join him shortly."
As Evangeline moved toward the door, her future husband's voice stopped her once again, carrying a note of something that might have been uncertainty or perhaps even vulnerability.
"Miss Hartwell—Evangeline—I want you to understand that while this marriage may be one of convenience, I shall not treat you with anything less than the respect and consideration due to my wife. Whatever my failings as a man, I am not without honour in my dealings with those who depend upon my protection."
The unexpected use of her given name, spoken in that deep, cultured voice, sent an odd flutter through her chest. Combined with his promise of honorable treatment, it suggested depths to his character that his harsh exterior concealed, possibilities for their future that transcended mere mutual convenience.
"Thank you, Your Grace. That assurance means more to me than you might realise."
"Lucian," he said quietly. "If we are to be married, you should perhaps accustom yourself to using my Christian name, at least in private circumstances."
"Lucian," she repeated, testing the sound of it upon her tongue. "It suits you; I think."
Something flickered across his scarred features at her simple acceptance of his name and, by extension, his person. "I am pleased you think so. Now go, make whatever preparations you require. We have a wedding to attend."
As Evangeline left the library to prepare for her marriage to a man she had known for less than two days, she found herself marveling at the strange turns her life had taken. In the space of a single conversation, she had become betrothed to one of the most powerful peers in England, though their union would be founded upon necessity rather than affection, mutual need rather than mutual desire.
Yet perhaps such practical foundations might prove more durable than the romantic attachments that seemed to flame brightly before burning out in disappointment and recrimination. If she and the Duke—Lucian—could build respect and understanding upon their shared circumstances, perhaps they might create something worthwhile from the unpromising materials fate had provided.
Only time would reveal whether her gamble would prove wisdom or folly, but as she climbed the stairs to prepare for her wedding, Evangeline felt a curious sense of anticipation ratherthan dread. Whatever challenges lay ahead, she would meet them as the Duchess of Ravenshollow, with all the privileges and responsibilities such a position entailed.
The future, uncertain though it remained, had at least acquired a definite shape and direction. For a woman who had awakened that morning with no prospects save charity or degradation, such certainty felt remarkably like a gift, however strangely it had been bestowed.
Chapter Five
The chamber Mrs. Cromwell had arranged for Evangeline's wedding attire seemed almost divinely appointed to underscore the peculiar and extraordinary nature of her circumstances.The Rose Chamber, with its faded silk hangings and memories of happier times, seemed to mock the practical nature of the ceremony that awaited her with its gentle romanticism and ghostly echoes of a love that had once flourished within these very walls.
Upon the bed lay spread a gown of ivory silk that must have belonged to the late Duchess of Ravenshollow, altered with remarkable skill during the brief hours since Evangeline's acceptance of Lucian's proposal. The dress was perhaps twenty years out of fashion, its high waistline and long sleeves speaking of an earlier era's sensibilities, yet the quality of the fabric and the exquisite workmanship of the lace that adorned the bodice proclaimed it a garment worthy of ducal rank.
"Her Grace was much of your height and figure, miss," Mrs. Cromwell explained as she assisted Evangeline into the gown with hands that trembled slightly with emotion. "She would have been pleased to see it put to such use again, I think. She always said that wedding gowns were meant to carry forward the hopes of one generation to the next."
The sentiment was touching, though Evangeline wondered what the former Duchess might have thought of a marriage undertaken with such calculated practicality rather than romantic fervor. Still, as the silk settled around her figure with the whisper-soft rustle of expensive fabric, she found herself grateful for this small gesture toward tradition and ceremony, however abbreviated the proceedings might prove to be.
When the final touches had been applied to her appearance—her hair arranged in a style that complemented the gown's classical lines—Mrs. Cromwell approached with a worn velvet box that she handled with particular reverence.
"His Grace requested that you wear these," the housekeeper said, opening the box to reveal a stunning set of pearls that caught the morning light like captured moonbeams. The necklace was clearly ancient, its lustrous pearls graduated with mathematical precision, while matching earrings nestled beside it like sleeping dewdrops.
Evangeline stared at the jewels with something approaching shock. She had expected nothing beyond the borrowed gown, certainly nothing of such obvious value and historical significance. "These are magnificent, Mrs. Cromwell. Are you certain His Grace intended them for me?"
"Oh yes, miss. These were his mother's pearls, and her mother's before that. Every Duchess of Ravenshollow has worn them on her wedding day for near two centuries. His Grace was most particular that you should have them."
The weight of tradition and expectation settled about Evangeline's throat along with the pearls, their cool smoothness against her skin a tangible reminder of the legacy she was accepting along with Lucian's name. As Mrs. Cromwell fastened the clasp with practiced efficiency, Evangeline caught sight of her reflection and barely recognized the elegant woman gazing back at her from the looking glass.
"You look beautiful, miss," Mary ventured from her position near the door, her young face bright with the sort of romantic enthusiasm that the occasion's practical nature could not entirely suppress.
"Begging your pardon," Mary corrected herself hastily, "what I meant to say was—"
