Lucian burst through the inn's doors with the sort of dramatic entrance that sent the assembled refugees scattering before his obvious fury, his scarred features set in lines that would have been intimidating under the best of circumstances and were positively terrifying given his current emotional state.
"Where is my wife?" he demanded of the innkeeper, who stammered directions to the upper chambers while evidently deliberating whether taking flight would be more advisable than remaining in close quarters with the incensed Duke.
The physician met him at the chamber door with the sort of professional calm that came from years of dealing with medical crises and overwrought family members. "Your Grace, I must insist that you moderate your voice and manner. The Duchess requires absolute quiet for her recovery."
"What is her condition?" Lucian demanded, though he did lower his voice to something approaching normal conversational levels. "Is she well? How serious is her collapse?"
"Exhaustion, primarily, combined with insufficient nourishment and the effects of prolonged exposure to cold and damp conditions. She has been pushing herself far beyond reasonable limits for someone unaccustomed to such physical demands."
"But she will recover completely?"
"With proper rest and care, yes. Though I must emphasize that such episodes can have serious consequences if not properly addressed. The Duchess must be prevented from resuming such strenuous activities until she has fully regained her strength."
Lucian nodded grimly, though his attention was already focused on the slight figure lying so still beneath the inn's heavy quilts. Evangeline appeared smaller and more fragile than he had ever seen her, her face pale against the white pillows and her breathing shallow enough to cause him renewed anxiety.
"How long has she been unconscious?"
"Nearly two hours, Your Grace. I expect her to wake naturally within the next few hours, though complete recovery may require several days of careful rest."
After Mr. Brookes departed with instructions for her continued care, Lucian settled himself in the chair beside her bed with the sort of grim determination that suggested he had no intention of leaving her side until she regained consciousness. The sight of her lying so still, having literally collapsed from the effort of caring for his people, filled him with emotions too complex to analyze clearly.
Pride that she had thrown herself so completely into relief efforts despite his attempts to exclude her from such activities. Fury that she had pushed herself to the point of collapse rather than accepting reasonable limitations on her involvement.Terror at how close he had come to losing her to exhaustion and exposure. And beneath it all, a protective tenderness that he was no longer able to deny or dismiss as mere duty.
She had defied his orders, ignored his concerns for her safety, and literally worked herself into unconsciousness for the sake of people who were strangers to her but who had become her responsibility through marriage. It was exactly the sort of behavior that had attracted him to her character during their initial encounters, yet applied to circumstances where such courage could have resulted in serious injury or death.
As he watched her sleep, noting the way her breathing gradually became deeper and more regular, Lucian found himself confronting the uncomfortable reality that his feelings for his wife had evolved far beyond the respectful appreciation he had initially expected their marriage to engender. The terror he had experienced upon learning of her collapse, the rage that had consumed him at the thought of others failing to protect her welfare, the tenderness that filled him as he observed her gradual recovery—all spoke of emotions that could no longer be disguised as mere concern for a business partner.
He was falling in love with Evangeline Hartwell, despite his every intention to maintain appropriate emotional distance. And the knowledge that such feelings made him even more vulnerable than his physical scars ever could, filled him with a fear more profound than any he had experienced on the battlefields.
Chapter Eleven
The gilt-edged invitation to the Thornley Assembly had arrived three days after Evangeline's recovery from her collapse during the flood crisis, bearing the elaborate script and heavy cream paper that marked it as a communication from the highest echelons of local society. Mrs. Cromwell had presented it with the sort of ceremonial gravity that suggested she understood its significance far better than its recipient, though Evangeline required no explanation to recognize that this would mark her first true test as the Duchess of Ravenshollow in the unforgiving arena of public scrutiny.
"Sir Geoffrey Thornley holds the assembly every December," Mrs. Cromwell had explained with careful neutrality, "though His Grace has not attended such functions since his return from the war. The local families will be most curious to see the new duchess and to observe how she and His Grace conduct themselves in society."
The careful phrasing had done little to disguise the fact that Evangeline would be entering what amounted to a battlefield where her every word, gesture, and expression would be analyzed for evidence of her suitability—or lack thereof—for the exalted position she now occupied. The prospect filled her with a combination of determination and dread that had made the days leading up to the event pass with agonizing slowness.
***
Now, as she stood before the looking glass in her chambers while Mary put the finishing touches on her evening toilette, Evangeline found herself questioning every aspect of her appearance with the sort of anxious scrutiny that would have been entirely foreign to her nature mere weeks ago. The gownshe had chosen, a creation of deep blue silk that complemented her dark hair, was undoubtedly beautiful, yet she could not shake the fear that it might somehow mark her as either too majestic for her origins or too modest for her current station.
"You look magnificent, Your Grace," Mary assured her with genuine admiration, stepping back to survey her handiwork. "Every lady at the assembly will envy your elegance, and every gentleman will admire your beauty."
"Thank you, Mary. Though I confess myself more concerned with avoiding any serious social missteps than with inspiring either envy or admiration."
The truth was that Evangeline had spent considerable time during her recovery studying the intricacies of social precedence and protocol, determined not to embarrass either herself or Lucian through ignorance of the complex rules that governed interactions among the nobility. The responsibility of representing one of England's most ancient duchies was not one she took lightly, particularly when her own background provided so little preparation for such elevated circles.
Lucian was waiting for her in the entrance hall when she descended the main staircase, his imposing figure resplendent in formal evening wear that emphasized both his impressive height and the military bearing that years of civilian life had done nothing to diminish. He had taken particular care with his appearance, she noted, his dark hair arranged to minimize the visibility of his scars while his perfectly tailored coat spoke of London's finest craftsmen.
Yet despite his elegant attire and dignified bearing, she could see the tension in his shoulders and the wariness in his dark eyes that suggested he anticipated the evening ahead with considerably less enthusiasm than social obligation demanded.
"You look beautiful," he said with the sort of formal courtesy that had marked their public interactions since their marriage,though she detected something warmer in his tone than mere politeness would require. "That particular shade of blue is most becoming."
She felt heat rise to her cheeks at the compliment, her fingers nervously smoothing the silk of her skirts as she struggled to meet his gaze. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "You appear quite distinguished yourself." She hesitated, gathering her courage before adding in a rush, "Though I confess myself rather anxious about this evening. Will the local society be kind to us, do you think? To their returning Duke and his..." She faltered, the word 'wife' seeming too intimate to speak aloud, "...and his new Duchess?"
His expression grew darker at her question, suggesting that he harbored no illusions about the reception they were likely to encounter. "Local society will be curious, critical, and probably somewhat hostile. You must prepare yourself for questions that border on impertinence and observations that are intended to wound rather than welcome."
"How encouraging. And how should I respond to such hospitality?"
