What was the word for this? Dutiful? Determined? Marching down the hall in her nightgown, hair loose, footsteps soft but unrelenting? Perhaps not proper, but she decided this was one of the few advantages that came with being a duchess. In her own home, she would do as she pleased.
If she wanted to, she could perform a handstand and walk on her hands, and the servants could say nothing to Nathaniel.
What was she even thinking? Where were these thoughts coming from? She was sleep-deprived, she realized. Perhaps this was not the best time to confront him.
Then again, who knew when she’d see him again? He had practically turned into a night owl.
She was at the staircase now, descending as the thick red carpet swallowed the sound of her steps.
A fire had just been lit in the parlor, and a footman emerged. He stopped short when he saw her, his eyes widening, shoulders stiffening as if he’d seen a ghost. He bowed instantly.
“Your Grace.”
“As you were,” she said, walking past like some kind of military general. She noticed her arms were swinging as though she were marching. Well, wasn’t she walking into battle?
“Nathaniel!” she called as she entered the room.
He looked up, his eyes slightly red.
“Evelyn,” he said. “What are you doing here? Can’t sleep?”
“No,” she replied. “I would ask the same of you, but I see you’ve just returned home.”
He scoffed and sauntered to the sideboard, pouring himself a glass of sherry. Without asking, he poured another and handed it to her.
“Did you write to my mother? Did she tell you to ensure I’m tucked into bed at a proper hour?”
“No,” she said coolly, “but I do wonder what she might say if she knew how you’ve spent your first year as Duke—hiding in this house all day and stumbling off to your club every night to do… who knows what.”
“If you wish to know what I do at the club, you can ask me,” he said. He glanced her up and down, as though only just noticing her nightgown.
“I have no interest in what you do at the club,” she said—even though she was burning to know.
“Very well,” he replied. “So, how goes your venture with the dower house?”
“Well enough,” she said. “We are planning to raise funds to feed the climbing boys. But I had hoped to do more to improve their conditions.” She was relieved they had moved on to this, the actual reason she’d come downstairs.
“A worthy venture.”
“Indeed, they say it is. I had hoped you might be willing to donate. So we could advertise that the Duke of Sinclair supports our cause.”
He shrugged. “Of course. Speak to Stuart. Tell him how much you need—any amount will do.”
She pursed her lips and tapped her thumb against her index finger. Could she hope for more? Push for more? If he wouldn’t be a true husband—if he wouldn’t even be her friend—perhaps she could at least make him a benefactor.
“Would you consider helping the children through the House of Lords?”
He looked up. “The House of Lords? And pray, how would I do that?”
“A bill. Mandating how they should be treated. We cannot have children with burns or stuck up in chimneys and left there to die. It isn’t?—”
“It isn’t right,” he agreed. “But I will not be the one to bring about change.”
“Why not? You are a duke. You are a member of the House of Lords. You can speak, you can make?—”
He rounded on her. “If you know how to pass bills and build alliances, why don’t you go to the House of Lords and do all these wonderful things?”
Her eyes went wide. Her hands curled into fists. “You know very well I cannot. I am a woman.”
