'THIS WAS GETTING OUT OF HAND.'
Clara murmured the words under her breath as she stood before the tall, arched window of her chamber, her trembling fingers clutching the silk folds of her wedding dress. Her heart had not stopped pounding since the maid delivered the dreadful message—that Lord Percival had given orders for her belongings to be moved to the Duke's bedchamber.
Her things. To his room.
She had thought herself prepared for anything when she agreed to this bargain, but now she knew just how mistaken she had been. Marrying a duke under false pretenses was one thing—but sharing his bed, breathing the same air through the night, was quite another.
Her throat tightened. What had she done?
The candlelight flickered faintly as she bathed and dressed in one of Lady Evelina's nightgowns—soft, sheer, and far too revealing for her comfort. The fabric clung to her like the memory of her deceit. When the maid returned and curtsied, waiting to escort her, Clara followed in silence, her steps light but unsteady upon the carpeted corridor.
Every step toward that room felt like a descent toward discovery.
Her palms were slick with sweat, and her breath caught in her chest as they neared the door at the far end of the hall. The maid paused, bowed politely, and retreated with quiet haste, leaving Clara alone before the heavy oak door. For several heartbeats, she stood still, her pulse thudding in her ears. She tried to summon courage—to breathe, to appear composed—but her hands trembled as she reached for the handle.
The door creaked softly open.
To her immense relief, the chamber was empty. She nearly sagged against the doorframe, the weight of her fear briefly giving way.
It was a magnificent room—spacious, richly adorned, and almost intimidating in its elegance. The canopy bed alone looked grand enough to belong in a palace, the velvet drapes falling like a royal curtain. Gold trimmings glimmered along the furniture, and the faint scent of cedar and cologne filled the air. Everything here spoke of wealth, of power, of a man accustomed to command.
She felt painfully small standing amidst it all.
Her awe still held her captive when the door burst open behind her.
Clara spun around sharply, her breath catching.
Adrian stood framed in the doorway, tall and impossibly poised, his dark hair slightly tousled, his expression unreadable. He was still dressed in his wedding attire—a black tuxedo that fitted him with effortless grace. His gaze fell upon her, and for one terrifying heartbeat, she thought he could see straight through her lie.
"Lady Evelina," he greeted, his tone courteous but questioning.
Clara's knees nearly buckled. Somehow, she managed to curtsey, her voice trembling. "Your Grace."
She noticed him study her from across the room for a moment. His gaze was steady but not unkind like the last time. Then he cleared his throat softly and shut the door behind him with a gentle click. "I did not expect you to be here so soon," he said, his voice calm, measured.
She lowered her head, shyly. "Forgive me, Your Grace," she murmured. "I... thought it proper to arrive early."
Her voice sounded small even to her own ears. She could not tell what he was thinking, and that uncertainty terrified her more than anger ever could.
"You did not attend the ball," he said after a moment, his voice calm. "I was told you were unwell."
"Yes," she said quickly, her fingers twisting together. "I was… exhausted. A slight headache, that was all." The lie slipped out before she could think. The truth—that she had been hiding for fear of being recognized—was far too dangerous to speak aloud.
He said nothing in return, and the silence pressed down on her until her nerves began to fray. She could feel his gaze upon her—steady, unrelenting.
When he spoke again, his voice was softer, almost curious. "You seem very tense around me. Do I frighten you?"
Her head shot up, startled. She hadn't expected him to ask that. "No, Your Grace," she said too quickly, her heart hammering. Why was her heart racing so wildly?
The faintest flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—crossed his features, but she couldn't be sure. He stepped closer, and she fought the urge to step back.
He studied her for another long, excruciating moment before his tone shifted again, gentler this time. "Perhaps we should get to know one another better, Lady Evelina."
Clara blinked, unsure she had heard correctly. She was so nervous, she wanted to disappear. "Know... each other?"
"Yes," he replied. "I understand that in six months, our arrangement is to end. Even so, it would serve us both if we appeared… believable. Why don't you tell me something about yourself?"
Her heart lurched violently. What could she possibly say? She barely knew anything about the real Evelina Harcourt.
"There is nothing remarkable about me, Your Grace," she said softly, hoping that would end it.
"It's Adrian," he corrected gently. "You needn't be so formal."
"Adrian," she repeated, the name still feeling foreign on her tongue.
He waited.
Clara scrambled for something—anything—that might sound proper. "I am… only a lady of the House of Harcourt," she offered weakly.
He raised an eyebrow, and she knew that answer did not suffice. Her pulse raced, her mind blanking entirely until the words stumbled out unbidden. "Well, um… I love farming."
Her cheeks flamed instantly. Farming? Of all things—why had she said that?
He looked faintly taken aback, but she hurried to explain. "I—I'm not a farmer, of course," she stammered. "But I've always wished to own a small farm one day."
The air seemed to still between them. She dared a glance upward, only to find him watching her intently. Her embarrassment deepened under the weight of his gaze.
He spoke again after a long moment, his voice quiet. "And what would society think of a lady tending to a farm?"
She opened her mouth but found no answer. What would they think? A lady with soil beneath her nails and the scent of earth upon her skin—it was unthinkable.
"I…" she faltered, lowering her gaze. Right now, she wanted to disappear. She had said too much.
The silence that followed was tense. She could feel him still watching her, and her pulse refused to calm.
Then a sharp knock at the door broke the moment.
Adrian turned toward the sound. "Who is it?"
"It's me, Your Grace," came Butler Blake's muffled voice. "I apologise for disturbing you, but Mr. Hendrix requests to see you at once."
Clara exhaled quietly in relief, though she dared not show it.
"Tell him I will join him shortly," Adrian replied.
"Yes, Your Grace."
When the footsteps faded down the corridor, he turned back to her. "If you will excuse me," he said politely. "I have matters to attend to."
She nodded faintly, her voice barely a whisper. "Of course… Adrian."
He inclined his head once, then left the room.
The door closed with a soft click.
Clara's knees gave way the instant he was gone. She sank onto the edge of the bed, clutching the fabric of her nightgown as her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. Her heart pounded so violently she thought it might burst.
What had just happened? She had just told him she loved farming. What lady would say that?
She slapped her face in frustration wondering how much longer could she keep the lies from crumbling.