The Countess returns

The invitation had arrived a week ago, sealed with a crimson wax stamp she hadn’t seen since girlhood. Evelyne recognized her mother’s elegant looping handwriting instantly. She hadn't visited home since the wedding—not truly. Not after the way they’d pushed her toward the Duke like a pawn.

The letter read like a royal command cloaked in politeness:

“We’ve heard whispers of your children’s charm. We would be delighted to meet them. Your father is eager to see his grandchildren—and you.”

It hadn’t mentioned the Duke once.

Now, as their carriage rolled into the estate she once called home, Evelyne sat rigid beside her husband. The children, dressed in their finest, slept peacefully in the seat across from them.

“You don’t have to speak,” she said stiffly, eyes on the window. “My mother will do enough of it for everyone.”

The Duke, composed as ever, glanced her way. “I don’t intend to speak much. But I intend to listen.”

She turned to him, surprised. “Why?”

“Because I want to understand the people who shaped the woman I married.”

Evelyne blinked.

He meant it.

The rest of the ride passed in loaded silence. When the gates opened, she saw the flurry of servants, the gleaming silver urns at the doorstep, and her mother’s unmistakable figure standing tall in lavender silk.

Lady Mireille—Countess of Darsbury—looked nearly untouched by time. Regal. Cold.

And disapproving, even before they stepped out.

“Oh, Evelyne,” her mother said in clipped tones, eyeing her gown. “That neckline is awfully modest for someone whose charms are her only contribution to society.”

Evelyne bristled. The Duke’s jaw flexed.

“And this must be your husband.” Lady Mireille’s tone dripped like poisoned honey.

The Duke stepped forward, took her hand with practiced nobility, and kissed it once without warmth. “Your Grace.”

Mireille blinked. “I see you’ve taught him manners.”

Evelyne opened her mouth, fury simmering—but the Duke cut in.

“On the contrary,” he said calmly. “Your daughter taught me grace. And I don’t believe her worth lies in her breasts, though I assure you, they’re quite magnificent.”

Evelyne nearly choked.

Mireille’s face paled. “I beg your—”

“You asked,” he said. “Now, shall we meet the children you’ve ignored since their birth?”

Evelyne stood frozen, torn between horror and awe. He offered his arm. She took it, stunned.

The visit only grew more awkward.

Her father greeted her with mild interest, more invested in the Duke’s political neutrality than in his grandchildren’s smiles. The children were passed between cousins and maids like toys.

But the Duke?

He stayed close. He touched her back when her mother made cruel remarks. He lifted their daughter when she cried. He shielded her from questions about court gossip, titles, and heirs.

Later, in the drawing room, Mireille made her final blow.

“I only hope he keeps you around long enough to see your daughter married,” she said sweetly, sipping tea.

Evelyne couldn’t breathe.

But the Duke rose to his full 6’5”, looked Mireille straight in the eye, and said:

“Your daughter isn’t going anywhere. She is mine. And I have every intention of keeping her far from the shadows you live in.”

He turned to Evelyne.

“Shall we?”

She nodded, breath caught in her throat.

Back in the carriage, the children asleep again, Evelyne looked at him.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said quietly.

“I wanted to,” he replied, not looking at her.

“Why?”