EPISODE 4:

Rumors Begin

Morning light streamed through the tall windows of Ashcroft Manor, golden rays falling across Evelina’s bed. She lay tangled in silk sheets, her body restless, lips swollen still from Damian’s kiss. Sleep had been a stranger—each time she closed her eyes, she relived the heat of his mouth on hers, his hand gripping her waist, the sinful press of his body that had left her trembling and hungry for more.

She should have felt shame. Instead, all she felt was fire.

By the afternoon, however, that fire met with society’s frost. Evelina attended Lady Pembroke’s tea, though she knew better than to expect warmth there. The Pembroke gatherings were notorious—polite in appearance, venomous beneath.

The drawing room glittered with gilt mirrors and porcelain cups, the air thick with perfume and gossip. Evelina entered in a gown of pale blue muslin, her posture perfect, her chin high, determined to betray no weakness. But as she crossed the carpet, fans lifted, heads tilted, and she caught the ripple of whispers in her wake.

She spotted Cassandra instantly. Her cousin sat at the center of a cluster of ladies, her smile all innocence, though her eyes glittered with cruelty. Evelina’s stomach tightened.

“Did you hear?” Lady Morton leaned close to her companions, her voice pitched deliberately to carry. “The Duke of Ravenscroft was seen in the east garden last night.”

Gasps, soft and scandalous. Another lady, hand to her breast, whispered, “And wasn’t it Lady Evelina who slipped away from the ballroom at the very same time?”

Cassandra’s fan snapped open with theatrical grace. “Surely it was coincidence,” she said sweetly, though her gaze slid directly to Evelina. “My cousin is far too proper to indulge in such recklessness. Though… the Duke does have a reputation for making virtuous women forget themselves.”

Ripples of laughter broke like glass, sharp and cutting. Evelina’s cheeks warmed, but she forced herself to glide forward, every step controlled. She would not let them see her flinch.

“Better,” she said, her voice clear, “to indulge in recklessness than to spend one’s days clucking like hens over shadows and speculation.”

A dangerous silence followed before two younger ladies stifled their giggles. Others gasped at Evelina’s audacity. Cassandra’s smile never faltered, but her fan fluttered faster, the only betrayal of her temper.

Tea continued, though the whispers lingered like smoke, curling around Evelina until she longed for escape. By the time she returned to Ashcroft Manor, her composure cracked. She dismissed her maid, sank into the solitude of her chamber, and let herself tremble.

What had she done? One kiss in a garden, and already tongues wagged. Damian’s name twined with hers, each rumor a thread pulling her closer to ruin.

And yet—when she pressed her fingers to her lips, the memory of him returned, hotter than before. The danger only made the ache inside her sharpen.

As if conjured by her thoughts, a knock sounded. A footman entered silently, setting a sealed note upon her writing desk. No sender was named, but Evelina knew before she even touched it. Her pulse quickened as she broke the wax seal.

The handwriting was bold, deliberate:

You lingered on my lips last night, sweet Evelina. I would have you again. Midnight. The library. Do not make me hunt you.

The words stole her breath. He did not woo; he commanded. And God help her, she thrilled at it.

She stared at the letter, her heart hammering. To meet him here, under her family’s roof—it was unthinkable. If caught, she would be ruined beyond hope. But her body betrayed her, heat pooling at the thought of his hands again, his mouth devouring her in the dark among her father’s books.

Slowly, Evelina pressed the letter to her chest, closing her eyes.

“God help me,” she whispered, “I will go.”

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