Morning light spilled across Evelina's chamber, pale and delicate as it touched the tall windows. The glow softened the carved edges of the furniture and settled against the muted drapes, casting the space in a hushed stillness. Evelina sat before her mirror, unmoving, while Anna stood behind her with brush in hand. The maid's strokes were slow, measured, and even, each pass smoothing out the long strands of her mistress's dark hair until they shone.
The familiar rhythm should have eased Evelina's thoughts. It often did. But today, the brush's quiet sweep seemed only to echo the unrest within her. She stared into the mirror, yet she did not truly see her reflection. Her mind lingered stubbornly on the night before, replaying fragments of words spoken beneath the shelter of Kingswood, fragments of looks exchanged that had left her unsettled.
A soft knock at the chamber door broke the silence. Anna paused and then set the brush down. She crossed the floor quickly and opened the door. Evelina, still seated, heard a hushed voice exchange a few words with her maid. When Anna returned, "My lady," she said carefully, "you have a visitor. Lady Lescott has come. She asks to see you."
Evelina blinked, drawn back from her thoughts. "Lady Lescott?" she repeated, her surprise plain. Morning calls were rare. They were reserved for urgency or dire necessity, and Lady Lescott was not known for boldness or haste. She was pleasant enough at gatherings, always polite, but hardly a figure to step beyond the usual boundaries of courtly etiquette.
Still, Evelina rose. "Very well. I will see her."
She moved to her wardrobe with calm precision, though her mind stirred. A visitor at such an hour meant purpose, and purpose rarely came without consequence. She chose a fresh gown, modest yet presentable, and allowed Anna to help her into it. Her steps down the corridor were steady, her face serene, though her curiosity was already sharpening within her.
The guest room lay quiet, sun warming its high windows. Margaret stood at once when Evelina entered. She curtsied with quick grace, her cheeks touched with a faint flush.
"Evee," she said, her voice soft but urgent. "Forgive me for calling unannounced. I would not have disturbed you had the matter not been at the request of… a mutual friend."
Evelina inclined her head. "Think nothing of it, Margaret. Please, be seated."
Margaret obeyed, perching lightly at the edge of the sofa. Her hands were clasped in her lap, fingers pressing one another as though to keep them still.
"The young Duke of Ravenscroft," she began, her tone careful, "asked me to approach you. He begs the favor of your company this afternoon, at Aurora Lake."
At the name, Evelina's composure faltered, if only for a moment. Aurora Lake. Secluded, spoken of in hushed tones, the place carried its own reputation. Many whispered of it as a lover's haven, a place apart where words could be exchanged without fear of reaching another ear. To be invited there was no casual matter.
Margaret seemed aware of the weight her words carried. She hesitated, then reached into her small reticule. "His Grace entrusted me with this. He asked that I give it into your hands alone."
From the purse, she drew a folded sheet of fine paper, sealed with a plain mark of wax. She held it out with a slight bow of her head.
Evelina accepted it, her fingers brushing lightly against the seal. The absence of Ravenscroft's sigil, replaced by so simple a mark, stirred her further.
Margaret rose. "I shall not impose longer. The choice is yours, of course. He wished only that you receive the invitation."
Evelina gave a faint nod, and her guest withdrew as swiftly as she had entered. The chamber was quiet once more, though the air felt altered.
Evelina's gaze lowered to the letter. She broke the seal with deliberate care and unfolded the page. The handwriting was his. She knew its lines already, strong and even.
He wrote without ornament. He spoke of their ride the day before, of words left unsaid in Kingswood. He asked for a moment at Aurora Lake, where no eyes or ears might intrude. He promised no danger, no pressure, only the wish to speak freely. He offered her the choice. If she refused, he would not ask again.
When she finished, Evelina let the letter rest in her lap. Her fingers pressed its edge while her heart shifted in quiet turmoil.
Silence, she recalled, had been the very thing he vowed not to leave her with. His voice echoed in her memory, words spoken as they rode beneath the trees: Silence leaves room for others to shape the story.
Her hand tightened around the letter. To go was to invite risk, perhaps scandal. To remain was to live with silence, to let unanswered words linger.
She rose with composure, though within her, the choice already weighed heavy. "Anna" she called softly upon entering her chamber again.
Her maid appeared at once. "Yes, my lady?"
"Prepare something simple. A gown fit for the outdoors, nothing too fine."
Margaret's brows lifted slightly in surprise, but she curtsied. "At once, my lady."
Evelina folded the letter carefully and placed it in her writing desk, though hiding it did little to steady her thoughts. The decision was made. She would go.
The carriage wheels turned quietly along the shaded path. Evelina sat with her hands folded in her lap, her gloves pressed tightly together. Outside, the trees grew dense, their branches heavy with autumn leaves, their scent mingling with damp earth and pine. Each turn of the wheel carried her nearer to Aurora Lake, a place of whispers and secrecy, a place she had never expected to see with her own eyes.
When the carriage halted, she stepped down into the hush of wildflowers and moss. The air was cool, fresh with the faint scent of water. Before her stretched a narrow path, dappled in light and shadow, leading toward the lake.
At the end of it, he waited.
Lucian Ravenscroft stood at the water's edge, where the trees opened to reveal the quiet expanse of lake. He was dressed not for court but in simple dark riding clothes. The sight of him so plainly arrayed stirred her more than any grandeur could have.
He inclined his head when their eyes met. "Lady Everleigh," he said quietly. "You came."
She drew a careful breath. "I did. Though perhaps I should not have."
"Perhaps," he agreed, and a faint curve touched his lips. Not a smile, but something close. "And yet, I am grateful."
The water shimmered behind him, still as glass. The trees rose tall around them, their branches stirring faintly with the breeze. Evelina felt the pull of quiet, as though the world beyond had been shut away.
Lucian spoke first. "I asked you here not to place you in danger. Not to feed rumor. Only to speak freely, if only for a moment. No court. No crown. Only truth."
Her heart pressed hard against her composure, but her voice was steady. "And what truth would you speak, my lord?"
He did not falter. "That I meant what I told you in Kingswood. I do not see you as others do. Not as a jewel to be displayed. Not as a piece to be moved upon the board. I see someone unyielding, even when pressed by the world."
Her breath caught, though she concealed it quickly. "You speak as though you know me well. But my life is not yours to weigh or to claim."
"I do not seek to claim it," he answered, his voice firm yet gentle. "Only to honor it. To give voice where others would not. And I would sooner let the lake take me than see harm come to your name."
His words unsettled her more than silence ever had. She turned her gaze to the water, its surface catching the pale light. "Harm does not always come from scandal," she said quietly. "Sometimes it comes from the heart."
Lucian's expression softened, though he did not press her further. "Then let this be enough. A single moment, apart from all else. Nothing more, unless you wish it."
The air between them stilled, their silence weighted with what neither dared say. Evelina gathered herself at last, her voice calm though her pulse quickened. "Then it shall be only this moment. And when it ends, the world is as it was."
He inclined his head. "As you wish."
They stood side by side at the water's edge, the breeze stirring the leaves above them, sunlight flickering across the glassy surface. Nothing more was spoken, yet everything lingered between them, unforgotten.