RAISING A TREMBLING HAND to her cheek, Clara stared at the pale reflection before her. The mirror, framed in gold and lit by the flicker of candlelight, offered no comfort—only the face of a girl who scarcely knew herself anymore. Her fingers quivered still, the remnants of her meeting with the Duke lingering like a chill in her bones.
She could still feel his eyes upon her—cold, assessing, filled with the sort of disdain that made her wish the earth would open and swallow her whole. Never in her life had a man looked at her that way, as though she were something unpleasant that had been mistakenly placed before him.
'Even if he didn't desire her,' she thought bitterly, 'could he not at least have hidden it?'
The memory burned. She had fought hard not to crumble before him, not to let her voice tremble or her knees give way. But inside, she had been a storm of shame and dread. What a fool she had been—to ever think she could deceive a man like that. Surely he had seen through her. Surely he had looked beyond the fine gown and careful manners and seen the frightened imposter she truly was.
And yet, he had said nothing.
The butler's chosen maid had escorted her wordlessly through long, echoing corridors until they arrived at a bedchamber that took her breath away. Clara had stood at the threshold, her heart thundering. Everything in the room spoke of wealth and power: the carved mahogany furniture, the thick Persian rugs, the velvet drapes heavy with gold tassels. And the bed a towering canopy of silk and lace that looked far too grand for someone like her to touch.
Indeed, the Duke had held lady Evelina in high position. She felt bad for being a party of this deception. She felt bad for deceiving him.
How long before he finds out? How long before she would be hanged for this?
Turning from the mirror, she sank onto the edge of the bed. The softness of it startled her. She had never known such comfort. The weight of exhaustion settled over her at once, her limbs aching from the long journey and her nerves frayed from the day's pretense.
Sleep claimed her swiftly, as though mercy itself had descended.
♧♧♧♧♧
A gentle touch brought her back hours later. Clara blinked groggily at the dim light of the room, struggling to remember where she was.
"Forgive me, my lady," a soft voice said. "The Duke wishes you to join him for dinner."
The words struck like a blow. Dinner? Her drowsiness vanished at once.
"The Duke?" she repeated, her voice a whisper of disbelief.
"Yes, my lady." The maid curtsied. "Shall I help you prepare?"
Clara's heart pounded. The thought of undressing before another woman filled her with dread. The bruises that marked her back and shoulders were remnants of a life of labour—marks no noblewoman should bear.
She forced a faint smile. "No, that will not be necessary. I can manage."
The maid hesitated, her brow creasing with mild confusion, but curtsied again. "As you wish, my lady."
"Thank you," Clara said automatically—and then, to her horror, dipped into a curtsy herself.
The moment the maid's eyes widened, she turned away sharply, pretending to study the fire. Fool! A lady does not curtsy to her servant. Her pulse raced painfully. "You may go," she added, striving for firmness.
Once alone, she exhaled shakily and pressed her hands to her cheeks. Her disguise would not hold if she continued like this. Every gesture, every word could betray her.
She bathed quickly, careful to keep her thoughts from wandering. Then she slipped into one of Lady Evelina's gowns—a pale blue creation of silk and lace that whispered with every movement. It didn't quite fit her because of her pale skin, and malnourished body.
When the maid returned, Clara followed her directions down the corridor, each step measured and cautious. The vast dining hall loomed ahead, its chandeliers glittering with hundreds of candles. The Duke sat at the head of the long polished table, rising slowly as she entered.
Her knees nearly failed her under his gaze.
"Your Grace," she murmured, dipping into what she prayed was a graceful curtsy.
He inclined his head slightly. His eyes, dark and unreadable, lingered on her face. Not in admiration—but in silent scrutiny. There was no warmth there, no trace of kindness. And yet she felt the weight of his stare like a physical touch.
He spoke at last, his tone cool and courteous. "Lady Evelina, thank you for joining me."
"Thank you for inviting me, Your Grace," she managed, forcing a tremulous smile.
He gestured to the chair beside him and, with the easy precision of a man well-versed in etiquette, pulled it out for her. She sat carefully, her back straight, her hands folded to hide their trembling.
At his signal, servants appeared like shadows, setting dishes before them in perfect silence. The scent of roasted pheasant and fresh herbs filled the air. Clara could barely swallow past the tightness in her throat.
She sought something—anything—to ease the tension. "You have a beautiful home," she said softly, her voice meant to sound composed though it wavered at the end.
He regarded her for a moment, as though debating whether to answer. Then, with polite brevity, he said, "Thank you."
Encouraged, she tried again. "Do you stay here alone, Your Grace?"
Her tone was light, almost conversational, but inside, her heart hammered so loudly she feared he might hear it.