ADRIAN STOOD BESIDE THE polished black carriage, the faint gleam of sunlight reflecting off its brass fittings. Butler Blake hovered at his side, a sheaf of notes in hand as they went over the final matters before departure. The afternoon sun was gentle upon the manor grounds, warm enough to stir the scent of lavender from the garden but not so harsh as to draw sweat. Adrian was quietly grateful for that—a long ride under an unforgiving sun would have been most unpleasant.
"...have Mr. Harland negotiate with the merchants," he was saying, his tone clipped, "and when he is done, I expect him to report to me directly on the improvements."
"Yes, Your Grace," replied Blake, bowing his head.
"And the meeting with the labourers—the one my father cancelled—reschedule it for the week following the palace ball."
"Alright, Your—" The butler's voice faltered mid-sentence. He blinked and grew uncharacteristically still, his gaze fixed on something behind Adrian.
Adrian frowned. "Blake?"
But the man did not respond—only stared, wide-eyed, as if transfixed by an apparition.
Adrian turned to see the cause of such distraction, and the breath that left him was involuntary.
Evelina was descending the front steps with a composure that could almost be called practiced—one hand lightly grazing the banister, the other gathering a portion of her gown to keep it from brushing the stone. Sunlight, that gentle accomplice, fell upon her just so, bathing her in warmth and colour.
She looked different.
Her skin, which had been pale and lifeless upon her arrival, now held a subtle glow, and her gown was modest, its cream fabric caught the light and shimmered faintly with each step. Her chestnut-brown hair had been drawn up elegantly, a few soft curls escaping near her neck. She looked—and he hesitated at the word—lovely.
Adrian found himself rooted where he stood. His heart gave an unfamiliar jolt, and for one fleeting instant, he thought of their wedding day—of how she had looked then, stepping shyly into the chapel. It had been the only moment he had thought her beautiful. Until now.
A faint guilt pricked at him. How quickly he had judged her, that first day—calling her ugly, detesting even the sight of her. He had found her wanting in every sense. Yet now, under the simplest sunlight, the same woman had transformed before his eyes.
She approached with a polite, nervous smile and curtsied gracefully. "Your Grace."
He did not answer. Words seemed momentarily lost to him. He merely stared, and might have continued staring had Butler Blake not nudged him discreetly.
"Lady Evelina," Adrian said at last, recovering himself, his voice softer than intended.
She lowered her eyes—she always did that, he noticed—a quiet habit of hers when uncertain or shy.
"I am glad you agreed to accompany me," he said.
"Thank you for inviting me, Adrian," she replied, her smile small but genuine, though he saw the faint tremor in her hands.
He gestured toward the carriage. "Shall we?"
She nodded, and he extended a gloved hand. Her fingers were light against his palm—hesitant, as though unsure if she was permitted to touch him. He helped her ascend the carriage step, and after she had settled, he followed.
Soon, the carriage rattled down the long gravel drive toward St. Andrew's Orphanage.
For some time, neither spoke. The only sound was the rhythmic clatter of hooves and the gentle sway of the carriage. Evelina sat opposite him, her gaze fixed on the window, the afternoon light glancing off her profile.
There was something remarkably calm about her—a quietness that seemed to soothe the very air. Not the silence of pride, but of restraint, of someone unaccustomed to speaking her heart aloud.
After a moment, her voice, soft and uncertain, broke the stillness. "It is quite a beautiful day," she said.
Adrian looked up. She had spoken timidly, almost as though she feared disturbing him.
"It is," he agreed, his tone gentler than he meant it to be.
She smiled faintly and turned again to the passing countryside. Then, after a pause, she asked, "Have you been to the orphanage before, Adrian?"
He raised a brow at the question. "No," he admitted. "I have not. I would normally never attend such visits."
Her hands, which had been resting tensely on her lap, relaxed. "May I ask why?"
He leaned back, considering. Why indeed? "I never saw the need to trouble myself with such duties," he said simply. "Charity visits, orphanages... they were matters for my father's clerks or the ladies of the parish."
He caught the faint lift of her brow. She said nothing, but he could almost hear her thoughts. She was judging him—or perhaps she was merely surprised.
"And yet you go now?" she asked softly.
A small smile tugged at his mouth. "Because my father insists upon it," he replied with a short sigh. "With that old man, one rarely has a choice."
That drew a quiet laugh from her—soft, but genuine. He found that he rather liked the sound of it.
For a moment, he simply watched her—the delicate curve of her smile, the way she turned her face toward the sunlight as though it offered comfort. There was nothing grand or striking about her, yet she possessed a certain gentleness that caught him off guard.
He found himself asking before he could stop, "And you? Have you been to the orphanage before?"
She hesitated, as if uncertain whether she ought to answer truthfully. Then she nodded. "Yes, I have."
"Oh?" he said, intrigued. "Often?"
Her fingers toyed with the lace at her wrist. "I... yes," she murmured at last.
He studied her quietly, something soft stirring in his chest. He had not expected that. There was so much about her he did not know—or perhaps had never cared to learn.
He looked away, hiding the faint smile that tugged at his lips. Lady Evelina, who had been painted to him as proud and insufferable, was in truth quite the opposite—timid, thoughtful, and entirely unlike the gossip that preceded her.
For the first time since their marriage, Adrian wondered—truly wondered—who the woman sitting across from him might be.