Chapter Three
The following weeks unfolded in a haze of preparations and whispered speculation. Society buzzed with curiosity over the impending union between Lady Eveline Ashcroft and Lord Nathaniel Blackthorne, a match that defied the rigid expectations of the ton.
At the heart of this unfolding drama was Lady Honora Fitzwilliam, Eveline's childhood friend and one of London's most influential hostesses. Honora, known for her wit and unerring eye for gossip, swept into Blackthorne House one afternoon, her arrival heralded by the crisp rustle of silk skirts and the scent of jasmine.
"My dearest Evie," Honora cooed, embracing Eveline with affection. "You must tell me everything. Is he as cold as they say? Or has the iron lord stolen your heart already?"
Eveline laughed despite herself. "Honora, please. You know I would not rush to surrender my heart so easily."
Honora's eyes twinkled. "Not easily, perhaps. But not impossibly, either." She cast a glance around the grand salon. "And this house... Good heavens. It feels like a fortress."
Side by side, the two women settled near the window, their conversation slipping between lightheartedness and genuine concern. Honora's presence was a balm to Eveline's nerves—a reminder of who she was before duty overtook desire.
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the house, another key figure emerged: Mr. Thomas Hale, Nathaniel's loyal secretary and confidant. A man of quiet intelligence and dry humor, Thomas had been with Nathaniel since his earliest ventures into industry. More than a servant, less than a friend, he occupied that curious middle ground of trust and discretion.
It was Thomas who observed, with a keen eye, the subtle shift in his employer's demeanor. Nathaniel, once entirely absorbed by ledgers and steel contracts, now seemed distracted. His gaze lingered on the path Eveline took through the rose garden. His temper, once sharp, softened in her presence.
"I trust all is proceeding according to plan?" Thomas remarked one evening, handing Nathaniel a glass of brandy.
Nathaniel gave a soft grunt. "If you mean the wedding, yes. If you mean... anything beyond that, I confess I do not know."
Thomas smiled faintly. "You may discover, my lord, that some outcomes are not meant to be calculated."
At the same time, tension brewed elsewhere: the Ashcroft family's hidden enemies—old rivals eager to see them ruined—began to stir. One such figure, Lord Vincent Harrow, a man with a personal grudge against the Ashcrofts, watched from the shadows, intent on ensuring the union failed.
As the wedding day approached, Eveline found herself caught between old loyalties, new affections, and the dawning realization that the world she had known was giving way to something unfamiliar—and possibly wondrous.
And through it all, she could not help but wonder: when love comes softly, does one recognize it before it is too late?