Chapter Two
The drawing room, though richly appointed, bore an air of austerity that matched its owner's reputation. Heavy velvet drapes framed tall windows, and the furniture, while elegant, was arranged with military precision. It was a room designed not for comfort, but for appearances.
Nathaniel Blackthorne regarded Eveline with the practiced neutrality of a man accustomed to negotiation. He motioned to a silver tea service prepared on a low table. "Would you care for tea, Lady Eveline?"
"Thank you," she murmured, her voice more steady than she felt.
He poured with deliberate care, his hands steady, the silence between them broken only by the gentle clink of china. Eveline studied him surreptitiously: the clean lines of his face, the furrow of concentration between his brows. There was strength in his bearing, but also something guarded, something distant.
"I understand," he said at last, handing her a delicate cup, "that this arrangement is not of your choosing."
She met his eyes, startled by the bluntness. "Nor yours, I presume."
His mouth twitched in what might have been grim amusement. "True enough. Yet here we are."
She took a sip of tea, more for something to do than out of thirst. "I confess, my lord, I know little of you."
"And I of you," he agreed. "Perhaps that is where we must begin."
A log shifted in the fireplace, sending up a shower of sparks. Eveline set her cup down, folding her hands together to still their slight tremble. "Very well," she said softly. "What would you know?"
His gaze held hers—steadfast, unflinching. "What you desire. What you fear. And whether there is any hope that we might come to... understand one another, despite the circumstances."
The candor of his words caught her off guard. This, she had not expected. Not from a man rumored to possess an iron heart.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then, slowly, she allowed herself the smallest of smiles. "I desire not to be miserable," she said. "And I fear becoming invisible."
Something in his expression shifted, almost imperceptibly.
"And you, my lord?" she asked quietly. "What do you desire?"
He exhaled, his gaze dropping to the fire. "Peace," he murmured. "And perhaps, in time, something more."
The quiet stretched, not awkward, but contemplative. A fragile truce, Eveline thought, the first threads of something unspoken beginning to weave between them.
Outside, the rain continued its soft lament. Inside, the first embers of possibility—tentative, uncertain, but real—had been lit.