It took weeks before the swelling on Evelyn's forehead shrunk to a greenish bruise half covered by her hairline. She wanted to leave Davenport House, but somehow she allowed Philip and Charlotte to convince her to stay put.

Soon, her maid Martha and all her possessions arrived, with no protest from the Warwicks. Lady Warwick came to see her shortly after. She spent that afternoon full of tearful apologies. Why had she permitted Evelyn, a young woman, to venture out alone at night? Evelyn felt she had been too harsh with Lady Warwick as she assured the older woman the fault was entirely her own. However, the rest of society was not so forgiving. After one too many frosty glares, Lady Warwick removed her household to their country seat.

Evelyn remembered fragments of what happened the night of her attack. But that was not what tormented her. While everyone assured her there was no safer place for her, she couldn't forget every moment of every day that she was under Lord Davenport's roof. She was in his home, amongst his things but, the master of the house had yet to appear. Philip assured her urgent matters kept his lordship away, though Evelyn did not inquire further. Philip assured her that Lord Davenport (Evelyn insisted on using his title to Charlotte's chagrin) asked after her health constantly.

Evelyn allowed Charlotte to take her through each room to give her the history of every portrait and painting they passed. The spectacular home was furnished and decorated in shades of blues, greys, and mahogany. Masculine. Tasteful. The only rooms she dared not venture into were his private chambers. It felt like too much of an intrusion.

Once or twice, Evelyn found herself before those imposing doors as she headed to bed. She tried to imagine what was behind them. Was he there? Had he returned home without anyone noticing? Was he even now standing on the other side? What was he doing? What was he thinking?

Then the sudden footfall of someone approaching sent Evelyn scurrying back to her own room, her heart thundering in her ears.

She spent many restless nights tossing and turning. All her senses were alert to every creak, every pop in the dead of night. Evelyn lost track of how many nights she had spent this way. Finally, one night, sheer exhaustion claimed her. Eyes heavy, her limbs filled with lead, but her mind refused to rest. She lingered in that place between consciousness and sleep.

That's when she felt a tall figure slip into her room without a sound. She could smell his familiar earthy, masculine scent as he drew near. But, try as she did, she couldn't open her eyes or move.

The minutes ticked by.

The bed beside her dipped under his weight.

A gentle hand glided over the curve of her face, before travelling lower to her nightdress, to a covered breast. Trembling fingers brushed against her nipple. Slowly. So torturously slow. Was this yet another dream? It felt like a dream.

The air changed when he rose over her. The bed dipped again when he swung his legs over hers to straddle her inert body. One hand still caressing her face, the other pushed through the neckline of her nightgown until he cupped a naked breast. Evelyn's breath caught in her throat, then moaned with the rhythm of his avid ministration. Her skin tingled and ached in delicious agony.

Still, she couldn't move.

He sank over her. His breath smelled of whiskey when his lips brushed hers. She heard him sigh again as his stubble covered chin nuzzled against her neck. The kiss deepened, lingered, then trailed down to her shoulder.

The bed beneath her liquefied. She was sinking into the thick murkiness as he worked her breasts. His mouth found its way from one orb to the other, licking his way from one hardened tip to the next. His hands were so firm. So hard. His tongue was so gentle, almost hesitant. He had ignited a flame within her that sent fire and chills coursing through her veins. She moaned as the indescribable feeling washed over her, urging her towards-- she knows not what. She didn't want to believe this was real, yet her heart just might shatter if she opened her eyes to find it was all a dream.

"Oh, my--" she heard herself whisper. Was it her voice?

"Shhh," he whispered. He was suckling on her again.

Evelyn moaned in anguish and pleasure. It was hard to distinguish between the two. Hardness. Softness. Pain. Pleasure. It all became one and the same. A whimpering cry escaped her lips. She wanted him to stop! She needed him to continue!

He sucked his way to the tip of her nipple, then released it with a flick. Evelyn moaned again to be so abandoned. He returned to kissing her again, hard! His mouth and his hands were all over her! She felt her gown being raised over her naked hips. He kissed the underside of her perky breast before moving down lower... still lower...

Evelyn's back arched. The foreign sounds she was hearing were coming from her own lips.

His lips.

His tongue.

Her heavy lids refused to open as she floated, soared. His tongue continued to lick and plunder her in tune to the rocking of his body against her thighs. She plunged down, then soared again. Tears ran down the corners of her eyes from the tides of pleasure being ripped from her.

It was too much — this flood of sensations coursing through her. Soon she was reduced to a gasping, thrashing creature, mindless of anything except what he was doing to her. She didn't even realise she was kicking her long, slender legs out until he held her thighs apart against his hot, open mouth. Yet, she was still all too aware that this might all be just a dream.

"My lord--!" She, at last, found her voice. "Oh my Lord Davenport!"

How much time passed? Hard to say. When reason returned and her eyes snapped open, she knew she was alone. Yet his faint scent, mingled with her own musk, lingered in the cool evening air.

The fire had gone out. Everything felt colder, wetter, with an ashy haze over the darkness. Evelyn swallowed the lump in her throat as she shuddered with bone-chilling loneliness. The dream had been so vivid.

Somewhere a clock chimed, followed by an echo of other pops and creaks through the slumbering house. She rolled over to her side and pulled a crumpled sheet over her shivering, exhausted body.

She couldn't open her eyes before, but now she couldn't close them. Wide awake, Evelyn reached down to where her gown had bunched around her bare hips. Her fingers went between her legs where her flesh felt so hot, so tender.

"It must have been a dream," she whispered against her damp pillow. Then, giving up on sleep, she got up. Her nightdress needed to be changed. Then she threw a thick shawl around her shoulders and left her chambers.

The vast, dark corridors yawned before her as she padded barefoot down its stretch. She could hear no other sound over the rhythmic beating of her heart and the occasional pop in the bones of the silent house. The house itself, dark and foreboding, felt like it was breathing the rhythmic breath of sleep. Everyone was asleep.

Except there was a faint light emanating from the stairwell. It came from the landing below. Someone was still awake.

"Turn back!" her inner voice urged.

Her legs moved of their own accord towards the expansive stairwell where a large chandelier hung. The tiny crystals sparked from the light below, like hundreds of tiny eyes watching her descend. They dared her to go on.

She swallowed her fear and forced herself towards the light streaming from the ajar door to Lord Davenport's study.

"Steady," Evelyn cautioned herself. Part of her hoped some servant had left a candle burning. The tingling between her thighs betrayed her true desires, though. She gave the door a gentle shove and thanked the well-oiled hinges for not betraying her presence to whoever was inside.

The study, much like the rest of the house, was lined with carved panels. Tich frescoes decorating the vaulted ceilings that were now concealed in shadows. A toasty fire burned in the great stone fireplace. Its orange glow, along with that of a candelabra, illuminated an ornate desk. Evelyn had seen this room several times now. It was always kept clean and tidy, with every surface polished till they gleamed. But now, those surfaces were covered by leather-bound ledgers, books and piles of wrinkled documents. Some with formidable seals attached, even spilt onto the polished floor.

Seated behind the desk in his shirtsleeves was Lord Davenport himself. He was reading from a page he held up with one hand while the other pushed a glass full of dark amber coloured liquid back and forth over the surface of the desk. The surface of his signet ring gleamed with each turn. The shadows from a nearby candelabra made his lowered eyes disappear beneath the curves of his heavy brows. Then, when he took a drink, she saw every cord tighten in his neck through his open shirt. She had never seen him in such a dishevelled state with his black hair so tousled. Then she remembered the last time she saw him— no! Don't think of that!

He seemed so enthralled with his reading that she didn't think he knew she was there. So she about jumped out of her skin when he said, without looking up, "Come in, Evelyn!"

He flicked his gaze up to her.

A chill ran down her spine under the scrutiny of those piercing eyes across the span of that room. But there was no refusing him. So, she drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders before she stepped inside. Her dainty bare feet made no sound on the parquet floor.

"Sit." He nodded at the chair across from him when she came closer.

Heart racing, Evelyn sank down in the stiff leather seat. Her nervous fingers sought the gold pendant around her neck. Lord Davenport gestured to the near-empty bottle beside him. Evelyn shook her head, no. He poured a splash into his glass, swirled it around as he continued to read. His signet ring twinkled.

Evelyn watched him twirl that glass and wondered how much he drank that night. His rumpled appearance, his unguarded manner, told her it was considerable.

The minutes ticked away.

When she began to wonder if he had forgotten her, he spoke again. "Are you well?" The timber of his deep, rich voice echoed all around her.

Evelyn cleared her dry throat. "Charlotte and Philip have looked after me very well--"

"I asked how you are." He peered at her from beneath his dark brows.

She caved under the weight of his yard-long stare. "I-I'm well, thank you," she said in a hushed tone. "I must thank you for--"

"No need." He set aside the documents in his hands and used his whiskey glass as a paperweight.

"But I must tell you--" Evelyn stopped speaking. There was much she wanted to say, but words failed her. What could she say? Her tormentor, who haunted her thoughts day and night, had saved her from a ghastly fate. This man who caused her such distress, so many sleepless nights, was to be her husband. Everything was different between them now.

He was studying her, scanning her face as if he could read her thoughts. Then it occurred to her how indecent she must appear, with wavy hair hanging down her back in that state of undress. She had nothing to protect herself except a thick shawl over her thin nightdress. She drew her shawl tighter around her.

"I'm surprised you are awake at this hour," he said, leaning back in his chair.

"I --" she croaked, then cleared her throat to try again. "You yourself are not in bed, my lord."

One long leg crossed over the other. "Thinking of my bed, then? All my material comforts will soon be your duty, I suppose. Which brings up an interesting recent development, does it not?"

"My lord--" Evelyn tripped over the address. She didn't know where to look. Yes, he was, in fact, to be her lord and master.

He must have had the same thoughts as his eyes narrowed with the hint of a smile on his lips. "Much has changed since we were last alone together, hmm Evelyn?"

Evelyn didn't know where to look when he stood up, circled the desk until he was right before her. She braced herself, anticipating his touch. Instead, he leaned back to perch on the edge of the desk with his arms crossed before him. He was so close she could see the ink stains that bled into the stitching of his shirt sleeve, and even the grains of his boot leather.

"Nothing to say? Well, then I'll tell you of a rather enlightening conversation I had with young Prince Edward."

"You've — you've seen Edward?" she asked, wincing at how banal she sounded.

"We had much to discuss."

"You must know--" she began. Too antsy to sit still, Evelyn shot to her feet, then ducked behind the seat she vacated. It was a poor barrier, but she needed something between them. "Concerning Edward and me— you must know, we're not--"

"That was made abundantly clear to me. Of course, I'm left wondering why you didn't bother to correct my assumption." It was hard to tell what he was thinking by his tone or expression.

"I — I didn't correct you--" Was this room boiling or freezing, Evelyn wondered?

"Yes?"

She licked her dry, chapped lips and plucked at the fringes of her shawl. "Well, you were— are— a stranger to me. I didn't feel I needed to explain myself to you. "

"Sit."

She hurried to obey.

"A stranger," he repeated in a soft, even tone. "Are you in the habit of allowing strangers to fondle you, then?"

"I— allowed you nothing, sir! You simply -" Evelyn lost her courage. It was hard to be indignant in her thin nightdress, barefoot, hair down, in his home in the dead of night.

"Didn't you? I recall no protests when I had those supple breasts in my mouth."

He pushed away from the desk to cross the short distance between them to loom over her, large and imposing. She breathed in his scent of whiskey, sandalwood and the earth and felt his heat. It was a struggle to keep her sanity.

"I think you wanted me to kiss you, touch you. Now, why is that?"

She dropped her gaze to let the curtain of her hair hide her blushes. "Does it matter?"

Had Evelyn not been so consumed by her own emotions, she might have noticed how he leaned towards her to breathe in her delicate scent till his lashes fluttered. "If you're to be my wife--"

"If?" she squeaked with her heart in her throat.

His heavy gaze was glued to her lips for a moment before he moved away from her to perch once more on the edge of the desk. "Tell me, then. Why am I so fortunate, hmm? Why, out of all his subjects, my liege bestowed his bastard daughter on me? Kept you well hidden, didn't he? So tell me, were you the result of a holiday reprieve or some long-standing arrangement with some ambitious noblewoman?"

His words and tone sent Evelyn to her feet. She was about to flee.

"Sit down!"

Her boneless legs were trembling so much she sank into the seat once more.

"The mystery of Lady Evelyn," he sneered as he looked her over.

"What did Edward tell you?"

"Oh, he has a great deal to tell me about his sweet but wilful little sister."

"Then I have nothing more to add." She clutched the pendant dangling from her neck. "The burden of my birth will not bring dishonour--."

He sneered. "You know that's of no consequence. I can't count the number of Fitzroys amongst the peerage. So why the ruse? Why this elaborate story involving, of all people, the Warwicks?"

"Lord Warwick served His Majesty for many years. He's one of a very few who knows about me."

"Warwick is a breathing corpse and his wife is a pig in silk. You rely on them to keep your secret is laughable."

"Lady Warwick does not know," she muttered.

Lord Davenport snorted. "Yet she was entrusted with your care. What else has she allowed, I wonder?"

"You can't blame her," Evelyn replied. "You cannot expect the foolish to act with sense."

"Then you take full blame for travelling unescorted at night? Was it your decision to be accosted, too, then? I wouldn't come to you, so you staged that bit of theatre to gain my attention? It cost two lives, you know."

Evelyn shot to her feet, incensed. "You go too far, my lord!"

"Stay where you are, madam!" he commanded with equal force. She dropped back down in the chair with a thud.

Lord Davenport drew a hand across his stubbled chin. "Either you are deceptive or just foolish. Neither prospect is reassuring to me. But I don't suppose I could hope for better."

She bristled with indignation at that. "I hope my dowry will be a salve for your troubles."

His expression shifted ever so slightly. "It's— adequate."

In all these many weeks, she had imagined this moment when they faced each other again and again. She rehearsed what she would say to him and how she might say it. So she had her answer at the ready. "My lord, I don't know how any of this came to pass. I swear I did not contrive it. It's rather unthinkable that marriage can still be arranged like this in this modern age. And I understand your misgivings. With your permission, I will write to Edward and beg him to break this betrothal. I will leave here in the morning and trouble you no more. I will see that you are compensated for your troubles. Will that be satisfactory?"

When he didn't respond at the end of her speech — he appeared lost in thought— Evelyn rose again. This time, she dipped into a deep curtsy. "Thank you, my lord. For all that you've done for me. Goodnight."

She turned to leave, but she was not quick enough. Lord Davenport overtook her in two strides and spun her back around till he held her chest pressed against his.

"Sir?" she gasped as he gripped her chin in a large, firm hand.

"It's done," he told her. His hot breath, tinged with whiskey and tobacco, blew down on her face. But his gaze trailed down to her lips where it lingered. "You and I will be wed before God and witnesses two days hence. There's no escape from duty. Not for you. Not for me. Though, you may come to rue the day you've ever set eyes on me."