CHAPTER FOUR

The party had just begun.

Evie stood beside Miles, poised as ever-her posture regal, her expression unreadable. She was dressed in emerald satin, her curls gathered in a loose twist that framed her face with grace. People had begun to whisper, eyes flicking in their direction. A few curious glances. A few murmurs. But she played her part to perfection.

Miles had barely touched his champagne. He shifted, glancing around the ballroom with the slight unease of someone who knew a storm was coming but didn't know from which direction.

Evie noticed. "Nervous?" she murmured without turning to him.

"Not yet," he replied, voice low.

Then the Duke entered with a man dressed in sharp black-his aide perhaps-but no one noticed them.

Because she followed next.

Camila Alcott.

The chandelier light caught the shimmer of her pale gold gown as she descended the stairs with a confidence that never aged. Everything about her screamed polish-expensive, rehearsed, cold. Her blonde hair was swept up in a royal chignon. Her neckline dipped just enough to be scandalous, and her smirk was sharp enough to slice glass.

Arabella gasped beside them, her face lighting up. "Camila!" she squealed, darting off with the excitement of someone greeting a beloved older sister.

Evie blinked. "Who is that?" she asked, turning toward Miles-but he was no longer relaxed.

His hand clenched slightly at his side. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough for Evie to notice.

"She's... my ex," he muttered.

Evie followed Camila with her eyes as Arabella threw her arms around her. The scene looked almost rehearsed. "She's pretty," she observed simply.

Miles snorted. "And venomous."

Evie didn't reply. She watched as Camila tilted her head, greeting Arabella, laughing softly-but never once looking in their direction.

Then a voice interrupted them from the left.

"She's not half as stunning as the girl beside you, Miles."

A gentleman stood before them-tall, confident, maybe late twenties-with a navy tux that fit like it was tailored that morning. His eyes never left Evie.

Miles blinked. "Lord Sutherland?"

The man nodded but kept his gaze on Evie. "Forgive my boldness. I've met nearly every woman here tonight, but I don't believe I've had the honor."

Evie smiled politely, her hand extended. "Evie Sinclair."

"The Evie Sinclair?" he repeated, with a raised brow. "Now I understand why the air shifted."

Behind them, a few people turned. Word spread quickly. Miles Devereaux has a girlfriend. Not a cousin. Not a plus-one. A girlfriend. And one charming enough to catch the attention of Lord Sutherland, the most eligible bachelor of the season.

Lord Sutherland chatted easily, drawing Evie into light conversation. Miles was quiet, tense. Watching.

And then, as if conjured by tension itself-Camila approached.

She floated across the floor, all smiles and soft danger.

"Miles," she said, voice honey-laced poison. Her eyes swept him up and down like an old painting. "It's been far too long."

Before either of them could respond, her manicured hand rose to gently rest on Miles' chest-fingers splayed with possessive familiarity.

Evie saw red.

She stepped forward smoothly, slipping her hand around Miles' arm and tilting her head like she had every right to be there.

"Babe," she said sweetly, feigning surprise, "Oh! There you are."

Camila's eyes sharpened. "You must be Evie," she said, smiling like a knife. "I've heard... so much."

Evie smiled back. "Funny. I've heard nothing at all."

The air tightened between them. For a moment, even the string quartet seemed to quiet. Camila's smirk faltered-but only for a blink.

"Well, Miles and I go way back," she said smoothly, letting her hand linger a moment longer on his chest before finally pulling it away. "Don't we, darling?"

Miles didn't reply. His jaw was set, eyes flitting to Evie, who gave him the faintest, calculated smile. They were still playing a part-but now, she was enjoying it.

Camila leaned in, faux-whispering like it was an inside joke. "I have to say, Evie... those pearls. Simply stunning."

Evie's hand rose, brushing the delicate strand at her throat. "Aren't they?" She turned slightly, letting the light catch the soft glow. "They're from Miles. A gift."

Camila's brows arched high. "How thoughtful. I once had a pearl just like that. Given to me by someone very dear. I wonder if-"

"Oh," Evie interrupted, voice dipped in velvet and steel, "you must've dropped it when he realized you were no longer worth the string it came on."

Camila's smile shattered-just for a second. Her eyes flared, lips parted in disbelief, but Evie had already turned toward Miles, resting her hand against his arm again.

"Shall we?" she asked sweetly. "I think I saw Lady Penelope by the roses. You said she has that charming dachshund, didn't you?"

Miles didn't answer-he just followed her lead, guiding them away.

Camila stayed frozen, her lips twitching in rage as she stared after them.

Once they were out of earshot, Evie whispered, "Too much?"

Miles shook his head, a laugh almost escaping. "I've never seen her speechless. That was... masterful."

Evie grinned. "Well, I play to win."

The ballroom gave way to open glass doors that led into the garden-perfectly manicured, lined with lanterns, white roses, and ivy-covered trellises that glittered under the late afternoon sun. The royal garden party was now in full swing.

Staff in crisp uniforms glided by with trays of canapés and champagne. Classical music floated on the breeze, and nobles clustered in polished groups beneath silk canopies, laughing, gossiping, posing.

Evie took it all in.

It was beautiful-but beneath the charm, she could feel it again.

That hum of performance.

Of power plays.

Of lies.

"I feel like I'm walking into a play," she murmured.

"You are," Miles said quietly. "And some of these actors will eat you alive if you miss your line."

As they reached the main fountain-a marble centerpiece with cherubs frozen in dance-they were intercepted by the Duke's aide.

"Miss Sinclair," the man said with a polite bow, "His Grace requests a word."

Evie's stomach gave the faintest twist. She looked at Miles, who nodded once.

"You'll be fine," he murmured.

She followed the aide past the tulip paths and toward the west arch of the garden, where the Duke stood beneath a wisteria-draped pergola, hands folded behind his back.

The Duke broke away from the diplomat and turned to her with a genteel nod. "Miss Sinclair," he said, voice deep and smooth as aged scotch. "Would you walk with me a moment?"

Evie returned the nod with the grace she had been rehearsing in her head all evening. "Of course, Your Grace."

They strolled in measured silence through the pergola's shaded path, the scent of wisteria sweet on the summer air. Courtiers and guests drifted like finely dressed ghosts in the distance, but Evie felt the weight of this moment as if the entire garden had narrowed to just the two of them.

"I must commend you," the Duke began at last. "You handled Miss Alcott with... remarkable composure. Admirable, given the circumstances."

"Thank you, Your Grace," she replied evenly. "Though I didn't come here to create spectacle."

"No," he said, casting her a sidelong glance, "you came to do your job."

Evie hesitated, brows knitting. "Forgive me, Your Grace... but what job would that be?"

They stopped walking. The Duke turned to face her fully now, hands clasped behind his back, expression cool and unreadable.

"Your role," he said slowly, "as the future Duchess of Ashford."

Evie blinked.

For a second, the breeze seemed to vanish.

Evie blinked again, her smile holding-but only just.

For a moment, the breeze through the pergola seemed to still.

She met the Duke's gaze, head tilted slightly, lips parting into a soft, careful smile.

"Ah... of course," she said, voice velvet-smooth. "A marvelous role, Your Grace."

She stepped lightly forward, her hands clasped, her eyes steady.

"And if I may say so-you and the Duchess perform it to perfection."

The Duke's lips curved into a knowing smile, his gaze lingering just a heartbeat longer.

"A compliment wrapped in wit," he said, voice smooth as aged brandy. "You wear it well, Miss Evelyn. Not many would dare-fewer still would succeed."

He reached for a nearby tray and plucked two crystal flutes, offering one to her with a graceful gesture.

"Consider this your reward," he added lightly. "Now... enjoy the evening. The night still has much to unveil."

Evie took the glass with steady fingers, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes.

Across the terrace, Miles shot her a discreet thumbs-up.

She caught it, her smile breaking free-quiet, genuine, and for once, effortless.

CHAPTER FIVE

Evie descended the pergola steps, the Duke's words still curling in her thoughts like cigar smoke. Future Duchess of Ashford. Absurd, perhaps. But the kind of absurd that didn't leave easily.

The garden party was in full bloom. Champagne glasses caught the late-afternoon sun like shards of gold. The harpist's notes floated on the breeze, weaving between murmured conversations and the heady scent of roses.

She spotted the Duchess - poised in dove-grey silk, her court gathered in a neat arc around her. Evie smoothed her skirts, took a measured breath, and approached.

"Your Grace," she said with a warm, steady smile. "What a beautiful afternoon you've created. The gardens are blooming - like stepping into a painting."

The Duchess's gaze moved over her with polite precision. A faint smile tugged at her mouth, not quite reaching her eyes. "You're kind to say so, Miss Sinclair. One must keep standards...immaculate."

Before Evie could respond, a ripple of movement shifted the circle. Camila glided in, all gloss and charm.

"Your Grace," Camila greeted, curtsying with a familiarity that wasn't earned overnight. "The tulips are stunning this year. You've truly outdone yourself."

The Duchess's face transformed - warmer, lighter. "Miss Alcott.Dear you look divine."

Camila's smile tilted. "I only try to keep up with you."

"You must join me for tea later this week," the Duchess said, her voice carrying just enough for those nearby to hear. "We've much to discuss."

"It would be my pleasure," Camila replied, eyes glinting like she'd just pocketed something valuable.

Evie's champagne glass felt colder in her hand. The Duchess turned back to her with a nod - polite, dismissive - before drifting away with Camila at her side.

She found Miles near the eastern fountain, trading words with a viscount about racehorses. His expression shifted instantly when he saw her.

"What's the tea thing with the Duchess?" she asked, cutting straight through pleasantries.

Miles blinked. "Afternoon tea? It's... not just tea. It's where she gathers her closest, most trusted ladies. Influence gets traded there - the kind that lasts years. You were invited, right?"

Evie exhaled, slow and deliberate. "Not a word." She took a sip. "Camila was, by the way."

Miles's mouth quirked. "Wow."

"The Duchess hates me," Evie said, not angrily, just matter-of-fact.

"She doesn't. Camila's mother was practically family to her. Old ties, old loyalties." He studied her face. "You just have to give her a reason to like you."

Evie's lips curved in something that wasn't quite a smile. "I'm not auditioning for anyone's approval, Miles. If someone can't see my worth without me parading it under their nose, they're not worth the view."

His laugh was low and genuine. "That's sassy, lady."

"It's not sass," she murmured, turning toward the sound of the string quartet starting up. "It's a fact."

Arabella appeared at Miles's side like a sunbeam that demanded attention.

"Miles," she said, voice smooth, almost teasing, "Kaiden's waiting. The match is about to start."

Miles arched a brow. "The one where you and Kaiden swear you're not cheating, but somehow always win?"

Arabella's grin flashed. "Tradition, darling. Now come on, your partner's waiting."

Evie stepped closer, adjusting her skirts, curiosity piqued. "Match?"

Miles glanced at her. "The annual garden game. Tradition. Family, friends... the oldest of friends. Arabella, Kaiden, Camila, me - it's been a thing since we were children."

Evie tilted her head, a spark of mischief in her eyes. Mind if I join?"

Arabella's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. There was a pause - polite, deliberate. "I'm afraid... it's rather an inner-circle affair. Family, and a few oldest friends. I'm sure you understand."

Evie's lips twitched into a mock-curtsy. "Of course,I appreciate your relevant information. I wouldn't dream of intruding on sacred traditions."

Miles gave her a glance that clearly said don't read too much into it before letting Arabella tug him toward the manicured lawn.

Evie lingered at the edge, watching as teams were announced, players grabbing mallets with all the ceremony of a courtly ritual. Laughter and polite wagers floated through the air.

"Miss Sinclair?"

She turned to see a tall, dark-haired man with an easy grin and the unmistakable air of someone who'd been told his whole life that women found him charming. He bowed lightly. "James Fairfax - Lady Penelope's son. You've met my mother's dog, I think?"

"Ah. The dachshund," Evie said, smiling. "Yes, we've been introduced."

He inclined his head toward the croquet lawn. "I'm short a partner, and I've been told you have a competitive streak. Care to prove it?"

Evie's first instinct was to demur - to keep out of the ridiculous little royal games altogether. But her gaze slid to the lawn, where Camila was laughing at something Miles had just said, head tilted in that old, familiar way.

Evie arched an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at her lips. "And what made you think I was an option for this?"

"Instinct," he replied, eyes glinting with quiet humor. "And the fact that I refuse to lose without a proper fight."

She hesitated just long enough to make him wonder, then allowed her lips to curve. "Very well. I shall see if I can keep up."

He offered his arm with the elegance of someone accustomed to formal dances, not casual games on the lawn. "Then it's settled, my lady."

Crossing to the lineup together, they drew a ripple of attention. Miles's gaze followed her, brows rising in barely concealed surprise. Arabella's expression flickered - curiosity, annoyance, and competitive spark all mingled for a second before being tucked behind polite civility.

Camila, meanwhile, only smiled slow, sharp, and confident. The kind of smile that silently said let the game begin.

The Ashbourne croquet lawn was the picture of summer elegance , emerald grass cropped to perfection, white hoops glinting in the sunlight, and clusters of guests fanning themselves under cream-colored parasols. On the surface, it was a genteel garden sport. In reality, it was bloodless warfare in hats and linen.

The umpire, a man with a polished voice and a clipboard, called the opening round. "Competitors, to your marks."

Arabella and Kaiden were first to step forward, the very image of old-family charm. But those who had played against them before knew better. Arabella had a way of drifting into an opponent's line just before their swing, her wide skirts conveniently billowing into their space. Kaiden's specialty was "accidentally" knocking rival balls off-course ,always followed by a dazzling apology and a bow that could almost pass for sincerity.

The early rounds went quickly. A newcomer misjudged a simple shot after Arabella "helpfully" pointed out a stray thread on her dress. Another player's perfect setup was ruined when Kaiden's ball "bounced wrong" into his.

By the halfway mark, the field had thinned to just three teams: Arabella and Kaiden, Miles and Camila, and James with Evie.

Camila played like she was cutting glass , sharp, exact, and unflinching. Miles, as always, was composed and methodical, his swings precise but impersonal. Arabella's laughter trilled across the lawn whenever someone faltered. James, in contrast, was loose and easy in his style, letting instinct carry him. Evie, who had been nervous at the start, found herself matching his rhythm until Camila stepped up beside her.

Evie bent slightly, lining up her shot. From the edge of her vision, Camila shifted just a fraction , close enough for the faintest thwack of wood against Evie's shin as she began her swing. The sharp jolt of pain caught her breath, but her arms moved on reflex.

Her ball sailed cleanly through the hoop.

Gasps broke the hush as Evie stumbled, her balance tipping backward - but before she could hit the grass, James's hand was at her back, steady and sure. For a moment, their faces were inches apart, and the world seemed to pause.

Then came the whispers.

"Did you see that?"

"I thought she was with Lord Miles..."

"They look perfect together, though."

Across the lawn, Miles froze mid-step. At first there was only a flicker of surprise - as though the detail of Evie being "his" had momentarily slipped his mind. But the murmurs reached him, and something in his gaze sharpened. It wasn't jealousy, but the cool calculation of a man who understood exactly how fast gossip could travel.

The umpire's voice rang out: "Point to Fairfax and Sinclair. They take the match!"

Arabella's applause was gracious enough to be insulting. Kaiden's grin didn't falter, but his jaw was tight. Camila's smile was faint, almost polite ,except for the glimmer in her eyes that told Evie the hit to her shin had been deliberate.

The crowd broke into small knots, champagne glasses refilling, the quartet striking up again. Evie, still with James beside her, found herself the target of lingering glances.

A few more well-wishers approached, offering polite congratulations. Beyond them, Arabella's smile tightened to something brittle. Without a word, she turned and glided away from the lawn, Kaiden trailing at her side with the polite stiffness of someone who'd just lost in public.

From the refreshment tent, a crisp voice cut cleanly across the chatter.

"Miles, a word."

The Duchess's voice was a whip-crack of authority and Miles answered without hesitation. Miles glanced once toward the lawn, his gaze lingering briefly on Evie and James before striding toward her.

She waited in the shade, every inch composed elegance."Quite the display with James Fairfax" she said, her voice as smooth as silk and just as cold.

Miles kept his tone even. "She tripped. She was vulnerable at that moment ."

The Duchess's gaze didn't soften. "Vulnerability is forgivable. Carelessness is not.A woman who would be Duchess does not fall into another man's arms in public, with half the county watching.People are talking." Her eyes lingered on Evie a heartbeat too long, like a jeweler finding a flaw in what should have been a perfect stone.. "Camila would never allow herself such indignity. She knows her place."

Miles's jaw tightened. "Evie is not Camila."

"No," the Duchess agreed.She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a razor's edge. "Perception, my dear boy, ruins faster than truth.And that girl," the pause deliberate, her gaze still fixed on Evie, "is not simply an invitation for scandal, Miles. She is the scandal."

Before Miles could respond, Camila approached, her expression the perfect blend of concern and grace.

"Are you quite all right, dear?" the Duchess asked her warmly. "That was a tough match."

"I'm fine," Camila replied, though her gaze slid to Miles. "I see Evie has company."

The Duchess's brows lifted ever so slightly, but she said nothing more. Miles excused himself abruptly and walked toward the house.

CHAPTER SIX

EVIE'S POV

Inside, the air was cooler and quieter, as if the corridor itself had swallowed the noise of the gardens. I had barely stepped in when a hand caught my arm. Firm. Unforgiving. My breath hitched.

Miles.

His grip tightened, his face shadowed with a storm I couldn't read. "What the hell was that with Fairfax?" His voice was low, but the steel beneath it made my chest tighten.

I blinked at him, caught between disbelief and something sharper, something raw. "Are you... jealous?"

He leaned closer, eyes flat and cold. "Don't flatter yourself. Very well, Evie, you just handed my mother the perfect reason to dislike you. As if being a commoner paraded into this family wasn't enough, now you've given her gossip that will stain you for weeks."

My heart hammered. "It was just a game."

"No," he cut in, voice rising, "it was a spectacle. And in our world, that's worse. You're here because of a contract, Evie. Nothing more. Don't make the mistake of thinking a borrowed title makes you one of us."

I felt every word like a lash, a reminder of all the ways I didn't belong here. "Stop yelling at me. You needed me, remember? You came to me for this farce, this perfect little cover. So if I'm such a mistake, Miles, maybe you should take a good, hard look at the man who made it."

For a heartbeat, something flickered in his eyes. Regret, maybe, or guilt. Then it hardened again, and his jaw set like stone. His grip on my arm tightened for the briefest, sharpest moment before he let go.

"You wanted to prove yourself today? All you proved is that you'll never belong here. And the sooner you accept that, the less it will hurt."

He turned and walked away. Each step echoed off the polished corridor, slow at first, then brisk. But as he passed the light streaming from the garden doors, I thought I caught him hesitate. His shoulders slumped just slightly, the set of his jaw softening, eyes flicking back toward me - as if he wished he could take it all back, wished he could have said it differently.

I didn't move. I didn't breathe properly. The silence pressed against me, a mirror of everything left unsaid, of all the judgments and expectations that had been raining down all afternoon.

I don't even know what hurt more - the words or the way he looked at me, like I was a mistake he couldn't wait to erase. Maybe he didn't mean to shout, maybe it was just the pressure, the family, the eyes watching. But it still felt real. It still felt like he meant every single word.

For a moment, I thought we were getting to know each other,that under all his coldness there was something human. But today, he made sure I remembered my place. Just the girl who doesn't belong. The one who was good enough for his plans, but not good enough to stand beside him without shame.

He talked to me like I was nothing. Like all the moments we shared meant nothing. And the worst part? I stood there and let him. Because I still care. Because I still believed he wouldn't be like the rest of them.

But maybe that's my biggest mistake - thinking someone like Miles could ever see someone like me as anything more than useful.

I told myself I wouldn't cry. But there's this heaviness in my chest that won't go away. Like something broke quietly, and he'll never even notice.