The morning after the ball, Evelyn was feeling dangerously optimistic.
She was lounging in a sun-drenched solarium, propped up on a chaise longue with a plate of flaky pastries, feeling like the victor of a particularly stressful boss raid. No public humiliation. No dramatic confrontations. She hadn't even spilled anything on her dress. By all metrics, the mission had been a resounding success.
Mia was fluttering around her, ostensibly arranging flowers but really just bursting to share the latest news.
"Oh, Milady, you are the talk of the capital!" the maid gushed, her eyes wide.
Evelyn took a delicate bite of a jam-filled croissant. Here we go. Let's see what fresh hell the gossip mill has cooked up. "I assume they're calling me a shrew? A harpy? A woman of questionable parentage?"
"No, Milady! Nothing like that!" Mia leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "They're calling you… eccentric."
Evelyn paused mid-chew. "Eccentric?"
"Yes! Lady Danbury said you barely spoke a word to anyone all night, but then you cornered the Duke of Blackwood and gave him a lecture on… vegetables?"
It worked. It actually worked. A grin spread across Evelyn's face. Being known as the weird broccoli girl was infinitely better than being the cruel, desperate villainess. Eccentric nobles were tolerated, even celebrated. Cruel ones ended up in convents. This was a massive win.
"And what of the Duke?" Evelyn asked, feigning casual indifference. "Did he look suitably horrified?"
"Well," Mia hedged, "that's the strangest part. Lord Harrington said the Duke actually looked… amused. No one has ever seen him look amused before."
Evelyn frowned. Amused? That wasn't part of the plan. The plan was 'repulsed.' This guy doesn't follow the script.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a commotion in the main hall. A footman, looking flustered, appeared at the door of the solarium.
"Milady," he stammered, bowing deeply. "A… a delivery has arrived for you. From the Duke of Blackwood's estate."
Evelyn's blood ran cold. The pastries suddenly tasted like ash. This was it. The official breakup. He was probably sending back all her letters with a polite but firm 'thanks, but no thanks' note. Maybe he'd even sent her a head of broccoli as a final, passive-aggressive jab.
"Well, don't just stand there," she sighed, waving a dismissive hand. "Bring it in."
"I cannot, Milady," the footman squeaked. "It is… too large."
Curiosity overriding her dread, Evelyn put her plate down and followed the footman. In the grand cobblestone courtyard of the de Claire estate, a crowd of servants had gathered, all staring at the strangest gift she had ever seen.
It wasn't a carriage. It wasn't a crate of jewels or a fancy stallion.
It was a cart. A large, sturdy merchant's cart, pulled by two unimpressed-looking horses, and piled high with… sacks.
Evelyn walked closer, her brow furrowed. She peered at the stenciling on the side of one of the burlap sacks. It read: Golden Fields Mill, Finest Wheat Flour. Next to it was a small barrel stenciled with Imperial Sugar Refinery. Beside that were massive, cloth-wrapped blocks of what she could only assume was butter from the Duke's own prized dairy farms.
It was a cart loaded with the most expensive, high-quality baking ingredients in the entire kingdom.
"What in the actual Carb Lover's Dream is this?" Evelyn muttered.
Mia was just as bewildered. "Is… is His Grace implying our kitchens are poorly stocked, Milady? It is a terrible insult!"
Is it? Evelyn wondered. It was definitely weird. It was the aristocratic equivalent of a guy you went on one bad date with suddenly having a truck full of groceries delivered to your apartment. Baffling. Presumptuous. And deeply, deeply strange.
"There is a card, Milady!" a young stable boy called out, pointing to an elegant cream-colored envelope tied to a sack of sugar.
A footman carefully untied it and presented it to her on a silver platter. Evelyn took it, her heart thumping a strange rhythm. With a sense of impending doom, she broke the black wax seal—stamped with the Blackwood wolf crest—and unfolded the single sheet of thick paper.
The handwriting was sharp, elegant, and unapologetically masculine. The message was short.
Since you find desserts more interesting than me, show me what you can do.
Evelyn read it once. Then twice.
The servants waited with bated breath, expecting an outburst. The original Evangeline would have flown into a rage at such a presumptuous, mocking gesture.
But Evelyn wasn't the original Evangeline.
She wasn't insulted. She wasn't angry. A slow, dangerous smile began to form on her lips.
He thought this was a game. A challenge. He was a cold, calculating Duke, bored with the sycophants surrounding him, and her bizarre performance had piqued his interest. He was dangling bait, expecting her to either take offense or try to impress him with some pathetic little tart.
He had no idea who he was dealing with.
She looked at the cart—at the mountain of flour, sugar, and butter. It wasn't an insult. It wasn't even just a challenge.
It was seed money.
She thought of the bland, uninspired pastries she'd been served. The simple cakes. This world was living in a culinary dark age. They had no concept of brownies gooey in the middle. They had never experienced the decadent glory of a multi-layered chocolate lava cake, the tangy perfection of a lemon meringue pie, or the delicate art of a cream-filled choux pastry.
This arrogant, handsome Duke thought he was being clever. He thought he was poking the crazy broccoli girl to see what she would do.
He had just accidentally funded his fiancée's future business empire.
"Mia," Evelyn said, her voice clear and sharp, a spark of pure, unadulterated inspiration in her eyes. "Have this entire cart moved to the auxiliary kitchen. And fetch me the head chef. We have work to do."
The Duke wanted her to show him what she could do? Oh, she would. She would revolutionize the dessert game in this kingdom, make a fortune, and secure her lazy life forever. All on his dime.
This was going to be delicious.