Pursuing His Viscountess (Courting the Unconventional #5)

Chapter 1

Mr. Evander Addington could read the boredom on his students’ faces as clearly as if it had been scrawled across the lecture hall’s stone walls.

He had been speaking for well over an hour on the rise of the Ottoman Empire—an important topic, but admittedly one of the more uninspiring chapters in their syllabus.

Even he, who found history endlessly fascinating, struggled to infuse the material with enough enthusiasm to keep the students engaged.

A palpable sense of relief swept through the room as the bell rang across the quad.

Chairs scraped back, books snapped shut, and the hall emptied in a flurry of movement and murmured goodbyes.

Evander watched them go without resentment.

Some eras of history stirred the soul. Others simply had to be endured.

He gathered the worn volumes from the lectern and tucked them into his battered leather satchel.

Slinging it over his shoulder, he took one last look at the now-empty hall.

Despite the dull topic of the day, a quiet pride filled him.

He had earned this post and the right to be called a Fellow of University College, Oxford.

At only five and twenty, he had achieved what many only dared to dream.

Stepping outside, the crisp wind immediately threatened to send his cap flying. He caught it just in time and adjusted it firmly atop his head. The afternoon light was soft, casting long shadows over the cobbled quad.

As he approached the building that housed his office, the heavy oak door creaked open, and Professor Muir—broad, bearded, and slightly breathless—stepped out with a sheaf of notes in hand.

“Good afternoon, Fellow Addington,” Muir said with a slight incline of his head.

Evander returned the gesture. “And to you, Professor. Are you off to enlighten young minds with the magic of physics?”

“Indeed, I am. Newton’s Laws await.” Muir gave a wry smile. “However, I do hope my students will be more engaged than they were during last week’s lecture.”

Evander chuckled. “I wish you luck. Mine looked as if they’d expire from boredom by the end of the lecture.”

“Grim but necessary,” Muir said with a theatrical sigh. “The fate of all professors—burdened with truth, cursed with students.”

“And blessed with endless piles of essays,” Evander added dryly. “If you happen to discover how to have a personal life in between lectures and reviewing students’ work, do let me know.”

“If I do, I shall write a monograph.”

They shared a brief, companionable smile before parting ways.

Climbing the narrow staircase to the second level, Evander adjusted his satchel and headed down the dim corridor. The building was quiet, save for the occasional creak of the old timbers underfoot. As he turned the corner, he halted abruptly. His office door stood slightly ajar.

He distinctly remembered locking it.

A flicker of unease passed through him. Quietly, he approached and listened. There were noises—rustling papers, the subtle creak of wood. He pushed the door open and froze.

Seated at his desk, rummaging without a trace of shame, was the last person he expected to find.

“The devil take it—Father?” Evander blurted out, stunned.

The Earl of Everwyck looked up, entirely unbothered by the intrusion he was committing. His dark eyes calmly assessed his son.

“I’ve been waiting for over an hour,” he said, as if that justified his trespass.

“And you filled the time by invading my privacy?” Evander asked sharply, stepping into the cramped room.

His father gave a dismissive nod. “Your office is smaller than I imagined. Dreary, too.”

Evander clenched his jaw. He couldn’t argue the point. The room was modest at best, barely large enough to accommodate the desk, two chairs, and a bookshelf that was filled to the brim. Still, it was his, and it had taken years of hard work and scholarly dedication to earn.

“I thought you were a Fellow now,” his father said with his usual trace of condescension.

“I am. Offices don’t magically expand the moment one is appointed,” he replied, knowing perfectly well the subtle barbs were far from over.

His father rose and wandered over to the window, gazing out over the quad. “At least you’ve got a decent view.”

Evander removed his academic gown and hung it beside his cap before finally lowering himself into the chair opposite his father.

He studied the man—his rigid bearing, the lines etched into his face, the familiar coldness in his expression.

They had never been close, and time had only widened the rift between them.

“Is Mother unwell?” he asked suddenly, the thought striking him with fear.

His father’s gaze faltered. For the briefest moment, a shadow passed over his face. “Your mother is… surviving. The physician is uncertain how long she has.”

Evander exhaled, shoulders sinking beneath the weight of the news. He had watched for years as illness chipped away at her strength. But hearing that the end might be near struck a blow deeper than he had anticipated.

“I’ve written to you,” his father said, folding his arms. “You’ve ignored my letters.”

“I’ve been occupied,” Evander replied, not looking at him.

“Too occupied for family?”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to,” came the curt response. “I’m here because there’s something that must be discussed.”

Evander braced himself. He fully expected a rebuke about his career—about how his place was not in lecture halls but managing estates and maintaining appearances.

But as he looked at his father, he noticed something unfamiliar—weariness. The proud lines of his face sagged slightly, and for the first time, he appeared aged. Human.

His father pulled out the second chair and sank into it. “It’s about Bryon.”

Of course it was. Bryon, the golden child. The heir. The one who could do no wrong, while Evander’s accomplishments were dismissed as willful defiance.

His father hesitated. “Bryon and Lord Harwood sailed to India to oversee the indigo plantation that we had recently purchased. I received word that illness struck the passengers and they both passed away.”

Evander’s breath caught. He stared at his father, trying to reconcile the words with reality. Despite their differences, he had never wished harm to Bryon.

“Are you certain?” he asked, voice rough.

“Yes.” Tears glistened in the earl’s eyes, and his voice broke as he said, “I received confirmation three days ago.”

Evander blinked, unsure what stunned him more—the news of his brother or the sight of his father crying.

“Does Mother know?” he asked.

“No,” came the quiet reply. “I haven’t told her. I fear what it might do to her.”

Evander turned his head away, willing himself not to break. The urge to weep surged within him, but this wasn’t the time or place. He would grieve in solitude. For his brother. For his mother. For the past that would never be reclaimed.

His father’s tears were gone when he looked back, replaced by a mask of firm resolve.

“You will need to come home,” he said flatly. “You are my heir now. You will need to take your rightful place.”

Evander recoiled slightly, his mind rebelling. He had built a life here. Oxford was his sanctuary, his future. How could he make his father understand now when he had never succeeded before?

“I have obligations here,” he began slowly.

“You have a greater one now,” his father replied simply, as if that explained everything.

And with that, the room seemed to close in around him. Everything he had worked for—everything he was—stood on the edge of a precipice.

Evander shot to his feet and began pacing the length of the narrow office, his footsteps muffled by the worn carpet beneath his boots. The room, small to begin with, suddenly felt suffocating.

“I can’t just leave,” he declared. “I’m in the middle of the term. I have lectures to give, papers to grade, and students depending on me.”

His father scoffed, rising from the chair with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“This work”—he gestured vaguely at the shelves and papers surrounding them—“is hardly essential. You're teaching uninterested boys about long-dead kings and crumbling empires. You need to come home and help me run the estate. That’s where your focus should be. That’s what truly matters. ”

“My work does matter,” Evander shot back, his voice taut with suppressed fury. “It matters to me, and to the students who actually want to learn.”

His father’s lip curled slightly, his tone patronizing. “You no longer need to labor for your keep. Bryon is gone,” he said, his voice hitching slightly. “The responsibilities fall to you now. Frankly, this academic pursuit was always beneath your station.”

“Working in academia is perfectly respectable for the younger son of an earl.”

“Perhaps,” his father conceded with a shrug. “But I had hoped you might choose a more dignified path. Become a barrister. At least then you'd be engaging in something useful. This history nonsense…” He shook his head. “It was always a diversion.”

Evander turned away, eyes closed, trying to gather his composure before his temper got the better of him. They had danced this dance before, and each time it had ended with harsh words and wounded pride.

“I never wanted to be a barrister,” he said.

“Pity,” his father muttered under his breath. “I’ve already spoken to the Master—”

Hoping he misheard his father, he asked, “Pardon?”

“I spoke to Master Griffith earlier this morning,” his father said, slow and deliberate, as if he had done him a favor. “I explained the circumstances, and he was quite understanding. He agreed that you would need to resign from your post immediately.”

“You had no right to do that.” Evander’s voice rose, the edges fraying.

His father’s eyes narrowed. “I had every right. You are my son. And with Bryon gone, you are the heir. This childish rebellion of yours has gone on long enough.”