Chapter 2
Evander stood before the familiar facade of his ancestral townhouse, his gaze lingering upon the grand, three-storied structure of whitewashed stone gleaming beneath the gas lamps.
A delicate iron railing encircled the property, its ornate design echoing generations of refinement and wealth.
One day, this house—and everything it represented—would be his.
That knowledge sat heavy upon his shoulders.
But there was no time to indulge in sentimentality. His duty awaited, however reluctant he might be to embrace it. No amount of longing for a different life would change what had already come to pass.
Drawing a steadying breath, he approached the front steps.
Before he could knock, the door swung open.
And there stood Gillingham, the family’s tall, black-haired butler, clad in his immaculate livery.
His mouth curved in what might have been intended as a smile but came off instead as a grimace of sympathy.
“Good evening, my lord,” Gillingham intoned with a shallow bow.
My lord.
The words landed like a blow.
Evander froze upon the threshold, the truth settling over him with brutal finality. He was Lord Westmere now—not by triumph or merit, but because his elder brother was dead. The ache of that truth pressed hard against his ribs.
He had been raised to be the spare. The shadow. The son meant to step forward only if tragedy struck.
And now—here he was.
Gillingham closed the door behind him and stepped back, offering a respectful distance. No doubt he understood that Evander would need time to collect himself.
But there was little point in delaying the inevitable.
“Where is my father?” Evander asked, voice clipped.
“In his study, my lord.”
With a nod of acknowledgment, Evander prepared to face the man who had summoned him home from a life he had carved for himself—one not dictated by duty or title.
As he turned to depart, Gillingham spoke again. “If I may, I have assigned Ramsey to serve as your valet.”
“Very good,” Evander replied. His tone was neutral, though a faint bitterness stirred within him.
He had not required a valet in years, not since taking up residence in a modest flat near Oxford.
There had been no room for such luxuries, nor any desire to rely upon his father’s wealth.
After completing his studies, he had refused even a single shilling of family money.
He had wanted to prove that he could make his own way in the world.
And yet… here he was.
His future no longer his own.
He moved purposefully through the corridors of the townhouse, his footfalls muffled against the thick carpets. Reaching the rear of the house, he saw that the door to the study stood ajar.
His father was hunched over the desk, spectacles perched upon his nose as he reviewed a stack of estate accounts with a frown of concentration.
Evander straightened his shoulders and entered. “Father.”
The earl looked up at once. “Good. You are here.” His tone was brisk, formal, as though nothing monumental had changed between them. “Have you resigned from your post at Oxford yet?”
“I intend to do so tomorrow.”
“Then simply write a letter of resignation. We will have a messenger deliver it to the Master.”
Evander took another step into the room, jaw tightening. “I would prefer to speak to the Master in person.”
His father leaned back in his chair, one brow arched. “That is a waste of time.”
“It is my time to waste.”
The earl gave a derisive snort. “I do not understand your reasoning, but very well. Now, there is something you must sign.”
Crossing to the desk, Evander lowered himself into one of the leather chairs. “What is it?”
His father reached for a thick stack of papers. “Your marriage contract.”
Evander stared, momentarily stunned. “I beg your pardon?”
Holding up the sheaf of documents, his father continued. “Bryon was to marry Lady Jemima Wakefield. The contract had not yet been finalized, but now that obligation passes to you.”
“Bryon was to marry Lord Harwood’s sister?” Evander asked, incredulous.
“Yes. And now you shall do so.” His father extended the papers towards him. “All that remains is your signature.”
Evander held up both hands. “I will not marry Lady Jemima. We would not suit. She is spoiled, cruel, and entirely too pretentious.”
“What young lady of the ton is not?” came the dismissive reply.
An image flashed in Evander’s mind—Livy.
Ever since their youth, he had admired her.
Not merely for her beauty, though she possessed that in abundance, but for her gentle spirit, her quick wit, and her kindness.
She had the rare gift of making him laugh even in the darkest of times.
If he were to marry anyone, it would be her.
However… Livy had never seemed to see him as more than a friend.
Eyes narrowing, he gestured at the contract. “I will not sign those papers.”
His father regarded him with exasperation. “You have a duty to this family.”
“I am well aware of my duty,” Evander replied evenly. “It is the very reason I am here. But that does not mean I will sacrifice my future to a woman who has never concealed her contempt for me.”
“It is different now. You are the heir.”
“Is that supposed to make it better?” Evander asked, voice sharpening. “Lady Jemima has always treated me as beneath her notice—as though I were an inconvenience.”
His father sighed, clearly losing patience. “You are making this into more than it is. Lady Jemima’s dowry is twenty thousand pounds. We need that money to repair the estate and secure our holdings.”
“Surely there are other young women with comparable dowries,” Evander countered. Livy, he thought. He knew for a fact that her dowry was generous.
“Do not be difficult. Sign the contract and marry the chit.”
“No.” His voice rang with finality.
His father’s gaze hardened. “This defiance will lead to ruin. You are my heir, and you will do as I command.”
“I will honor my duty—provided it does not require the destruction of my own happiness.”
With a frustrated gesture, his father spread his hands. “Look around you! Everything I do—every decision I make—is to ensure your future.”
“Then permit me to propose an alternative. If I marry another young woman with a twenty thousand pound dowry, surely that would suffice.”
His father scoffed. “The only other such young woman is Lady Olivia. And she is wholly unsuitable as your wife.”
“I disagree,” Evander said, voice low and firm. “She is my friend and we would suit far better than I ever would with Lady Jemima.”
His father’s lip curled. “Lady Olivia may be a marquess’s daughter, but she is scandal-ridden. Duped into marrying a woman disguised as a man. What sort of fool allows such a thing to happen? Hardly a proper match.”
“Do not believe everything the newssheets print. There were other circumstances—ones you cannot begin to understand.”
“Regardless,” his father snapped, “I forbid it. You will marry Lady Jemima. That is final.”
But if his father believed that a single command would sway him, he was sorely mistaken.
Evander rose from his seat, his back rigid. He would not surrender his future—his chance at happiness—for a loveless, contemptuous marriage.
Not for duty.
Not for twenty thousand pounds.
Not for anyone.
Standing over the edge of the desk, Evander planted his hands firmly upon its surface and demanded, “I will decide whom I will marry—I, and I alone.”
His father’s expression darkened, deep grooves etching across his brow. “And what of Lady Jemima?” he demanded. “She is expecting an offer of marriage from you.”
Evander straightened, folding his arms across his chest. “Does she even wish to marry me?”
The earl gave a dismissive wave. “Of course she does! You are heir to an earldom. What more could she want?”
With a weary sigh, Evander stepped back from the desk, adjusting the edges of his waistcoat as though to shake off the suffocating conversation. “I want more from a marriage than social advantage or financial gain.”
His father snorted in derision. “You want love?” he said, voice dripping with scorn. “What are you—a chatty young woman bewitched by those absurd romance novels? Next, you’ll be telling me you dream of moonlit walks and sonnets!”
Evander lifted his gaze heavenward, a muscle twitching in his jaw.
Why, he thought bitterly, must every conversation with Father descend to this?
They could barely remain civil for five minutes before harsh words overtook them.
It was this ceaseless tension that had driven him to leave the townhouse years ago.
Brushing past the desk, he turned towards the door. “I should see to Mother.”
“She is resting,” the earl replied tersely. “I had a sleeping draught prepared for her.”
Evander halted mid-step, glancing back over his shoulder. “Have you told her about Bryon yet?”
At this, his father’s composure faltered. A flicker of pain crossed his features, quickly masked by a grimace. “Not yet,” he admitted. “I fear the news may be too great a blow. I am… truly concerned it could kill her.”
Evander’s heart twisted at the thought. His parents had entered into a marriage of convenience.
Still, they had always shown one another a quiet respect, a kind of steadfast tolerance that had deepened into something akin to fondness over the years.
He had long suspected his father’s infidelities, whispered of in Society’s drawing rooms, but had never broached the subject.
His mother had borne it with grace, and for that, he respected her all the more.
“You must tell her,” Evander said, voice firm.
The earl rose slowly from his chair. “I was hoping… that you might do it.”
Evander turned fully now and asked, “Why me?”
“It might soften the blow, coming from you,” his father replied, gaze averted.