Chapter 2 #2
Coward, he thought. His father, so commanding when ordering marriages and managing estates, sought now to hide behind his son rather than deal with a grieving wife.
But this was his mother. And despite the distance he often kept from this townhouse, despite all the grievances he harbored towards his father, he loved her deeply.
Drawing a long, resigned breath, Evander bowed his head slightly. “I will do it.”
His father’s shoulders sagged, the tension visibly draining from him. “Thank you, Son,” he said, voice carrying a rare note of genuine relief.
“Now, if you will excuse me, I need to settle into my bedchamber.”
As he turned towards the door, his father called after him. “Would you like Bryon’s bedchamber? It is much larger than yours and it offers a fine view of the gardens.”
Evander paused mid-step. His heart constricted at the suggestion.
No.
He might have inherited his brother’s title and his responsibilities, but he would not take his brother’s place in life so easily.
Turning his head just enough to glance back, Evander said, “No. My own room will suffice.”
Without waiting for a reply, he strode from the study. The hollowness in his chest deepened with every step. The future awaited him, shaped by duty and loss, but at least, in this small matter, he would hold fast to what little choice remained to him.
Olivia sat alone at a corner table in the circulating library, her fingers lightly tracing the gilt-edged pages of one of her favorite French romance novels. The soft murmur of whispered conversation and the occasional rustle of turning pages surrounded her like a gentle cocoon.
Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, illuminating the dust motes that danced lazily in the air.
She had left the townhouse directly after breakfast, unable to endure the suffocating concern written so plainly on Dosia’s face.
Her sister-in-law meant well—truly, she did—but Olivia could not bear such attentiveness, not today.
She needed space to think, to sort through the jumble of her heart.
I am perfectly fine, she reminded herself, though her throat tightened at the thought of it.
Lord Harwood belonged to her past now. He had made his choice, casting her aside without so much as a backward glance.
She would not waste her tears on a man so unworthy of them.
Still, her eyes blurred as she tried to focus on the words before her. She was just about to surrender the effort when the chair opposite her scraped softly against the wooden floor.
Startled, Olivia looked up to see Lady Jane settling gracefully into the seat with an impish smile.
“Good morning,” Jane greeted as she adjusted the straw hat that sat slightly askew on her head, covering her blonde curls.
“Good morning,” she replied slowly. “I admit I did not expect company.”
“I thought I might find you here,” Jane said brightly. “At least, I hoped I would.”
A faint smile tugged at Olivia’s lips. “Does your father or brother know you are here?” she asked with a raised brow.
Jane’s smile dimmed a fraction. “They know I am visiting the circulating library. They are not aware, however, that I intended to converse with you.” She leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering her voice.
“I recently discovered that my maid has been tattling on me to them. I left her sulking in the coach.”
Olivia couldn’t help but laugh softly. “Splendid move.” She closed her book with a deliberate snap. “How are you faring?”
“I am well,” Jane answered, a little too quickly.
Olivia fixed her with a pointed gaze. “The truth, if you please.”
A sigh escaped Jane as her shoulders sagged. “My father is attempting to marry me off to the Duke of Brackenford.”
Olivia wrinkled her nose in distaste. “But he is positively ancient.”
“I know,” Jane whispered with a shudder. “I hope he will soon find another suitable match for me.”
“You do have a say in the matter,” Olivia reminded her.
Jane’s expression turned bleak. “That is easy for you to say. My father and brother govern every aspect of my life. I have no choices, no freedoms.” She glanced around the room as if wary of being overheard. “It is no different for most women of our station.”
“Have you ever defied them?” Olivia asked.
Jane looked horrified. “Heavens, no!” Her eyes widened. “I scarcely dare.”
Olivia shook her head with quiet resolve. “You deserve more out of life, Jane.”
Her friend managed a weak smile. “Perhaps. But I wouldn’t even know where to begin.” She reached across the table, her fingers brushing Olivia’s hand. “But enough about me. I am more concerned about you.”
Olivia arched a brow. “Whatever for?”
Jane gave her a pointed look. “I read in the newssheets that Lord Westmere and Lord Harwood perished.”
“That they did,” Olivia said calmly, though her fingers tightened slightly around the book.
“And I know you had feelings for Lord Harwood.”
“Had being the operative word,” Olivia replied. “He cast me aside and married another. I have made my peace with it.”
Jane did not look convinced. “It is perfectly natural to grieve him.”
“I refuse to give him another moment’s thought,” Olivia said firmly, though her voice wavered ever so slightly. “The way he treated me… I would not wish that cruelty upon my worst enemy.”
“Livy—”
She raised a hand, forestalling her friend’s sympathy. “You need not fret over me. I have a dog now. In fact, I am considering acquiring a cat or two.”
“Cats? Whatever for?” Jane asked, bewildered.
Olivia’s lips twitched into a grin. “I may as well embrace spinsterhood fully.”
“You are only five and twenty,” Jane protested. “Hardly destined to be a spinster.”
“Ah, but who would want to marry a woman with an annulled marriage?”
Jane gave a little shrug. “The right man would. Are you not the one who always insisted that love conquers all?”
“Not anymore,” she admitted. “Love is dead—or at least reserved for the lucky few who manage to find it. It is a little more than a game of chance.”
Jane’s gaze flicked to the book Olivia had been reading. “If that is truly how you feel, why are you reading romance novels?”
Olivia gave a weary smile. “Because it is pleasant to escape into another world, even for a few moments. Within the pages of a book, love still triumphs.”
Jane reached for her hand again. “What happened with Mr. Smith was not your fault. He deceived you.”
Olivia turned her gaze away, her throat tight.
She knew her friend meant well, but such reminders only deepened her shame.
Heartbroken by Lord Harwood’s betrayal, she had allowed herself to be swept away by Mr. Smith’s lies—all the way to Gretna Green.
The consequences of that folly still haunted her.
“I know,” she whispered. “But it does not make the memory any less bitter.”
Jane straightened in her chair, brushing a stray curl from her shoulder with a determined flick of her wrist. “Then we shall speak of something else,” she declared. “Politics, religion, or the weather?”
A laugh escaped Olivia’s lips. “Not the weather. Never the weather.”
Just then, a sudden commotion drew their attention to the side door leading to the salon.
The door swung open, and a small gaggle of finely dressed ladies emerged in a flurry of muslin and lace.
Their heads were bowed close together, and their fans fluttering to conceal mischievous smiles.
Gentle laughter drifted through the air as they swept through the circulating library and out onto the street.
“I wonder what that was all about,” Jane murmured, her gaze following the retreating group with undisguised curiosity.
Olivia tilted her head towards the now-quiet salon door. “That particular room offers a refuge,” she explained. “It is where women gather to speak of matters they dare not utter in the drawing room. No chaperones are listening in, and no gentlemen are minding their sensibilities.”
Before Jane could reply, a familiar voice sounded from just behind them. “Good morning, ladies.”
Olivia turned in her chair to see Miss Winslow standing nearby, her fashionable bonnet tilted at a charming angle. Blonde curls framed her porcelain face, and her blue eyes sparkled with polite warmth.
“Good morning,” Olivia returned the greeting with a courteous smile.
Jane followed suit, though her smile faltered slightly, not quite reaching her eyes. “Were you in the salon?”
“I was,” Miss Winslow replied with an elegant nod.
“Though I did little more than listen. One can learn the most interesting things by simply remaining silent.” She leaned in slightly, as if sharing a confidence.
“I confess, I never imagined I would hear women discussing politics so freely—and so passionately—among themselves.”
Olivia gave a small sigh. “It is a shame our opinions must be hidden away in dark corners, spoken only in whispers, lest we offend the delicate pride of men.”
Miss Winslow’s smile deepened, and she gave a thoughtful nod, setting her curls in motion. “Perhaps one day that will change,” she said. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must not be late for my appointment with the modiste.”
Jane’s gaze lingered on Miss Winslow’s retreating figure. Her expression grew wary. “I would advise caution when dealing with Miss Winslow.”
Olivia arched a brow. “Why is that? She seems harmless enough—pleasant, even.”
Jane met her gaze. “That is precisely her intent. Her innocent act is well practiced. She is far more calculating than she appears.”
“And how do you know this?” Olivia asked, curiosity piqued.
Jane hesitated, tension creeping into her posture. “I cannot say.”
“You cannot—or you will not?” Olivia pressed gently, her eyes narrowing with interest.
Jane’s fingers twisted the ribbons of her reticule. “Promise me you will be careful in what you say to her,” she urged.
Olivia waved a dismissive hand. “You need not worry. I hardly imagine Miss Winslow has any real interest in me. Frankly, I am surprised she even spoke to me at all, considering she is rumored to be the Diamond of the First Water this Season.”
Rising from her seat, Jane said, “I must leave before my maid takes it upon herself to storm the library in search of me.”
Olivia stood as well. “Thank you for daring your family’s disapproval to visit me.”
Jane lowered her gaze, her voice wistful. “I wish I possessed the strength to truly defy them. But I do not—not yet.”
Olivia reached out and gently squeezed her friend’s hand. “You are stronger than you believe. One day, you will see it.”
A soft smile played at the corners of Jane’s mouth. “I hope you are right.”
“I am right,” Olivia said firmly, her tone softened with affection. She reached once more for her book. “And perhaps—one of these days—you will dare to read one of the scandalous French romance novels I so dearly love.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” Jane protested.
With an amused smile, Olivia extended the book across the table. “You should,” she urged. “Do one thing each day that reminds you that you are alive.”
For a long moment, Jane stared at the book as if it were a forbidden treasure, and indecision warred on her features. Slowly, tentatively, she reached out and took the book from Olivia’s outstretched hands.
“I suppose I could manage a page or two each day,” Jane murmured, as if speaking the idea aloud would somehow make it safer.
“That is a fine start,” Olivia said, her voice encouraging. “And who knows? You may soon find yourself reading far more than that.”
Jane hugged the book to her chest as though it were a secret she had to guard. Her shoulders lifted with a breath of resolve. “I will do it,” she said, her gaze steady now. “I will.”
A faint smile touched Olivia’s lips as she watched her friend walk away. Jane was being brave—more so than she realized. To even consider defying the expectations of her father and brother required a quiet kind of courage. Olivia admired her for it, even envied her resolve in that moment.
She herself was fortunate; she knew it. Richard, for all his protective instincts, did not shackle her with endless restrictions.
He granted her certain freedoms. He encouraged her love of learning, her curiosity, and even her occasional stubbornness.
In many ways, she lived a life freer than most women of her station.
And yet...
As she reached for another book on the table, a hollow ache stirred in her chest—a sensation as subtle as it was persistent. Why, she wondered, did she still feel as though some essential part of her was missing?
She traced an idle line across the margin of the page with her fingertip.
Lord Harwood had been a mistake—a bitter one. The scandal with Mr. Smith had only deepened her sense of isolation. She told herself she was content, that she had moved beyond the heartbreak and disgrace. Yet beneath her composed smile, something within her remained... unmoored.
Drawing a slow breath, Olivia straightened her spine and turned the page deliberately. Books offered escape. Perhaps, today, they would also offer solace.
Still, the question remained, whispering at the edges of her mind: What part of herself had she lost—and how would she ever reclaim it?