Chapter 4 #2
Lady Wilton gave a respectful nod. “Very well.”
As the maid helped his mother to her feet and quietly led her from the parlor, Evander remained frozen where he knelt. His throat burned. He blinked rapidly, but the tears gathered, nonetheless.
Olivia knelt beside him, gently pressing another handkerchief into his hand.
He looked down at it, then at her, his lips twitching. “How many of these do you keep in your reticule?”
She gave a half-smile, her tone light but her eyes tender. “I’m a lady, Evander. I must be prepared for anything.”
“Thank you,” he murmured.
Olivia leaned in ever so slightly. “You did well.”
He lifted his gaze to hers, searching her eyes as though they alone could confirm what he could not yet believe. “Did I?” The question was whispered, raw with uncertainty.
“Yes,” she replied. “Your mother needs time to absorb the weight of what you’ve told her about Bryon.”
He exhaled slowly, the tightness in his chest loosening a fraction. Then, as if remembering himself, he straightened and extended his hand. “Come, let me see you to the door.”
Her fingers slipped into his, and he helped her stand. “I must say,” she said, “I thought it rather rude that you had not done so already.”
Evander knew precisely what she was doing. She was trying to lighten the mood, and he appreciated her more for it. And therein lay the danger—for friendship such as theirs was something he could not bear to lose.
Later that day, Evander stood outside his mother’s bedchamber, his fist poised to knock but hovering uncertainly in the air.
Through the thick door, he could hear the faint sound of weeping—soft, muffled sobs that wrenched at his heart.
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if doing so could somehow ease her grief or give him the strength to face it.
How desperately he wished he could take her pain upon himself, to spare her this agony. But no such power existed.
Drawing in a breath and summoning his courage, he knocked gently. The sobs quieted, leaving an eerie stillness in their wake. A long moment passed before he heard her voice, fragile but composed. “Enter.”
He opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit chamber.
The heavy drapes had been drawn tightly shut, allowing only the thinnest slivers of late afternoon light to seep through.
A small fire burned low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the walls.
The scent of lavender, faint and faded, mingled with the smoke of the fire.
His mother sat upon the settee before the hearth, her figure small and forlorn. She wore a black gown and tear tracks glistened on her pale cheeks, though her eyes were now dry and distant, fixed upon the flames.
“Why is it so dark in here?” Evander asked softly, his voice breaking the hush of the room.
She blinked and glanced about as if noticing her surroundings for the first time. “Is it?” she replied absently, as though the question scarcely mattered.
Evander crossed to the window and drew the drapes apart. Sunlight streamed in and he turned back. “Much better,” he murmured.
Yet his mother remained where she was, unmoved, her gaze returning to the hearth. New tears welled in her eyes and slid silently down her face.
Evander’s heart constricted. He strode to the settee and lowered himself beside her, reaching out to take her trembling hand in his.
“How can I make this better?” he asked earnestly, his voice rough with emotion.
She wiped at her tears with a handkerchief, though it did little good. “You cannot, my dear child,” she whispered. “No one can. Losing a child… it breaks the heart in ways no words can mend. I simply need time to carry this sorrow.”
He swallowed hard. “Has Father come to see you?”
A faint, wistful smile touched her lips. “No. But I would not expect him to. Your father has never been able to bear the sight of my tears. He may wear a stern exterior, but his heart is tenderer than he lets on.”
“Father?” Evander echoed, skeptical.
She managed a faint chuckle. “Yes, your father. I know you two are often at odds, but do not mistake his severity for coldness. He is a good man.”
Evander doubted that, but he did not want to argue with her. Not now. So instead, he squeezed her hand. “Can I fetch you anything? Tea, perhaps, or a blanket?”
She shook her head. “No. Having you here is enough. I was merely thinking of all that has been lost with Bryon’s passing. I shall never see him marry, never hold his children in my arms.” Her voice broke on the words. “And… I may not even live to see you wed and find happiness.”
He grasped her hand more firmly. “You are going to live a long time yet, Mother,” he said, willing it to be true.
She gave him a wan smile. “Pish-posh. We both know my health is failing. The doctor has not tried to soften his words. I do not have much longer.”
Silence fell between them and Evander felt his throat tighten. “I… could marry,” he offered, the words spilling out unbidden.
She looked at him with new interest. “Are you courting anyone?”
“No. But Father has been pressing me to marry Lady Jemima. I could—if it would bring you peace…”
She raised a hand to halt him. “Absolutely not! That girl is terrible. You would be miserable, and I would not see you sacrificed for convenience. I never understood what Bryon saw in her.”
“I think it was her dowry that caught his attention,” Evander offered.
His mother gave a weary sigh. “That would explain it. If I were to choose, I have always thought you and Olivia would suit one another.”
The mention of Olivia made his heart skip, though he schooled his features into neutrality. “Olivia and I are merely friends.”
“Perhaps,” she said knowingly. “But friendship is a fine foundation for marriage. It is more than your father and I began with.”
He hesitated. “Father has forbidden me from marrying her.”
“Because of the scandal?” she asked bluntly.
“Yes.”
His mother’s expression darkened with a hint of defiance. “And do you intend to obey him?”
Evander released her hand and leaned back with a sigh. “No, but—”
“Then why not ask her?” she interrupted, her gaze bright with sudden resolve. “The ton would be far more forgiving if she married the heir to an earldom. It would shield her from further harm, and it would bring me comfort to know you were with someone who could truly make you happy.”
“Mother…” Evander began, taken aback. “Surely you cannot mean for me to wed her out of duty alone.”
“I would be more at peace if I knew you were wed, yes. But more than that—I have seen how you look at her, Evander. Do not deny it.”
He looked away. “We are friends,” he murmured.
“The best of friends.”
“We were, when we were younger. Now… we each lead separate lives. I scarcely see her.”
Her gaze met his, filled with quiet understanding. “I know I ask much of you, my son. But think on it—for my sake.”
Before he could respond, a soft knock sounded at the door. A moment later it opened, and his father stood in the threshold, his bearing uncharacteristically tentative.
“How are you, Diana?” he asked, his voice gentler than usual.
A thin smile touched her lips. “I am well enough.”
“Would you… would you care for me to read to you before dinner?” he offered awkwardly.
“I would like that,” she replied.
The earl looked visibly relieved and stepped farther into the room.
Evander rose. “I should go.”
“Must you?” his mother asked.
He bent to kiss her cheek. “I will return tomorrow. Do try to get a good night’s sleep.”
She nodded. “Think on what I said, Son.”
“I will,” he promised. With a respectful nod to his father, he slipped from the room, his mind and heart both heavier than when he had entered.
As Evander strode quickly down the corridor, he found that, to his own surprise, he was not at all opposed to the idea of marrying Olivia.
Why should he be? He loved her. He always had, though he had spent years convincing himself otherwise.
The thought of binding his life to hers did not fill him with dread, but with longing.
And yet... how would she respond if he were to offer for her now?
Knowing Olivia, she would resist. She would balk at the notion, convinced he acted from pity or duty, rather than affection.
And worse—the question that gnawed at him most remained.
What if her heart still belonged to that scoundrel, Lord Harwood?
Olivia might wear a mask of indifference in public, but he had seen the shadow behind her smile.
He knew she had suffered far more than she ever allowed others to see.
Could he truly bear to marry her, knowing she might never return his love?
But then, unbidden, an image of his mother rose in his mind—pale and fragile, her voice trembling with sorrow and resignation.
He knew time was slipping away from her, faster than any of them wished to admit.
If marrying Olivia would bring his mother even a modicum of peace, then he would do it.
He would do whatever it took. And if it meant spending the rest of his life gently persuading Olivia to accept his suit—and perhaps, in time, to love him—so be it.
With a renewed sense of determination, he exited through the main door.
His steps quickened as he made his way down the pavement.
Olivia’s townhouse was not far, and he had no patience for waiting upon the coach to be brought round.
The brisk air cleared his thoughts even as it heightened his nerves.
As he walked, he rehearsed speech after speech in his mind—words that might persuade her, soothe her doubts, and assure her of his sincerity. None of them seemed quite right.
His breathing was slightly labored by the time he reached her townhouse. He ascended the steps and raised his hand to knock.
The door opened almost at once, and the butler greeted him with practiced civility. “Lord Westmere, do come in,” the man said, opening the door wide.