Chapter 10
Dressed in a jonquil morning gown, Olivia descended the grand staircase.
Her blonde hair had been arranged in a demure chignon, a single pearl comb gleaming in the early light that streamed through the windows.
Though outwardly composed, a strange sense of unreality clung to her.
She had been married for a full day now—an entire day—and still it felt as if she were playing a part in some elaborate charade.
As she neared the dining room, she smoothed her skirts with a nervous hand. The scent of warm bread and roasted ham wafted through the corridor, mingling with the faint polish of beeswax on the oak paneling. She paused just outside the threshold, peering in.
Lord Everwyck sat alone at the head of the long table, clad in a dark jacket, his silver hair immaculately brushed and the newssheets unfolded before him. There was no sign of Evander.
Olivia's heart sank. Breakfast alone with the Earl of Everwyck was hardly how she wished to begin her second day as a married woman. His dislike for her was not just assumed—it had been demonstrated repeatedly over the years, each interaction laced with disdain.
She took a quiet step back, already retreating in her mind to the sanctuary of her bedchamber, where she could ring for a tray and spend the morning in peace.
But fate intervened in the form of an aged floorboard that groaned beneath her slippered foot.
Lord Everwyck looked over and his expression soured instantly. “Olivia,” he said, his voice clipped and void of any welcome.
She dipped into a curtsy. “My lord.”
He gestured towards an empty chair. “Will you not join me?”
No, she wanted to say. A hundred times, no. But she was a guest in his house. His daughter-in-law, she reminded herself. It would be unforgivably rude to refuse.
With her chin slightly elevated, Olivia moved to the indicated chair and sat. “Good morning,” she said, infusing the words with all the warmth she could muster.
Lord Everwyck grunted and returned his attention to the newssheets, lifting them as though she were no more than a draft of air.
She clasped her hands in her lap, grateful she would not be forced into tedious conversation. A footman approached and set a plate in front of her. She turned politely towards the servant.
“Is chocolate available this morning?”
Before the footman could reply, the earl lowered his newssheets. “We do not indulge in such frivolities,” he informed her.
Olivia’s smile remained, though a faint strain touched the edges. “Ah. That is disappointing. I am rather accustomed to a cup of chocolate with breakfast.”
“You shall have to develop more practical habits,” he said. “Juice, perhaps. Or tea.”
“I assure you I am far more agreeable with chocolate in the mornings,” she quipped, attempting lightness.
He did not so much as blink, already hidden behind the newssheets once more.
Silence settled between them, awkward and heavy. Olivia lifted her fork and began to eat, chewing slowly, wishing desperately for Evander’s presence.
A sudden rustle of paper accompanied a low scoff from the earl. “Your wedding has made the Society page,” he said with a sneer, tearing out the article. He extended it towards her with reluctant fingers. “You might as well read it yourself.”
She accepted the page delicately. The piece was penned by Mr. Fairchild—blunt and factual, but thankfully lacking any biting commentary. Still, the speed with which it had been published startled her.
“I suppose it was only a matter of time before the ton discovered our nuptials,” she murmured, setting the newssheet aside.
“My son should never have married you,” Lord Everwyck said.
The words hit like a slap. Olivia inhaled through her nose, willing herself not to react. “Are we truly doing this now?”
The earl’s mouth tightened. “Evander is beguiled by you, nothing more. Once the enchantment wears off, he’ll see you for what you are and he’ll resent you for it.”
“I hope that is not the case,” she replied, her voice remarkably even. “I would not wish to become the source of his unhappiness.”
“You are a pretty thing,” he admitted. “But I do not believe you possess the refinement, nor the fortitude, to serve as countess.”
Olivia allowed herself a dry smile. “For once, we find ourselves in agreement. I daresay I shall make a terrible countess.”
A voice cut in from the doorway. “I disagree.”
Olivia’s head turned with visible relief as Evander entered the room. He crossed the floor with easy confidence and leaned to press a kiss to her cheek before sitting beside her.
“I do believe,” he continued, “that Olivia will make a remarkable countess. In fact, she is precisely what Society needs.”
She met his gaze briefly and offered him a grateful smile.
“Sorry I’m late,” he murmured.
His father snorted. “It’s about time. I’ve been awake for hours.”
“As have I,” Evander replied, pouring himself a glass of water. “I visited Lord Warwicke. We had a rather illuminating conversation regarding the indigo plantation.”
“A waste of your time,” the earl snapped. “You should be studying the correspondence and ledgers here. There’s much work to be done.”
Evander took a sip before answering, “I think we should sell it.”
His father looked as if he had been struck. “Pardon me?”
“The more I learn, the more I believe we should sever ties with it.”
“And leave a fortune behind?”
Evander’s voice was calm but firm. “Is a fortune worth more than our integrity?”
Lord Everwyck scoffed. “That money will help sustain the estate. Without it, what will we do?”
Olivia finally spoke. “Would my dowry not help ease the strain?”
The earl gave her a fleeting, dismissive glance. “It will help. But it is not enough.”
Evander’s jaw tightened. “We’ve been threatened twice. I don’t wish to see this escalate.”
“So you surrender?” his father barked. “You allow reformers to dictate our actions? You grow soft, Son.”
“Father—”
“Enough,” Lord Everwyck cut in. “We’ll discuss this later. Alone. Olivia need not concern herself with such weighty matters.”
“I am his wife,” she said evenly. “Should I not be informed of matters that affect our future?”
“Women care nothing for serious concerns,” the earl said. “They care for gowns and pin money and gossip.”
A flare of heat rose in Olivia’s chest. She opened her mouth to respond, but Evander quietly placed his hand over hers—a silent gesture of support.
“I believe,” Olivia said slowly and clearly, “that I should be involved in the running of the estate.”
“Absolutely not!” Lord Everwyck thundered. “You shall see to the household and remember your place.”
Her spine straightened. “And what, precisely, do you believe my place to be?”
Before the earl could reply, Evander intervened. “As Mother is indisposed, Olivia is the lady of this house. She deserves our respect.”
“Respect is earned,” the earl snapped, shoving his chair back. “And I find this conversation intolerably tedious. I shall be in my study until the funeral proceedings.”
As the door slammed behind him, silence fell.
Evander turned towards her. “I’m sorry.”
She waved it off with a shake of her head. “You’ve nothing to apologize for. He is grieving, and today—of all days—must weigh heavily upon him.”
“That may be so, but grief does not excuse cruelty.”
“No,” she agreed. “It doesn’t. But I would prefer to grant him some grace, considering he has lost a son.” She tilted her head, her voice gentling. “How are you faring?”
He released a long, weary sigh, his shoulders rising and falling. “Well enough, I suppose. Bryon and I were never particularly close, and now…” He hesitated, his gaze drifting to the unlit hearth. “Now I am consumed with estate matters and these threats.”
Olivia leaned forward, laying a hand gently on his sleeve. “You must give yourself permission to grieve,” she said. “You cannot carry it all without consequence. Pain has a way of settling into your bones if left unattended.”
He turned his gaze to her. “When did you become so wise?”
She gave a small, impish smile. “I have always been wise. You’ve merely failed to recognize it.”
“Wise?” he echoed with mock incredulity. “Is this the same girl who smeared mud on the back of my trousers and declared to all that would listen that I had soiled myself?”
Laughter burst from her lips, light and unrestrained. “That was a delightful day.”
“I was not nearly as delighted,” he replied dryly. “Especially as you chose mud from the riverbank. It reeked of something foul and unmentionable.”
“You should not have closed your eyes when I told you to,” she teased.
He narrowed his eyes in mock suspicion. “Henceforth, I shall keep them wide open whenever you are near.”
“Oh, you may trust me now,” she said, feigning innocence. “I was far more mischievous at eight than I am at five and twenty.”
“I do trust you, Olivia. I always have.”
“And I trust you.”
Evander’s expression sobered. He leaned back, staring up at the ceiling as though searching for strength there. “I’m worried about my mother,” he admitted. “She wished desperately to attend the funeral, but her health will not permit it. She doesn’t even have the strength to rise from her bed.”
“Would you like me to stay with her?” Olivia asked.
He looked at her then, his brows drawn, as if trying to determine whether he had heard her correctly. “You would do that?”
“For you, I would do anything.”
For a moment, he simply stared at her. Then a smile curved his lips—small, but sincere—and the fine creases at the corners of his eyes deepened. “I daresay I chose well when I asked you to be my wife.”
A warmth spread through her chest. The way he looked at her now reminded her far too keenly of the moment they had kissed. The memory still lingered on her lips, tempting and undeniable.
Her gaze flickered to his mouth.
How easy it would be to kiss him again. All she needed to do was lean forward, close the short distance between them, and—