Chapter 10 #2
But before temptation got the better of her, she drew her hand back and straightened in her chair.
“Are you all right, Olivia?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied, smoothing her skirt unnecessarily. “I was merely thinking that I could do with a cup of chocolate.”
“I shall speak to the cook at once.”
“There’s no need,” she responded. “Your father informed me that such ‘frivolities’ are not to be indulged in this household.”
Evander huffed, clearly unimpressed. “Let me concern myself with my father’s sensibilities. I am well aware of your deep affection for chocolate, and I would not dare deprive you of it. Deliciousness should never be rationed.”
Her smile returned, soft and pleased. “Thank you.”
“We should eat,” Evander encouraged.
Olivia nodded, her smile a touch too swift. “Yes… yes, we should.”
She reached for her fork with fingers that felt strangely unsteady, focusing intently on the simple act of cutting a slice of ham, as if the mundane motion might silence the storm quietly brewing within her.
Anything to distract herself.
The last thing she needed was to dwell on these ill-timed, wholly unwelcome feelings rising for her new husband.
Feelings that had nothing to do with duty or practicality.
No, this was something far more dangerous.
Longing. Warmth. A growing desire to lean into his nearness and forget the carefully drawn lines between them.
But that way led to heartbreak. She knew it. She had loved once before, and it had left her bruised in places no one could see. Evander had been her friend, her constant—he was supposed to be safe.
So why had his simple words made her chest ache with unfamiliar hope?
Olivia forced herself to chew slowly, deliberately, willing her thoughts to quiet. It was just breakfast. Just an ordinary meal in a household full of strained silences and buried grief. She could manage this—she must.
She kept her gaze on her plate, not trusting herself to look at him just yet. If she did, she feared he might see too much.
Too much of what she was trying so hard to hide.
Evander stood motionless before his brother’s grave, the chill of the morning seeping through his greatcoat, though he barely felt it.
A single tear rolled down his cheek, quickly lost to the stiff breeze, but he made no move to wipe it away.
Grief settled in his chest like a heavy stone—not only for the brother he had lost, but for all that had never been.
They had spent most of their lives sparring like adversaries.
Still, despite their clashes, Bryon had been his brother, and he longed for what could have been.
But it was too late now. The final words had already been spoken. Or left unspoken.
Beside him, his friends stood in respectful silence—Alcott, Bedford, and Westcott. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Their presence was a balm of quiet strength, and he found himself grateful for each of them.
He exhaled slowly, the breath misting in the air. It was time.
He turned from the grave, his boots crunching on the gravel, and cast one last look over his shoulder at the cold stone marker. Farewell, Bryon.
“Shall we?” he asked, his voice low, roughened by emotion.
Alcott laid a firm hand on his shoulder. “You can stay for as long as you want or need. We’ll remain with you.”
Evander gave a small, grateful smile. “That’s kind of you, but I think I should return home. There’s someone I wish to see.” Olivia. He didn’t say her name aloud, but she was the one bright spot in the dim haze surrounding him. Just being near her eased the tightness in his chest.
Alcott gave a single nod and stepped back. “Very well.”
They walked in silence, the wind tugging at their coats as they made their way through the iron gates and down the quiet lane towards their waiting coaches.
At his own coach, Evander paused and turned to face the men who had stood beside him throughout the years.
“Thank you,” he said. “I know none of you were close with Bryon.”
Bedford shrugged one shoulder. “We didn’t come for him. We came for you. You’re not alone in this.”
Evander swallowed hard. “Is it… is it dreadful that I feel something like relief?”
Westcott met his eyes. “It isn’t. There is no wrong way to grieve.”
“Bryon and I were never close,” Evander said. “I spent years avoiding him. His words always cut deep.” He looked away. “And yet I still hoped we might find common ground one day. It was foolish of me.”
“Family relationships are complicated,” Alcott offered.
Evander gave a faint nod. “I should return. My mother was too unwell to attend. I need to check on her.”
“Go,” Bedford said simply.
He climbed into the coach and let the door shut behind him.
The bench felt colder than usual as he leaned back, tilting his head against the interior wall.
He closed his eyes, but his thoughts offered no respite.
His mother wouldn’t be with him much longer and it was only a matter of time before he stood before her grave.
The coach gave a jolt and began to move, wheels clattering over cobblestone as they merged into the late-morning traffic. He loosened his cravat with a sigh, the fabric suddenly constricting. Everyone had watched him at the grave. The new Lord Westmere. The heir. The benefactor of death.
But he hadn’t wanted this. He had never asked for any of it. The only good to come from this wretched change in fortune was Olivia. He had won her—by some miracle—and he would spend the rest of his life trying to deserve her.
The coach slowed in front of his townhouse. Without waiting for the footman, Evander opened the door and stepped down. A sharp crack shattered the air.
His heart stopped.
Then—splintering wood. A sharp whistle past his ear. He turned in time to see a fresh hole carved into the coach’s side.
“My lord!” one of the footmen shouted, rushing forward. “Get inside! Someone’s shooting at you!”
Evander didn’t hesitate. He bolted up the steps, pushed open the front door, and slammed it shut behind him, chest heaving. He pressed a hand to his heart and breathed deeply, steadying the panicked rhythm. A few inches closer, and…
“My lord?” Gillingham appeared at once, brows furrowed. “Are you injured? I heard a shot.”
“No,” Evander said, voice steady only by force of will. “I’m well.”
“Shall I send for the constable?”
He hesitated, then shook his head. “No. Not yet. Let’s not make a scene.”
Gillingham didn’t look convinced, but accepted the answer with a slight bow. “As you wish.”
“Where is my wife?”
“She is with your mother.”
Relief flooded through him. “Thank you,” he murmured, handing over his hat. He took the stairs two at a time.
At the end of the corridor, he eased open the bedchamber door.
There she was.
Olivia sat beside his mother’s bed, her delicate fingers moving deftly over a small piece of embroidery. The sight of her—calm, composed, surrounded by soft light filtering through the window—unraveled something tight within him.
She looked up and smiled. “Hello.”
He crossed to her side. “How is she?”
“Asleep,” she whispered. “She’s been resting for most of the morning.”
Placing a hand on Olivia’s shoulder, he said, “Thank you for staying with her. I didn’t want her to be alone.”
Olivia reached up and curled her fingers around his. “And you? How are you?”
He stared into her eyes and let his guard slip, just a little. “I’ve had better days,” he admitted softly. “But I’m better now… now that I’ve seen you.”
Just then, his mother stirred. Her eyes opened, pale and weary. “Evander?”
He leaned over her. “I’m here.”
She tried to sit up and he reached for her at once. “Let me help.”
As he supported her, she smiled faintly and brushed her fingers along his sleeve.
Yes. He was still grieving. Still haunted and still overwhelmed. But in this quiet room, with Olivia at his side, he remembered why he kept going.
Because there was still something left to fight for.
His mother leaned back against the pillows, her frail form dwarfed by the carved headboard behind her. Though her cheeks had grown hollow and her voice had softened with age and illness, she still carried herself with quiet dignity.
“Tell me about the funeral,” she said gently. “Was it well attended?”
Evander sat on the bed. “It was.”
“That is good,” she murmured, her gaze distant. “I was worried no one would come.”
He looked at her, noting the fine tremble in her fingers as they twisted the edge of her blankets. Even bedridden, she thought first of appearances—of whether Bryon had been mourned properly. She had always believed in upholding dignity, even in grief.
A knock interrupted the quiet.
“Enter,” Evander called.
The door opened to reveal a young maid. She dipped into a quick curtsy before speaking. “My lord, a gentleman has requested a moment of your time. Lord Luca Dexter.”
Evander furrowed his brow. “I do not know him. Did he state his business?”
“No, my lord. Only that it was urgent.”
He considered sending the man away. His instincts pricked with unease—unannounced callers with vague intentions rarely boded well—but curiosity won out. “Inform him I will be down shortly.”
Another curtsy, and the maid slipped away.
Evander rose. “I should see what he wants,” he said, casting a glance at his mother. “But I won’t be long.”
She offered a faint smile, though fatigue dulled its warmth. “I will be waiting. Olivia will stay with me.”
That small comfort gave him a measure of peace. He looked at Olivia, meeting her gaze in silent thanks before quitting the room.
As he descended the staircase, he tried to push aside the residual weight of the funeral. Yet the ache remained, threaded now with the sense of growing unrest. First, the attempt on his life. Now this unexpected visitor. Something wasn’t right.
He entered the drawing room and immediately spotted the man. Tall and broad-shouldered, Lord Luca stood near the window, back straight, hands clasped behind him as he stared out at the gray sky beyond. There was a calculated stillness to him, as if every movement were rehearsed.
“Lord Luca,” Evander said.
The man turned, dark eyes sharp, his expression composed. “Lord Westmere.” He offered a shallow bow. “Thank you for seeing me.”
Evander remained rooted in his spot. “I must admit I don’t know why you’re here.”
Unfolding his hands, Lord Luca stepped forward with the confident ease of a man who expected to be listened to. “I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”
“Questions?” Evander repeated. “Why?”
“You may have heard,” Lord Luca said, “I recently purchased The London Gazette. I’m writing a piece for an upcoming issue.”
Evander’s brow lifted. “You’re writing it?”
“I am,” he said without a trace of embarrassment. “I find it helps to be directly involved in my publications.”
“And what, exactly, does this have to do with me?”
Lord Luca’s smile didn’t waver. “I’m writing on the state of indigo plantations in India, and your family’s name, of course, came up.”
Evander stiffened. “You wish to speak of the plantation?”
“I wish to speak of your intentions,” Lord Luca responded. “Will you be continuing your late brother’s barbaric treatment of the locals?”
Evander blinked, stunned by the accusation. “I beg your pardon?”
Lord Luca reached into his coat and withdrew a folded document. “There have been disturbing reports—firsthand accounts—of brutal practices under your brother’s management.”
Evander took the paper with reluctance and unfolded it. The parchment crackled in his hands.
“My brother may have been… severe,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “but he was not a tyrant.”
“Severity is often a mask,” Lord Luca replied. “Some justify cruelty as business. But if you read the article in your hand, you’ll see claims that your brother oversaw the slaughter of nearly a hundred locals who opposed his expansion.”
Evander’s breath caught.
He scanned the article. Names. Villages. Vague descriptions of retaliation. He felt his stomach twist. Could this be true?
He looked up. “And how am I to know this piece wasn’t fabricated?”
“You don’t,” Lord Luca said simply. “Which is why I suggest you speak to your father. He knows far more than you might think.”
Evander’s fingers curled tighter around the paper. “And what do you want from me?”
“Your plans,” Luca said. “Will you continue operating the plantation? Or do you intend to reform it?”
Evander met his gaze squarely. “I have no comment.”
Luca stepped closer, voice dropping slightly. “There are reformer groups targeting Nabobs. They’ve grown violent. Some have even killed. Have you received threats?”
Evander remained impassive, though the bullet that had barely missed him earlier echoed in his mind. “No.”
The lie sat bitter on his tongue.
“I see.” Lord Luca tilted his head. “Well, I’d advise caution. These groups are becoming more brazen.”
Evander stepped aside and gestured towards the door. “I believe our conversation is at an end.”
Lord Luca hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Very well.” He turned towards the door, then glanced back. “Keep the article. You and your father may find it... enlightening.”
Without waiting for a response, he exited, boots echoing down the corridor.
Evander stood motionless in the quiet that followed, the article still clutched in his hand. A hundred dead? His brother’s legacy, tainted by violence? And his father, what had he known?
He looked down at the paper again, heart pounding. There was more to uncover. And suddenly, it felt like he was standing not at the beginning of his inheritance, but at the edge of a much darker truth.