Chapter 11
Olivia needed to escape.
Not forever—though the temptation lingered—but for just a few stolen hours.
A reprieve from the heaviness of recent days, from the carefully composed expressions and whispered condolences, and from the ache of wishing she could be in two places at once.
While Evander buried his brother, she had remained dutifully at Lady Everwyck’s side, offering quiet comfort to a woman who had already lost too much.
Now, seated inside the quiet confines of her coach, she pressed her gloved fingers to her temple and exhaled slowly.
The soft jostling of the carriage as it trundled along the familiar cobbled streets of London brought no real comfort, but at least the destination did.
The circulating library had always been her sanctuary.
It was a place where she could lose herself in pages instead of problems.
She leaned her head against the windowpane and closed her eyes briefly, letting the dull rhythm of the wheels soothe her.
She wished she could have been with Evander.
He had always been there for her—steady and kind, even when she had been reckless and foolish.
Their friendship had been one of the few constants in her life, which only made the shift between them feel more unsettling.
That kiss.
He had asked permission, and she had given it willingly, but she hadn’t anticipated the storm it would stir within her.
They had married out of necessity, not love.
She had needed saving, and he had needed to fulfill a dying wish of his mother.
It had been a practical arrangement. Logical.
Predictable. But that kiss… it had introduced complication, intimacy, the sort of feelings she had not prepared herself to feel.
The sort she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to feel.
The coach drew to a gentle stop, jolting her from her thoughts.
She waited until the footman opened the door.
Taking his gloved hand, she stepped down onto the pavement.
For the first time in her life, she moved about London unchaperoned, a married woman with a new kind of independence.
It was a small freedom, but a welcome one.
Tugging the brim of her straw hat into place, she lifted her chin and entered the library. The familiar scent of aging parchment greeted her like an old friend. The hush inside was immediate, the kind of reverent silence only a room full of books could command.
She made her way towards the back corner, where the French romances were shelved. But her steps faltered.
There, nestled into the corner with a teetering stack of books before her, sat Lady Jane. Her head was bowed, her eyes rimmed red, and her hands clenched tightly in her lap. Olivia’s heart twisted at the sight.
She approached slowly and spoke softly. “Jane?”
Jane looked up, startled. Her lashes were wet, and her lips trembled as she whispered, “Livy… what are you doing here?”
“I needed something to read,” she said, unwilling to mention the rest. The heartache. The confusion. The worry.
“Oh. That makes sense.” Jane looked away quickly, pretending to busy herself with a book she wasn’t truly reading.
Olivia didn’t hesitate. She pulled out a chair and sat. “Something is troubling you. What is it?”
Jane released a long, trembling sigh. “My father has arranged a marriage for me.”
Olivia’s stomach dropped. “To whom?”
There was a pause, and then Jane replied quietly, “The Duke of Brackenford.”
Olivia blinked. “But… he’s old enough to be your grandfather.”
“I know,” Jane whispered, her voice breaking. “But he has no heir. Only daughters. And I am the sacrificial lamb.”
Olivia leaned closer, voice hushed. “You can’t marry him. He’s dreadful. I’ve heard whispers—terrible ones. Some say he beat his last wife to death.”
Tears welled in Jane’s eyes. “What choice do I have? My father would disown me if I refused. I have no dowry left. No influence. Nothing.”
“There must be another way,” Olivia said, her mind racing.
“I’ve thought of everything. I truly have.” Jane’s voice cracked as she swiped at a tear. “And I keep coming back to the same truth that I have no options.”
Olivia sat back in her chair. “I won’t let you give up. There has to be a way.”
“It’s too late,” Jane said, her voice flat. “The banns have already been posted. I marry him in three weeks.”
“You can always say no.”
“And do what?” Jane snapped, her grief bleeding into frustration. “Starve in the gutter? I have no fortune. No relatives who would take me in.”
Olivia paused, then offered quietly, “What if you became my companion?”
Jane looked appalled. “I’m the daughter of an earl. I can’t take a position. It would be… degrading.”
“More degrading than being forced into marriage with a man three times your age who has buried four wives already?”
Jane considered that, lips trembling. “I would be a duchess, and our marriage contract is rather generous to me, should I outlive him. Which shouldn’t be hard, considering he’s a thousand years old.”
Olivia’s laughter slipped out despite herself. “He’s not quite a thousand. I believe he’s only eighty.”
“Is there a difference?” Jane asked.
“Perhaps to some,” Olivia replied with a half-smile. “But I daresay he appears ancient to you since you only recently turned one and twenty years old.”
Jane’s face crumpled. “What am I to do?”
Olivia reached for her hand. “You cannot marry him, Jane. The price is too steep. You deserve more than to be bartered away.”
“My family believes this to be an advantageous marriage. I would benefit my whole family.”
“At what cost?”
Jane tipped her head back, staring up at the painted ceiling. “Even if I ran away, no one would come after me. I’d be truly alone.”
“You’re not alone. You have me.”
Jane offered a weak smile. “Thank you. But I fear I must do my duty.”
“Even if it destroys your future?”
“Do I even have one without this match?” Jane whispered.
Before Olivia could answer, a shadow fell over their table.
“Jane,” barked a stern voice. Olivia looked up to see Lord Barkley—Jane’s older brother—bearing down on them with his usual disapproval. “Why is your maid loitering outside?”
Jane stood quickly. “I needed a moment alone.”
The viscount’s cold gaze slid towards Olivia. “Lady Westmere.” He inclined his head without warmth. “If I may suggest, you should cease encouraging my sister.”
“And why is that, my lord?” Olivia asked, meeting his stare.
“Your reputation…” He let the words dangle meaningfully. “I don’t believe I need to say it. But you know it, and I know it.”
Jane bristled, stepping closer to Olivia. “Lady Westmere is my friend.”
“Then you would do well to choose better friends,” Barkley said curtly. “Now, we must be going.”
“I wanted to check out these books,” Jane said, gesturing feebly to the stack.
“Leave them. We have books at home.” He extended his arm. “Come. We have matters to arrange for your wedding.”
Jane’s shoulders sagged in defeat. “Very well.”
Olivia watched helplessly as Jane was led away, her steps reluctant, her face pale. She wanted to call out, to defy Lord Barkley on her friend’s behalf, but knew it would do no good. Jane had always done her duty—even when it cost her dearly.
And now, it seemed, she was going to do it again.
“Poor Lady Jane.”
The voice, soft yet distinct, broke through the silence.
Olivia turned and saw Miss Winslow, standing a few paces away, her posture relaxed but her blue eyes holding an unfamiliar shade of earnestness.
There was no coyness in her expression, no trace of the usual drawing room flirtation Olivia had come to associate with her. Just quiet compassion.
“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation,” Miss Winslow added, stepping forward. She showed not even a flicker of embarrassment for the admission. “It’s terrible what they’re doing to her. Forcing her to marry that man. The Duke of Brackenford, of all people.”
Olivia stiffened instinctively. She had no idea how much Miss Winslow had overheard, and while she doubted Jane’s brother had the imagination to send someone to spy on them, she still felt a cautious curl of unease rise in her chest.
She offered a thin, noncommittal smile. “Yes, well… it is what it is, I’m afraid.”
A glint of frustration flickered in Miss Winslow’s eyes. She tucked a loose blonde curl behind her ear with practiced elegance, though her voice remained genuine. “I wish there were something we could do to help her.”
Olivia drew in a quiet breath. So do I. But instead, she said carefully, “I’m afraid that as women, our positions are… limited.”
“Do you truly believe that?” Miss Winslow asked, her tone somewhere between challenge and curiosity.
No, she didn’t believe that. Not really. But saying so aloud—especially to someone she barely knew—felt like opening a door she wasn’t quite ready to walk through.
“I don’t know what I believe,” she said at last. It was not a lie. Merely the edge of the truth.
Miss Winslow placed a hand on her hip, her chin lifting just slightly. “All women have to do is remain silent, and our critics win. That’s how they’ve always kept us small—by convincing us we have no voice. No power.”
Olivia blinked, startled. She had never known Miss Winslow to speak so forcefully on any subject that didn’t involve dresses, dances, or which gentleman had the finest horses. And yet here she was—animated, impassioned, and surprisingly incisive.
“Everyone knows the rumors about the Duke of Brackenford,” Miss Winslow continued, stepping closer and lowering her voice. “He is not a good man. He wasn’t a good husband, either.”
“But what can we do?”
Miss Winslow bit her lower lip, thoughtful. “If we put our heads together, surely we can think of something.”
“And if we can’t?”
Miss Winslow didn’t flinch. “After everything you’ve been through, Lady Westmere… do you not believe it’s possible to do the impossible?”