Chapter 11 #3
“She said her father would disown her if she refused. If that happens, could she stay with us?”
“If that’s what you want, then yes. She’s welcome.”
They reached the dining room, and Evander pulled out her chair with a practiced hand. Once she was seated, he took his usual place across from her.
Olivia laid her napkin across her lap. “I spoke with Miss Winslow today as well. She’s connected to Mr. Fairchild.”
“The man who writes for The Morning Post?”
“Yes. And he owes her a favor. She’s going to have him publish an article about Jane’s engagement.”
Evander took a sip from his wine glass. “Do you think that will help?”
“It might. If Society disapproves, it could pressure the duke to withdraw his offer of marriage.”
He arched a brow. “That’s quite the gamble.”
She sighed dramatically. “Must you always be a naysayer?”
He grinned. “My apologies. I think your plan is brilliant and will no doubt save Lady Jane from a terrible fate.”
“That’s better,” Olivia said, visibly pleased. “Now, what did Lord Warwicke wish to discuss?”
Evander paused. He had always been honest with Olivia, but this was different. He wasn’t sure how she would take it.
She lifted a brow. “I know what you are trying to do. You’re trying to protect me from something, aren’t you?”
He gave a small, helpless smile. “How do you always know?”
“Because I know you, Evander,” she said. “Tell me.”
How he wished he could tell her the truth—that he was in love with her.
That every moment spent in her company left him wanting more, craving something just beyond reach.
He had loved her for years, quietly, faithfully, completely.
But he knew Olivia wasn’t ready for that kind of truth. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
And so, he locked it away behind a practiced expression and steadied his breath.
Taking a deep breath, Evander said, “Warwicke believes my brother was murdered. Over the indigo plantation.”
Olivia stiffened, the color draining from her face. “Murdered?”
He nodded grimly. “Yes. And he fears I might be next, considering I’ve already been threatened… and shot at.”
She gasped, her chair scraping slightly against the floor as she jolted upright. “What?! You were shot at? When did this happen?”
“Right after the funeral,” he admitted reluctantly. “But—”
“You should have told me that!” she cut in, her voice sharp with alarm.
“I didn’t want to concern you.”
Her eyes flashed as she leaned forward across the table. “So you didn’t say anything at all? That was your solution?”
He gave a small, sheepish smile. “Not my finest plan, no.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Olivia said firmly, reaching across the table to grasp his hand. “I don’t know what I would do if I lost you.”
A soft ache stirred in his chest. “You’d be fine.”
She squeezed his hand. “No. I wouldn’t. You are my best friend.”
Friend.
There it was again—that word. So simple, so devastating.
It wrapped around his heart like a ribbon made of thorns.
Would she ever see him as anything more?
Did she even realize what it cost him every time she said it?
He looked down at their joined hands, then up at her face, memorizing the concern in her eyes, the earnest curve of her brow, the way her lips trembled slightly when she was upset.
Moments later, the footmen stepped in with perfect timing, placing steaming bowls of soup before them. Olivia reluctantly withdrew her hand and leaned back in her chair, her gaze still lingering on him with worry.
“What are we going to do?” she asked.
Evander lifted his spoon but didn’t touch the soup. “We are going to do nothing, but I have to convince my father to sell the plantation. But it won’t be easy. He believes this indigo land is the answer to everything and it will keep the estate afloat for decades to come.”
“And if he’s wrong?” Olivia asked, her brow furrowed.
Evander didn’t respond right away. He stared into the bowl as if the swirling broth might yield a solution. “Then we might all lose far more than coin.”
Olivia picked up her spoon and took a small sip before placing it back down. “Have you contacted the constable about the threats?”
“No,” he admitted. “But Warwicke is looking into it for me.”
She tilted her head. “Wasn’t he a Bow Street Runner once?”
Evander finally allowed himself a smile. “He was. And I suspect he never quite stopped.”
“Well, lucky for you,” she said with a forced lightness, though the tightness in her voice betrayed her lingering fear. She looked down at her soup and shook her head. “I must admit, I’ve lost my appetite. It’s hard to eat when knowing that someone tried to shoot you.”
He reached out, brushing his fingers briefly over hers again—just enough to feel the spark, to remember it was real. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“You didn’t mean to,” she echoed, meeting his gaze. “But you did.”
Evander looked at her across the candlelit table, her expression clouded with worry, and knew that this—this—was why he hadn’t told her earlier. Because it wasn’t just about the danger. It was about what came after. What truths might spill out if he gave himself permission to break.
But he wasn’t ready for that either.
Not yet.