Chapter 15
Evander sat in a dim corner of White’s, cradling a half-full glass of brandy between his hands as though its warmth might somehow steady him.
It was early—absurdly early for brandy, though the hour seemed to matter little.
He had left the townhouse before breakfast, unable to remain beneath the same roof as Olivia with his thoughts in such a disordered state.
He should be elated. She thinks she has feelings for me.
Her exact words echoed in his head, unrelenting, uncertain.
That single, maddening word—thinks—had lodged in his chest like a splinter.
He had spent most of the night lying awake, staring at the ceiling, resisting the overpowering urge to go to her room and tell her everything—that he had loved her for years, that he had never stopped, not for a moment.
But to do so might scare her off.
Botheration.
He needed patience. Steadiness. Strategy, even. But none of those qualities came easily when his heart insisted on galloping ahead of his good sense.
“Why do you look like death?”
The voice, dry and amused, came from his left. Evander turned his head to find Alcott standing there.
“Good morning,” Evander muttered, lifting his glass in a mock salute.
Alcott slid into the chair opposite him, stretching out his legs with insufferable ease. “Judging by your expression, I’d wager this is about your lovely wife.”
“It is.”
“Well, out with it, then,” Alcott said, folding his arms behind his head and giving Evander his full, expectant attention. “What did she do to cause you to look so utterly despondent?”
Evander hesitated, then sighed, knowing there was no point in pretending otherwise. “She told me last night that she thinks she has feelings for me.”
Alcott straightened slightly. “Well, that sounds like progress.”
“She thinks she does, Alcott. She’s not sure yet.” He leaned back, the chair creaking beneath him. “That uncertainty is eating me alive.”
“You’re too dramatic for a man in love,” Alcott quipped. “You should take that as a small victory and begin wooing her, assuming you want that.”
Evander gave him a flat look. “Of course I want that. I married her, didn’t I?”
Alcott’s smirk widened. “Plenty of people marry for convenience. You take one end of the house, and she takes the other. A polite nod in the morning, maybe a shared supper once a week. There’s a peacefulness in that arrangement.”
“That sounds wretched.”
“Perhaps,” Alcott conceded with a shrug. “But a wife brings a host of complications.”
Evander looked down into his glass, watching the amber liquid ripple. “I love my wife,” he stated.
Alcott let out a theatrical groan. “And there lies the problem.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice mock-conspiratorially. “Have you tried the usual methods? Flowers? Sweets? Grand declarations you don’t really mean?”
“I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep.”
“I suppose sincerity has its place,” Alcott said with a grin. “I wish you luck with that.”
Evander huffed a laugh despite himself. “So, what brings you to White’s at this ungodly hour?”
Alcott’s humor faded. “My sister. She’s being… difficult.”
Evander arched a brow. “What’s wrong with Charlotte?”
“She’s distraught over the engagement between the Duke of Brackenford and Lady Jane. She wants me to intercede.”
“Intercede how?”
Alcott gave a sigh of genuine exasperation. “Charlotte thinks I should marry Lady Jane. That somehow, it would solve everything.”
Evander stared at him in disbelief. “Are you even acquainted with her?”
“Yes. Our parents dragged us to all the same events growing up. I’m nearly seven years older, but I’ve known her for ages.”
“And? Do you object to her?”
Alcott lifted a hand. “Lady Jane is perfectly proper. Polished. Pleasant, even. But she’s unreadable. I never know what she’s truly thinking.”
“Olivia’s also troubled by the engagement. But marriage to a duke is a coveted match.”
“True,” Alcott said. “But this particular duke is a vindictive blackguard. I have no desire to provoke him, let alone bind myself to someone I barely know.”
Evander tilted his head. “If anyone could survive crossing the Duke of Brackenford and live to tell about it, it’s you.”
“I’m not afraid of him,” Alcott muttered. “But I have no wish to be shackled, either.”
“You’ll have to marry someday.”
Alcott shuddered. “Don’t remind me. I’d rather be back on the battlefield.”
Evander chuckled. “Your terror of matrimony never fails to amuse me.”
But just for a moment, something flickered in Alcott’s eyes—an old wound, perhaps. Pain buried beneath layers of sarcasm. And then it was gone.
Before Evander could question it, a third voice joined them.
“Gentlemen,” came Lord Wilton’s cheerful tone. He approached and dropped into the seat beside Alcott. “I saw your coaches outside and thought I’d stop in for a drink.”
He looked between the two of them, eyes sharp with curiosity, and continued. “What’s the topic this morning?”
“Marriage,” Alcott groaned.
Wilton grinned. “Ah. The one word that makes Alcott break into a cold sweat.”
“I do not sweat over it,” Alcott snapped. “I simply wish to avoid falling prey to the parson’s mousetrap.”
Wilton turned to Evander. “Do you share his views?”
Evander shook his head. “No. I’m… actually enjoying marriage, most of the time.”
“Then what’s troubling you?” Wilton asked.
Tightening his hold on the glass, Evander revealed, “Your sister told me she thinks she has feelings for me.”
A slow, broad smile spread across Wilton’s face. “That’s excellent news.”
Evander arched a brow. “Is it?”
“You’re making headway. In no time, you’ll be blissfully in love, surrounded by a horde of noisy children.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
Wilton met his gaze, his smile softening with sincerity. “It is simple. Just keep loving Olivia, and she’ll catch up.”
Evander didn’t answer at once. Instead, he simply stared at the swirl of brandy in his glass and tried desperately to believe him. He set his glass down on the table with a soft clink, the final sip of brandy still burning faintly in his throat. The warmth no longer helped. It never did for long.
Rising, he said, “I should return home. I don’t want to leave Olivia alone with my father for too long.”
Wilton leaned back with a casual air, though his gaze sharpened with interest. “How is she managing him?”
A brief, involuntary smile tugged at Evander’s mouth. “Surprisingly well. She holds her own with him. I don’t think he quite knows what to make of her. He’s used to being obeyed—or avoided—not challenged.”
“That is good,” Wilton said. “Considering your father can be…” His voice trailed off.
“A brute? A jackanapes?” Evander asked.
Wilton bobbed his head. “Those words describe him rather perfectly.”
Evander’s smile faded as he dropped his voice. “He refuses to sell the indigo plantation. Says doing so would spell the ruin of the estate.”
Alcott spoke up. “And what do you believe?”
Evander hesitated before answering. The question wasn’t a simple one.
“I believe there are other ways to keep the estate solvent. We could sell off unused land or trim our expenditures. The plantation is a liability, not just financially, but morally.” He exhaled slowly.
“But he won’t even consider it. To him, letting go of any part of the estate is akin to admitting defeat. ”
Alcott’s expression darkened. “My father was the same. Stubborn to the end. He’d have burned the house to the ground before yielding an inch of pride.”
Evander studied his friend’s face and noticed the subtle tension in his jaw, the flicker of something raw in his eyes. Without thinking, he sat again, and asked, “How have you been faring since he passed?”
Alcott looked away, his gaze drifting somewhere beyond the club walls, beyond the present moment.
“I ran from this life, you know. From all of it. But duty followed me to the battlefield. I thought I could lose myself in the war, become someone different. But General Wellington had other ideas. He forced my resignation when word came about my father’s dire health.
” His lips pressed into a tight line. “Now I’m back, tied to the very life I escaped.
But I can’t leave again. Charlotte depends on me. ”
A brief silence settled over them, broken only by the muffled sounds of the club beyond their secluded corner. Wilton’s voice came low, sincere. “I’m sorry. I know how much being a soldier meant to you.”
Alcott turned back to them, and for a moment, all his usual levity was stripped away.
“It was the first time I ever felt I had a purpose. Everything out there had weight. I had to earn the trust of my men—it wasn’t handed to me because of a title or birthright.
They only cared that I kept them alive.”
Evander watched as Alcott’s hands curled slightly on the arms of his chair. The pain wasn’t theatrical or self-pitying—it was real. Worn like old armor.
He knew that pain. The ache of trying to live a life different from the one written for you. The burden of duty.
“I understand,” Evander said.
A flicker of relief passed through Alcott’s eyes, raw and unguarded. “I know you do,” he said. “And I’m glad to know that I’m not alone.”
There was a weight in those words that settled between them like an unspoken oath.
Before the silence could stretch too long, Wilton cut in. “This is precisely why you need a wife.”
Alcott raised a skeptical brow. “And why is that?”
Wilton, undeterred, leaned back in his chair, his expression annoyingly self-satisfied. “A wife gives you purpose. A reason to wake up each morning. A reason to smile, to hope. Dosia has made me a better man.”
Evander couldn’t argue with that. He’d seen the change in Wilton—softened edges, sharper focus.
Alcott, however, gave a scoffing laugh. “I’ll pass.”
Wilton only grinned. “Your loss.”
Evander pushed back his chair and rose, smoothing his jacket. “On that note, I’ll take my leave. Good day, gentlemen.”