Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
Evan stormed through the front doors of White’s, the echo of his boots on the marble floor reverberating through the empty hall.
He barely acknowledged the patrons as he passed; their curious glances were of no consequence to him now.
His mind was consumed by what he had just done.
He needed to drown the storm in his chest, if only for a moment.
He called for a drink and downed it quickly before motioning the bartender to leave the bottle.
The brandy burned down his throat, but it wasn’t nearly enough to quell the turmoil inside him.
He set the glass down with more force than intended, the sharp clink against the tabletop reverberating in the silent room.
The dim midday sunlight filtered through the club’s tall windows, casting shadows over the polished mahogany table. After filling his glass again, he rolled his untouched glass of brandy between his fingers, watching the amber liquid swirl, but not really seeing it.
His mind was elsewhere—still caught in the memory of Minerva, of her lips pressed to his, and the raw, unguarded emotion he had felt in that fleeting moment. Guilt burned in his stomach, but his desire to kiss her again dared to compete for the stronger emotion.
Cedric settled into the chair across from him with a casual air, though his sharp eyes took in Evan’s haggard expression. “You look like hell,” Cedric remarked, his voice light but laced with genuine concern. “One would think you lost a fortune at cards.”
Evan let out a humorless laugh, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “Sometimes I think the latter is far more dangerous,” he said dryly. “And in this case, certainly more foolish.”
Cedric leaned forward, folding his arms over the table. “Ah, so it finally happened?” He arched an eyebrow, a small, knowing smile playing at his lips. “You have breached Fortress Bellington.”
Evan’s jaw tightened, and he ran a hand through his already disheveled hair.
“I did,” he admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper. “And I should not have. Everything my father ever said about me is true, Cedric. I am nothing but a bastard son of my mother’s lover, a man whose only legacy is acting on impulse and hurting the people I care about.”
The humor faded from Cedric’s expression, replaced by something far more serious.
“Evan,” he said quietly, “you are not your father, and you are not the man who raised you. Nor are you the sum of his sins.”
Evan’s heart twisted painfully at his friend’s words.
“Am I not?” he challenged, his voice rough.
“My mother sought love elsewhere because my father was a cruel and unloving man. She fell for a man who treated her kindly—her lover, my real father. And yet, even knowing that, I still grew up under my father’s shadow, hearing him call me a disgrace, a stain on his name. ”
He swallowed hard, the memories clawing at his insides. “He told me I was born of sin, that I would bring ruin to anyone foolish enough to care for me. And perhaps he was right. Look at me now—I kissed Minerva, and I have hurt her. She deserves better than the bastard son of a broken marriage.”
Cedric’s gaze was steady, unwavering. “And yet, you care for her,” he pointed out, his tone gentle but firm. “You care enough to sit here, brooding like a man who has lost everything. That does not sound like someone who is incapable of love or who takes nothing seriously.”
Evan’s hands tightened around his glass, his knuckles white.
“Caring for her is exactly the problem,” he said, his voice raw.
“I vowed never to marry, never to entangle another soul in the mess that is my life. I have seen what marriage can become—a prison, a breeding ground for bitterness and resentment. I cannot risk that. I cannot risk that for her.”
“But you are not your father,” Cedric insisted. “And Minerva is not your mother. You have the power to choose a different path.”
Evan’s throat felt tight, and he looked away, his gaze fixed on the swirling brandy. “Even if I wanted to believe that,” he said softly, “I cannot change who I am. I am still the son of a scandal. I do not deserve her.”
The table fell into a heavy silence, the noise of the club fading into the background. Cedric let out a sigh, his expression pained. “Evan, have you considered that perhaps it is not about deserving her? Love isn’t about worthiness. It is about what you’re willing to fight for.”
Evan’s heart twisted again, and he forced himself to meet his friend’s eyes. “And what if fighting for her only brings her more pain?” he whispered. “What if I am the very thing she needs to be protected from?”
Cedric’s eyes softened, and he reached across the table, placing a firm hand on Evan’s shoulder.
“Then you give her the choice, Evan. You are not your father, and you are not doomed to repeat his mistakes. But if you run from this, if you push her away without even trying, then you will become the man you fear most.”
Evan closed his eyes, memories of his past flashing before his eyes.
His mother’s whispered confessions, his father’s venomous accusations—they had shaped him, molded him into a man who believed he was incapable of love.
But now, with Minerva in his heart, he felt the fragile stirrings of something different. Something hopeful.
“Damn it, Cedric,” he murmured.
Cedric chuckled, though the sound was bittersweet. “It is a curse, I assure you,” he said.
He closed his eyes, willing himself to think of anything, anyone else. He tried to conjure the image of another woman, a faceless beauty he might have flirted with, someone whose attention he could have easily commanded, but his mind refused to cooperate.
Every flirtation, every smirk, every whispered innuendo he had ever used seemed dull and empty in comparison. Minerva’s face swam back to him, her eyes burning with equal parts fire and vulnerability.
“Damn it,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.
The ache in his chest felt as relentless as it was unwelcome.
He used to be able to compartmentalize, to shove down any unwanted emotions and bury himself in distraction.
But now, even the thought of trying to move on from her seemed impossible. Unbearable.
His restless gaze shifted to a nearby table where a group of gentlemen had gathered for a game of cards.
Their laughter rang out, the sound mingling with the clinking of glasses and the low hum of conversation.
The stakes were high, evident from the growing pile of coins and promissory notes in the center of the table.
It was the kind of reckless, all-consuming distraction he craved right now.
Without giving himself time to second-guess, Evan stood, striding over to the table. “Might I join you?” he asked, his voice carrying a confidence he didn’t feel. The players looked up, momentarily surprised, but then welcomed him with nods and gestures to take a seat.
Evan settled into the chair, his hands steady as he pulled out a generous stack of coins and set them down.
The dealer shuffled the deck, and the game began, the cards whispering through the air.
Evan’s jaw clenched as he placed his first bet, the familiar thrill of risk flooding through his veins.
It was dangerous, and he knew it. But right now, danger felt like the only thing that could match the storm inside him.
The first round passed, then the second, and with each bet, Evan pushed the stakes higher. The more he gambled, the more he wanted to lose himself entirely, to forget the guilt and longing that clawed at him.
“Evan.” A voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, calm but firm. Cedric had approached behind him, his expression serious as he took in the scene. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Evan’s eyes narrowed, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “Winning,” he drawled, though there was a brittle edge to his tone. He glanced at Cedric, but his friend’s face was lined with worry, and it was enough to break through some of the reckless haze clouding Evan’s mind.
“Really?” Cedric’s voice was low, but the weight of his disapproval was palpable. “Because it looks more like you’re trying to lose everything you have left.”
Evan set his cards down, his fingers drumming against the table. “And what if I am?” he challenged, the self-destructive impulse still gnawing at him. “What does it matter?”
Cedric stepped closer, his hand coming to rest on Evan’s shoulder with a grip that was both grounding and unyielding. “It matters because this isn’t you,” he said. “You’re not the man your father made you believe you are. And you’re not doing this for the right reasons.”
Evan’s throat tightened, the truth of Cedric’s words hitting him like a punch to the gut. He wanted to argue, to push back, but the concern in his friend’s eyes was undeniable. The other men at the table shifted uncomfortably, sensing the tension.
“Leave the game,” Cedric continued, his voice unwavering. “If you lose yourself now, you’ll regret it more than anything else.”
Evan’s gaze fell to the cards in his hand, the turmoil crashing over him.
A part of him wanted to keep going, to drown out the pain in recklessness.
But Cedric’s presence was a lifeline, one he hadn’t realized he desperately needed.
With a heavy sigh, he threw down his cards and pushed back from the table, the chair scraping against the floor.
“Very well,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You win.”
Cedric’s grip softened, relief flashing across his face. “Good,” he said, guiding Evan away from the table and toward a quieter corner of the club. “Because no amount of brandy or gambling will fix what’s eating away at you. Only you can do that.”
Evan let out a bitter laugh, running a hand over his face. “And how am I supposed to do that?” he asked, his voice cracking. “I kissed Minerva, and I hurt her. The one thing I swore never to do, and I did it.”
Cedric’s eyes softened, his own heart aching for his friend. “Then fix it,” he said quietly. “But you won’t find the answer at the bottom of a glass or in a deck of cards.”
Evan stumbled through the front door of his townhouse, the familiar space tilting slightly as he braced himself against the frame.
He let out a low curse, rubbing his temples as the room seemed to steady itself around him.
The midday light streamed in through the windows, far too bright for his liking, casting harsh beams over the marble floors and highlighting the disarray of his return.
He knew he was in no state to be out in society, yet he had done just that—walked straight into White’s, filled his veins with brandy, and nearly gambled away his sanity.
Now, back in the quiet, empty halls of his home, he couldn’t shake the gnawing sense of regret that clung to him like a heavy fog.
His butler, Harrison, appeared in the entryway, his usual composed expression slipping ever so slightly as he took in his master’s disheveled state. “Your Grace,” he said, his voice carefully neutral, though concern flickered in his eyes. “Shall I fetch you some water?”
Evan waved a dismissive hand, but the motion made him wince. “No, Harrison. Just—” He trailed off, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Actually, yes. Water. And perhaps a damp cloth.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” Harrison bowed slightly before retreating, leaving Evan to stagger toward the sitting room, where he all but collapsed into a leather armchair. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands.
The silence of the room pressed against his skull, and he let out a shuddering breath.
How had he let himself come to this? Running away from his feelings like the coward he had sworn he’d never be.
He could still feel the ghost of Minerva’s lips on his, a touch so brief and yet so searing that it had shattered whatever defenses he had left.
Moments later, Harrison returned with a glass of water and a cool cloth, which Evan accepted with a muttered thanks.
The cold water did little to ease the burning guilt in his chest, but it brought a measure of clarity to his muddled mind.
He pressed the damp cloth against his forehead, leaning back in the chair as he tried to focus on anything other than his roiling emotions.
Harrison cleared his throat, drawing Evan’s attention. “A letter arrived for you earlier, Your Grace,” he said, holding out a pristine envelope on a silver tray. “From Lady Chastity.”
Evan’s hand paused mid-motion, the cloth slipping from his fingers and landing on his lap. He stared at the envelope as if it were a snake poised to strike, his heartbeat thudding painfully in his chest. Minerva’s sister. A connection to her, even now, when he had resolved to keep his distance.
He reached out, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as he took the envelope. The elegant handwriting on the front confirmed it was indeed from Chastity. Breaking the seal, he unfolded the letter and scanned the contents.
Chastity and Wellford were to host an engagement ball, a grand celebration of their love for all the ton to see.
And, to his surprise, he was invited. He could practically hear Minerva’s voice echoing in his head, scolding him for being reckless, for playing the part of the rake he had always claimed to be.
Evan’s jaw tightened, the letter crumpling slightly in his grip.
An invitation to the very event where he would have to face Minerva again.
Where he would have to watch her pretend that she had moved on, that his kiss had meant nothing to her, just as he was supposed to pretend it had meant nothing to him.
He set the letter down on the table beside him, his mind racing. Part of him wanted to tear it up, to shut himself away and never think about her again. But another part, the part that had led him to that kiss in the first place, yearned to see her. To make sure she was all right.
Harrison, still hovering nearby, studied Evan’s expression with polite curiosity. “Will you be attending, Your Grace?” he asked cautiously.
Evan let out a shaky breath, his decision wavering. “I don’t know,” he admitted, the words thick with uncertainty. “I am not sure if I can.”
Harrison bowed and left him alone once more, the letter lying on the table like a challenge he didn’t know if he was strong enough to face.