Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

Evan

T he evening was cool as Evan rode through the winding paths toward Doncaster House, the moon casting a faint silver glow on the road before him. Typically, he enjoyed his solitary nighttime rides; but tonight, his mind was restless, churning over the events of the day. Lady Emma had come to him—bold, determined yet desperate. And yet, there was something about the way she’d presented herself, an undeniable vulnerability that had lingered long after she’d left.

As he dismounted, one of the footmen hurried forward, bowing respectfully. “Good evening, Your Grace.”

“Is Lord Weston within?” Evan asked briskly, his tone reflecting his unease. The footman nodded, disappearing inside to announce him.

Moments later, the grand doors of the house opened, and Evan was led through to the parlor, where his old friend Jonathan rose from his seat by the fire, his eyebrows lifted in amusement. “Evan,” he greeted, smiling. “To what do I owe the honor of such a late visit?”

Evan managed a half-smile and accepted Jonathan’s offer to sit. “I come with rather surprising news,” he began, taking a seat across from Jonathan, who raised an eyebrow in response.

Jonathan moved to pour them each a glass of brandy, carefully measuring out an ounce, then a half more, into each glass. He handed one to Evan, who took it with a nod, feeling the weight of the glass cold and reassuring in his palm. The rich, heady scent of the brandy filled the air between them, mingling with the soft crackle of the fire. It would have been soothing if his news were not so pressing it caused him to not even notice.

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” Jonathan urged, raising his glass. “What news could possibly bring the Duke of Wells out at this hour?”

Evan let out a short, humorless laugh, staring into his glass as if it held some answer. “Lady Emma arrived at my home this afternoon,” he said finally, the words heavy on his tongue, “and offered herself as my wife.”

Jonathan nearly choked on his drink. He set down his glass, laughing in disbelief. “What! I thought you had forgotten all about that foolish scheme. Didn’t you say as much last week?”

“I never forgot,” Evan replied dryly, swirling the brandy in his glass. “Merely… postponed. Though I hadn’t yet made up my mind, as I’ve had other concerns occupying my attention, including Ophelia’s predicament. The poor girl has scarcely been seen. I had hoped there might be some other way to offer her aid. I was occupied mostly with this matter as well as the rumors about my own person, thanks to Lady Emma’s actions.”

Jonathan nodded, his eyes sympathetic. “Ophelia is a good soul, and you have been a friend to her. But tell me,” he added, leaning back with a smirk, “how did Lady Emma come to your doorstep so brazenly?”

Evan’s gaze hardened. “She has… all but ruined herself, apparently. It seems the gossip surrounding her and Ophelia has left her no choice but to repair her reputation through marriage.”

“Marriage to you, that is,” Jonathan said with a wry grin. “Could you not have helped her without shackling yourself to her? Perhaps you might explain it all as some misunderstanding to appease the wagging tongues?”

Evan’s jaw clenched, his annoyance flaring. “It was no mere misunderstanding, Jonathan. She wrote the letter that tore apart my plans, cost Ophelia her peace, and cast shadows over her own reputation as well as mine. Even if I wished, I could do nothing short of marriage to help her.” He paused, his voice edged with frustration. “I admit she’s brought herself down in the process, but does that earn her my pity?”

Jonathan’s eyes softened, though he did not yield to Evan’s hardened demeanor. “Perhaps not, but it strikes me as tragic nonetheless. Lady Emma’s only sin may have been a tendency to meddling, yes, but hardly malicious. She is—what, barely past twenty? She may deserve our forgiveness more than our scorn. And besides,” he added, lifting his glass with a chuckle, “you’ve always disliked people meddling in others’ lives, yet here you are preparing to marry her thus meddling in hers. How is that, I wonder?”

Evan could not help but smile, albeit bitterly. “The marriage serves my needs as much as it repairs her errors. Once the banns are read, society will turn its interest elsewhere. It may not just help the two of us but Ophelia. We will present it as a love story between myself and Emma into which Ophelia was unfortunately tangled up.”

“You do realize,” Jonathan said with a trace of warning, “that a marriage of convenience may not be so… convenient after all. From what I gather, Lady Emma is not one to surrender quietly to her fate. You may find yourself yoked to a woman who resents you, and resentment has a way of making life most unpleasant.”

Evan shook his head, trying to dispel his own lingering doubts. “Resentment or no, she will do her duty, as shall I. Once the arrangements are finalized and Ophelia’s circumstances settle, I will no longer harbor these grievances. I’ve felt a… peculiar kindness toward her, despite it all.”

Jonathan raised his brows in surprise. “Kindness, Evan? Toward the woman who caused you and Ophelia such distress?”

Evan stiffened, irritated with himself for the admission. “She was rather miserable, it was easy to tell. Anyhow, I should say no more,” he muttered, looking away. The warmth of the brandy seared down his throat as he swallowed it in one swift gulp, the heat coursing through him as he tried to shake the image of Lady Emma’s face from his mind. Her pale, tense features, the way her hands had trembled slightly as she wrung them in her lap—he had found himself feeling, inexplicably, a stirring of sympathy, even a flicker of admiration.

Jonathan observed him for a moment before nodding slowly, his expression thoughtful. “Very well, if this is truly what you wish, I shall support you. I will stand beside you at the church, as your friend.”

Evan allowed himself a faint smile. “Thank you, Jonathan. I appreciate it.”

They exchanged their farewells, and as Evan rose to depart, he glanced at his friend one last time, feeling oddly grateful for Jonathan’s steady, unwavering support.

The night air was cooler as he mounted his horse and began the ride home. A mist was beginning to settle over the road, the silver light of the moon shrouded in a haze. As he rode, his thoughts drifted once again to Lady Emma, her face appearing in his mind unbidden. He could see her expression so vividly—her eyes shimmering, caught between defiance and despair, a slight quiver in her lip as if she were on the brink of tears.

Why should he feel any sympathy for her? Why should he allow this peculiar ache to settle within him, a pang of guilt that he was somehow responsible for her plight? She was the one who’d acted rashly, who’d meddled in affairs that did not concern her. And yet… her remorse had been painfully evident, her regret seeping through every word, every sigh.

Evan gripped the reins tighter, frustration building in his chest. He had promised himself long ago that he would never be swayed by sentiment, never allow himself to be entrapped by romantic delusions. Marriage to Lady Emma would be a matter of duty and convenience, nothing more. He would not—could not—offer her anything resembling love or affection.

But even as he resolved this within himself, he could not shake the image of her face from his mind. She was, after all, a young woman who, like so many others, had been forced to navigate the treacherous waters of society, its demands and expectations thrust upon her with little regard for her own wishes. Perhaps he was complicit in that injustice, binding her to a life that would offer neither joy nor warmth.

His jaw tightened, the cold air biting at his skin as he urged his horse onward, faster, as if he could escape the weight of his thoughts. He had made his decision, and so had she. They would enter into this arrangement for the sake of their reputations, for the stability of their lives, and that was all. Whatever sympathy or kindness lingered in his heart, he would bury it, lock it away where it could not trouble him.

And yet, as he finally reached his estate, dismounting beneath the shadowed expanse of the manor’s towering facade, a strange emptiness settled over him. For all his rationality, his careful planning, he could not deny a faint, nagging question that lay hidden beneath his resolve.

With Ophelia, he’d know what he was getting into. They had an arrangement. From the time they’d met at her father’s house to the time theirs engagement was announced, they had had almost five months to get to know one another. First they had spent time together in Venice for two months and then, they had written to one another several time – perfectly acceptable after they were betrothed.

He felt he knew her, they had come to agreements regarding their future from everything starting with living arrangements to the eventual need for an heir. Everything was set. Everything was clear. Now, the future was muddled.

He’d wanted security, safety which he would have had with Ophelia, now he’d have upheaval and uncertainty with Emma.

What if she decided she wanted more? How would he explain to her that he’d never in his life consent to a true match? A true marriage?

Memories of his childhood flashed before him, of his parents and their constant fights and arguments. His father’s violent outbursts and philandering ways which had hurt his mother so much. No, he’d never have a marriage like this. Never in a million years.

As he entered the silent halls of his manor, he dismissed the thought, reminding himself that he was a man of reason, of unwavering will. And yet, in the quiet of the night, as he climbed the stairs to his chamber, the image of Lady Emma’s face lingered still, her eyes bright with the shimmer of unshed tears, haunting him as he closed his door and prepared for the long, uncertain days to come.