Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

T he sun hung low in the autumn sky, casting a golden hue over the rolling expanse of the Duke of Wells’s estate. The faint rustle of leaves was the only sound that accompanied Evan and his friend Jonathan as they made their way across the hunting grounds. The dogs ran ahead, noses to the ground, their movements eager and tireless.

Jonathan, adjusting his rifle, broke the quiet. “So, Evan, how fares your new Duchess? Has she settled into her new role?”

Evan’s expression remained inscrutable as he kept his gaze fixed ahead. “It would seem so. She has voiced no grievances, at any rate.”

“No grievances?” Jonathan raised a brow. “That is not quite the same as contentment. Have you discussed your plans for the season? Balls, dinners, the endless parade of society’s gaieties?”

Evan gave a slight shrug, his tone indifferent. “Once the season is in full swing, I am certain we shall make the requisite appearances. It is expected, after all.”

“And you believe she will be amenable to this?”

Evan glanced briefly at his friend before replying with a casual air. “I imagine she will. She has given me no reason to think otherwise.”

Jonathan stopped walking, turning to face him. “Evan, you have been married for a week. How much time have you truly spent in conversation with your wife?”

Evan sighed, his stride unbroken. “Precious little, I will admit. She has kept to herself, with Mrs. Havisham aiding her in the transition. I have no desire to meddle. This is precisely as I envisioned it would be.”

“As you envisioned it with Ophelia,” Jonathan remarked, his voice carrying a note of reproach. “But Emma did not plan for this. It must be exceedingly difficult for her.”

Evan’s tone grew sharper. “She has every comfort one could desire—quarters more luxurious than any she has known, a vast estate at her disposal, frequent visits to her sister, and her maid ever by her side. She is well supported.”

Jonathan sighed heavily, shaking his head. “And yet support is not always what one requires. Companionship, perhaps?”

Evan, dismissive, waved off the notion. “She lacks for nothing.”

A silence lingered between them before Jonathan, more cautiously, ventured, “Is the red-haired woman I have seen about the grounds her maid?”

“She is,” Evan confirmed, his lips curling slightly. “Brigitte, I believe. Why, Jonathan, has she caught your eye?”

Jonathan flushed, the color creeping into his cheeks. “Not in the way you think. I cannot help but notice her, mostly because she pays me no mind while your maids have a habit of starting and giggling incessantly.”

Evan barked a laugh. “Poor Jonathan. Not happy when beset by admiration and also not happy when ignored! What a plight for a man of your stature.”

Jonathan groaned. “Enough of your teasing. Let us turn the discussion to something more worthwhile. How fares your courtship, or lack thereof?”

Evan smirked. “My courtship of Lady Esther has come to its inevitable conclusion. She is a pleasant enough woman, but the depth of her interests does not extend beyond embroidery and watercolors.”

Jonathan chuckled. “A perfect embodiment of society’s virtues. Women are taught such pursuits will endear them to men, yet they grow tedious for all involved.”

Before the conversation could continue, Evan’s gaze sharpened, fixed on a stag emerging from the brush. Without a word, he raised his rifle, took aim, and fired. The crack of the shot echoed across the grounds, and the stag fell. The hounds barked excitedly as the two men approached their prize.

“Well done,” Jonathan said with genuine admiration.

“A fine shot, if I may say so myself,” Evan replied with a grin. “You must stay for dinner, Jonathan. We shall feast well tonight.”

“And what of your Duchess?” Jonathan asked, his tone light with mischief.

Evan shrugged, his expression unreadable. “We do not dine together. But rest assured, I shall see that a portion is reserved for her. She will dine well enough.”

Jonathan shook his head, muttering under his breath, but let the matter rest.

As they returned to the manor, their laughter faded as Evan caught sight of a familiar carriage pulling into the drive. He recognized it at once as his wife’s, returning from her visit to her sister. He paused, watching her alight from the carriage. She moved with grace, yet her steps were tentative, as though unsure of her place.

For a fleeting moment, a pang of guilt gnawed at him. He had scarcely spoken to her since their marriage, content to leave her to her own devices. Yet as quickly as the guilt arose, it was replaced by the stubborn resentment he harbored—a resentment born not of Emma herself but of the disruption she represented to the life he had so carefully planned with Ophelia.

Still, he could not entirely ignore the sight of her, wandering the halls of his home as though she were an interloper. She looked so very... lost.

Evan exhaled sharply, shaking the thought from his mind. He had done what he could, entrusting Mrs. Havisham with the task of easing her transition. That would suffice. There was no need for more.

And yet, as he entered the manor, the vision of her lingered in his thoughts, unsettling him in ways he could not, or perhaps would not, acknowledge.

The air in Hyde Park was crisp, the sun casting its golden rays over the paths and lawns where fashionable Londoners strolled. Evan walked with measured steps, his gaze fixed ahead as he observed a tall, slender woman in the distance. Her black hair shimmered under the sunlight, two children darting playfully at her side. Something about her stirred an old ache in his chest, but before he could dwell on it, he spotted a more familiar figure: Ophelia, accompanied by her maid Jean.

Raising a hand in greeting, he called out to her. She returned the gesture, her smile faint yet warm as she approached.

“Evan,” she said softly, “it is good to see you.”

“And you,” he replied, his tone sincere. “At last, we are able to meet. I have tried to call on you several times, but it seems your parents are determined to thwart me.”

Ophelia’s expression darkened slightly. “They will not allow it. They are furious with me, Evan. They know everything—about Massimo, about our plans. Now they parade one dreadful suitor after another before me, hoping I will comply with their wishes.”

His brows knit in concern. “And what of these suitors? Is there one among them you can tolerate?”

“No,” she said firmly. “They are all wrong—too old, too dull, too utterly unsuited to me. Even if they were my age and shared my interests, I would want none of them. There is only one person I desire, and he is gone.”

Evan’s chest tightened at the sadness in her voice. “Ophelia, I am deeply sorry. None of this should have come to pass. If only Lady Emma had not?—”

To his surprise, she cut him off. “Do not, Evan.”

He blinked, startled. “What? Surely you hold her accountable?—”

“She is not blameless,” Ophelia interrupted, her voice tinged with sorrow. “But I have had time to think. Emma was my friend once—my dearest friend. I know her heart. She would never have done this if she had known the truth of it all.”

“Your friend?” Evan echoed, astonished.

Ophelia nodded, a wistful smile playing on her lips. “We were as close as sisters once, until my parents intervened. They disapproved of her father’s character and forbade me from continuing the friendship. If not for their meddling, Emma would have known of Massimo, of our plans. She might have even helped us. She acted out of care for me, misguided as it was.”

Evan’s disbelief softened into curiosity. “You speak so warmly of her now, yet I know there was an argument between you.”

“There was,” Ophelia admitted, lowering her gaze. “I said things to her that I deeply regret. I was angry, and she was the most obvious target for my frustration. But I see now that she acted with the best of intentions. She has suffered so much, Evan—losing her mother, living with her father’s cruelty. She deserves happiness.”

“She is certainly entitled to something better than being shackled to a rake like me,” Evan quipped, a sardonic smile curving his lips.

Ophelia shook her head, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “We both know that is not who you are anymore.”

“Is it not?” he asked dryly. “That is how society sees me.”

“Because you want them to,” Ophelia replied.

She was right, of course. For years, he had indulged in the libertine life, frequenting salons and bedrooms alike. In part, he had wanted to challenge his father’s ridged rule, especially after his mother’s untimely death. Another part had been his genuine desire for distraction for affection, even if it was not real and would not last. A night spent in the warm bed of a lady who truly desired his company had been worth his father’s wrath the following day.

But the dukedom had changed him. His pursuits had grown more restrained, and while he had in the past been glad to spend his time jumping of bedchamber to bedchamber, such pursuits had frown rate. However, he had ensured that his reputation remained intact. Even Jonathan, his closest friend, remained unaware of the extent of his transformation. Only Ophelia truly knee – and she knew his reasons for keeping the image of the rakish duke up.

Ophelia’s voice drew him back. “Perhaps this marriage is a blessing in disguise.”

He frowned. “How so?”

“Emma is superb, perhaps what started as fake can become real,” she began, but he held up a hand to stop her.

“No,” he said firmly. “That is a road I cannot take.”

Ophelia sighed, studying him intently. “Evan, I know you fear becoming your father. But you are not him. You could find happiness with Emma if you allowed yourself to try.”

He shook his head, memories of his childhood flashing unbidden through his mind. The shouting, the slaps, his mother’s cries of pain and humiliation—all of it lingered like a shadow over his soul. “I will not risk it. The only way to avoid his mistakes is to avoid a true marriage altogether.”

“Evan—”

“The less Emma knows of me, the better,” he said, his tone final. “And the same goes for you. Perhaps you should focus on repairing what remains of your friendship with her.”

Ophelia hesitated. “I do not know if she would forgive me for the things I said.”

“You won’t know unless you try,” he countered. “I think you would find it worthwhile. You are unhappy, Ophelia, and I imagine having your friend back could do you some good.”

Before she could respond, a carriage arrived, and her expression shifted to one of resignation. “My mother has come for me. I must go.”

As she turned to leave, Evan called after her. “The orphanage. That is where you will find her.”

Ophelia nodded, a faint smile on her lips as she departed.