Chapter 29

CHAPTER 29

T he morning sunlight streamed softly through the lace curtains of the drawing room, its golden rays casting intricate patterns upon the polished wooden floor. Emma sat with Brigitte near the window, a porcelain teacup poised delicately in her hand. She had just finished recounting the prior evening's events when the butler entered, his steps measured and his demeanor as precise as always.

“Your Grace, Lord Weston has called and seeks an audience with His Grace,” he announced, his tone appropriately grave.

Emma sighed, glancing toward Brigitte, who quickly raised a hand to smooth a stray curl back into place. Her maid’s sudden flush did not escape her notice.

“Inform Lord Weston that I shall receive him first. His Grace is resting,” Emma instructed. She had checked on Evan earlier; the laudanum administered the night before for his pain had ensured he remained abed.

The butler bowed and retreated. A moment later, Lord Weston entered the room, his tall frame silhouetted against the doorway. His appearance was immaculate, as always—his finely tailored coat and polished boots the mark of a gentleman of his station—but concern etched itself into his otherwise commanding countenance.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” he greeted, bowing with practiced elegance. His gaze shifted then, alighting upon Brigitte, who rose swiftly to her feet and curtsied.

Emma observed the subtle interplay with keen interest. Jonathan's usual air of confidence faltered ever so slightly, replaced by a gentler expression. Brigitte, normally poised and composed, blushed a vivid crimson under his gaze, her fingers fidgeting nervously with the hem of her apron. The unspoken exchange was fleeting but unmistakable.

Hiding her amusement, Emma took a sip of tea, the rim of her cup concealing her smile. It seemed her maid had taken a shine to the dashing marquess, and judging by Jonathan’s lingering look, the sentiment was far from unrequited.

“Pray excuse me, Your Grace,” Brigitte murmured, her voice tinged with uncharacteristic shyness. She curtsied again and departed with hurried, light steps.

Jonathan's gaze lingered on the door through which she had exited before he straightened, clearing his throat and turning back to Emma.

“You are early, Lord Weston,” Emma said, setting her teacup down upon its saucer.

“I trust I do not intrude,” he replied, seating himself opposite her. “I came to inquire after His Grace. Is he—” He hesitated, glancing toward the hallway as though half expecting Evan to appear. “Is he well?”

“He is resting,” Emma replied carefully. “I tended to his injuries, though I doubt he will remain in bed as long as he ought. You know his obstinate nature.”

Jonathan chuckled softly, though his laughter lacked its usual ease. “Indeed, I do.”

“Lord Weston, pray what happened? My husband refuses to tell me just what occurred and how he found himself in this argument. You were there. Please, tell me.” Emma studied him, noting the tension in his posture, the way his hands clasped tightly in his lap.

He hesitated, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I... I am uncertain whether I should speak of it. He trailed off, running a hand through his meticulously groomed hair.

Emma's curiosity sharpened. “Lord Weston, if you possess knowledge that concerns me—or His Grace—I entreat you to speak plainly.”

He sighed heavily, his reluctance plain. “Very well,” he said, his voice low. “But understand, Your Grace, that I do not mean to cause you pain. Were it not important, I would not bring it to your attention.”

Emma’s breath quickened, her grip on the arm of her chair tightening. “Proceed,” she said, bracing herself.

Jonathan leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering further. “Lord Wren said something rather uncouth about…you. It incensed Evan to the point of escalating into a fight.”

Her breath caught. The heat of indignation rose to her cheeks, but she remained composed, her voice steady. “And what precisely did this man say?”

“It is not worth repeating,” Jonathan said grimly, “but it was vile and wholly untrue. Evan confronted him, and matters quickly escalated.”

Emma closed her eyes briefly. “Evan struck him, then,” she surmised.

Jonathan nodded. “He could not abide the man’s words, nor the insult they carried. I attempted to intercede, but...” He spread his hands helplessly. “You know your husband’s temper. He was incensed. Not merely angry—enraged. He declared that no one would besmirch your name while he drew breath.”

The weight of Jonathan's words settled over her. She recalled Evan’s pained expression the night before, the fire in his eyes that spoke of raw emotion. That he would defend her so fiercely—it humbled and unsettled her in equal measure.

“Why did he not tell me?” she asked softly, almost to herself.

Jonathan offered a faint, rueful smile. “Because that is Evan, Your Grace. He would shoulder any burden if it spared you even a moment's distress. He does not keep secrets out of malice but because he cares. In addition, he fears his own temper as it reminds of him -” He shook his head. “That part you must discuss with him. But there are things in his past that make it hard for him to be the man I know he could be, that he ought to be.”

Her heart ached at his words. She recalled Mrs. Havisham’s words, hinting at something else that had remained shrouded in darkness. Secrets and topics never discussed. Where these events related?

“Thank you, Lord Weston,” she said after a moment, her voice steady though her emotions churned beneath the surface.

Jonathan inclined his head. “I thought you deserved to know. Evan may be as stubborn as a mule, but his intentions are never in question.”

Emma nodded, though her mind was elsewhere, replaying the moment in the drawing room when she had tended to Evan’s wounds. His vulnerability, his unspoken care—it was all there, plain as day, if only she had been ready to see it.

Jonathan rose, sensing the conversation had reached its end. “If you have need of anything, Your Grace—anything at all—you know where to find me.”

“Thank you, Lord Weston,” she said, rising as well. His eyes briefly flickered toward the door Brigitte had exited earlier, and Emma caught the faintest glimmer of longing in his expression before he departed.

Once alone, Emma sank back into her chair, her thoughts a tangle of emotions. She had tried so hard to suppress her feelings, to bury them beneath the weight of propriety. But now, with Jonathan's revelations, she found herself unable to deny the truth any longer.

Evan had defended her not out of duty, but out of love. And her heart, no matter how she had tried to guard it, could no longer resist its pull toward him.