Chapter 30

CHAPTER 30

Evan

T hat afternoon, Evan stirred from his restless slumber, the lingering effects of the laudanum ebbing away but leaving a dull, persistent ache in their place. He sat on the edge of his bed, the silence of his chamber pressing heavily upon him. His head was crowded with thoughts he could neither suppress nor confront. At last, with a resigned sigh, he rose and began to dress, choosing to forgo the assistance of his valet. The ritual was mechanical, his hands moving with a precision that betrayed long-standing habit rather than intent.

Once dressed, he descended the grand staircase, each step slow and deliberate. The sound of his boots against the polished wood echoed faintly in the stillness of the house. The faint murmur of activity from the servants’ quarters drifted up to meet him, a muted reminder of the life that carried on beneath his own turmoil. As he neared the landing, his gaze was inevitably drawn to the large portrait that dominated the wall—a depiction of his mother in her finest, seated in a rosewood chair, her expression one of serene authority.

He paused before it, his hand resting lightly on the banister, and stared up at her. The ache in his chest deepened as he took in the fine details of the painting: the knowing curve of her lips, the spark of intelligence in her eyes. She had been the linchpin of his youth, the voice of reason when his emotions threatened to overwhelm him. Her absence now was a void he had never truly learned to navigate.

“Mother,” he murmured, his voice low, almost as if fearing to break the stillness. He shook his head, allowing a rueful smile to form. “What would you think of all this?”

The question was rhetorical, and yet, for a moment, he imagined her response. Her words would have been direct, unflinching—perhaps harsh—but always born of love. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Would you have liked her?” he asked, his tone quieter now. “Emma?”

The image formed unbidden in his mind: his mother and Emma, seated together in the drawing room. Would they have found common ground? Would his mother have seen in Emma what he had only begun to understand? Her strength, her resilience, her quiet yet undeniable warmth?

“If you were here...” he began, but the words caught in his throat. He swallowed hard, glancing once more at the painting. “Perhaps things would be different. Perhaps...” But he did not finish the thought. It was too dangerous, too laden with truths he was not yet prepared to face.

His gaze lingered a moment longer before he turned away and continued down the staircase, his steps heavier than before. The portrait offered no answers, and he knew he would find no solace in its silent judgment.

Evan entered the drawing room. He hesitated in the doorway, debating whether to retreat or to stay. It was Emma he had come to see, though he could not yet name what he intended to say. Could he tell her the truth at last? That Wren’s insult of her had ignited a fire in him so harsh it had reminded him of the rage his father often unleashed, a rage he always feared he might release on an inspecting wife one day?

Could he confess that this was why he had insisted their marriage be one of convenience, devoid of love? The reasons, once so clear, seemed now to diminish, eclipsed by the growing feelings he could no longer deny.

Care for her? The thought struck him as absurd. He knew the truth was far greater than that. He was falling in love with her. Every time she crossed his mind, the memory of her kindness the night before returned to him: her gentle hands tending to his wounds, the determined set of her brow as she ignored his protests. He had wanted to kiss her then, more than he could ever recall wanting anything. That desire had haunted him through the long hours of the night—the scent of her, the closeness of her presence, the strength in her softness.

He shook his head as though to clear it, stepping further into the room—and stopped.

Emma was there, but not as he had expected. She lay curled upon the chaise, her figure lit by the golden rays of the setting sun. One hand rested delicately on the cushion, while the other lay near a book and several sheets of parchment scattered on the table beside her. Her features were soft in repose, a faint smile gracing her lips as if she dreamed of something pleasant.

Evan’s breath caught, and he felt rooted to the spot. He approached slowly, his eyes falling on the scattered papers. A title scrawled in her elegant script caught his attention: The Silent Lord.

His brow furrowed as curiosity got the better of him. Tentatively, he picked up one of the sheets, his eyes scanning the first lines.

“There was once a lord who spoke little to those around him. Shrouded in mystery and burdened by secrets too heavy to share, he built walls that no one could scale. He kept the world at a distance, even as it longed to know him. Watching him from afar was a woman from the village, her heart aching for a man she could never truly reach. Though she knew she could never breach his silence, she hoped that one day he might let her in—if only for a moment.”

The prose struck him like a physical blow. He read on, his breath uneven, his chest tightening with each word. It was a portrait of himself, stark and unadorned, rendered with an honesty that left him raw. The lord’s solitude, his unspoken longings, his self- imposed isolation—it was all laid bare. And the woman, with her quiet strength and her longing to understand him—it could be no one but Emma.

His hand trembled as he placed the paper back on the table. He looked at her, still peacefully asleep, and a wave of shame overtook him. He should not have read it. The story was not finished, and it was not his to know. Yet its words lingered in his mind, cutting deeper than he cared to admit.

Evan stepped forward, lifting a nearby blanket. With care, he draped it over her, his hand lingering near her shoulder. For a brief moment, he allowed himself the indulgence of watching her, committing the sight to memory. Then, with a heavy heart, he turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

The storm approached in its usual, unhurried way, a faint rumble in the distance signaling its intent. From his chamber window, Evan watched the clouds gather, their edges painted in flashes of distant lightning. The wind stirred the treetops, bending them ever so slightly, and the air carried the faint, metallic taste of rain. The countryside had its way of making even the smallest storms feel immense, but this one seemed content to bide its time.

Still, unease prickled at him. His thoughts turned instinctively to Emma. She was safe, he reminded himself, inside the house. But he knew how unsettled storms made her, even the mildest ones, and the familiar pull to be near her swept through him like an unshakable tide.

Without giving it much thought, he turned from the window and made for the door, the sharp motion sending a brief pang through his ribs. He ignored it, descending the stairs with measured urgency. The drawing room stood silent and there was no reminder that Emma had been here, save for the blanket he’d draped over her earlier.

“Brigitte!” he called, his voice sharper than he intended.

The maid appeared promptly, clutching a basket of folded linens, her expression betraying faint surprise. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Where is Her Grace?” he demanded, his words clipped.

“She went to the garden,” Brigitte answered hesitantly, her brow furrowing. “To gather herbs. She said she would return before the rain came?—”

Evan didn’t wait for her to finish. Striding to the front doors, he flung them open, stepping into the dense, humid air. A few sparse drops of rain speckled his face, and the garden stretched before him, blurred slightly by the gray light of the overcast sky.

“Emma!” he called, his voice cutting through the stillness.

His eyes scanned the garden until he spotted her, a solitary figure moving swiftly across the lawn, her basket in hand. Her skirts were lifted just enough to avoid the damp, her steps deliberate, as if the weather were of no concern at all.

Relief warred with frustration as he strode toward her. “Emma!”

She turned, startled by his tone. Her expression shifted as she saw him, surprise flickering in her eyes. “Evan? What are you doing out here?”

He closed the distance between them, his breath uneven. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice rougher than intended.

Her brow furrowed as she tilted her head at him. “Of course. It’s just a bit of rain. The storm hasn’t even begun in earnest.”

“I see, I am pleased to hear it though I was worried it might surprise you as the last one did,” he replied.

Her expression gentled at his words, and to his irritation, a faint smile curved her lips. “You came to look for me?”

“Yes,” he admitted, his voice low and raw. “I couldn’t just sit there while you—” He stopped, shaking his head. “Let’s go inside.”

Emma hesitated, her gaze lingering on him for a moment that felt longer than it should have. The softness in her eyes, the way her lips parted as if to speak but didn’t, made his chest tighten.

“Yes,” she said at last, her voice quiet but steady. “Let’s go.”

Together, they made their way back to the house, the rain falling more steadily now. The storm loomed nearer, rumbling in the distance, but Evan hardly noticed. For all its threatening presence, the only thing he felt was the fragile connection between them, one he couldn’t name but was loath to let go of.

Inside the house, the storm’s distant rumble seemed louder, as if the walls carried its resonance. Evan led the way to the drawing room, his steps slower now, deliberate. As they entered, he turned to her, his voice low and careful.

“Would you care for a glass of wine?” he asked. “It’s from one of my vineyards. A new batch just arrived this week.”

Emma paused, her expression lighting with a hint of surprise and pleasure. “I’d like that very much.”

He nodded and moved to the cabinet, retrieving a bottle with practiced ease. The dark glass gleamed in the dim light. He uncorked it with a quiet pop, pouring the wine into two glasses with an elegance that belied his fraying nerves.

As he handed her a glass, the thunder cracked again, closer this time. The room’s soft lamplight seemed suddenly inadequate against the encroaching storm. Evan moved to the windows, drawing the heavy curtains shut, muting the storm’s presence to a faint, muffled growl.

Emma, meanwhile, lit a few candles on the mantelpiece. Their flickering flames cast a golden glow, transforming the room into a warm cocoon of light and shadow. He hesitated for a moment, his hand still on the curtain’s edge, aware of how intimate the setting had become. This is dangerous, a part of him whispered. He knew it, felt it in the steady pull toward her. But knowing didn’t make it easier to resist.

They settled into the chairs near the fireplace, their glasses in hand. The fire wasn’t lit, but the glow of the candles reflected in her eyes, their warmth softening her features.

She took a small sip of the wine and let out a pleased hum. “It’s lovely,” she said. “You weren’t exaggerating about your vineyards.”

Evan offered a faint smile, the corner of his mouth tilting up. “It’s one of the few things I allow myself to take pride in.”

Silence settled between them, comfortable at first but slowly weighed by the unspoken things between them. Emma broke it, her voice gentle.

“Evan,” she began, “was it you who covered me earlier? With the blanket?”

He froze for a moment, caught off guard. His grip on the glass tightened slightly before he nodded. “It was,” he admitted, his tone quieter now. “I saw you sleeping, and… you looked peaceful. It reminded me of—” He stopped, hesitating.

“Of?” she prompted, her voice soft, encouraging.

He exhaled, letting the words come. “My mother used to do that for me when I was young. If I’d fallen asleep somewhere, she’d cover me. It always made me feel…” He trailed off, searching for the right word.

“Cared for?” Emma finished for him, a smile playing at her lips.

He met her gaze, startled by how easily she’d understood. “Yes,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Her smile deepened, and she leaned back in her chair, cradling her glass. “It made me feel that way too,” she admitted. “Thank you.”

Evan looked away briefly, trying to steady himself. Her gratitude, so simple and genuine, unraveled something in him. The storm outside seemed quieter now, its noise eclipsed by the rush of his own thoughts.

This is dangerous, he reminded himself again, but the warning felt distant and half-hearted. Sitting here, in the warm glow of candlelight, with her so near and her smile still lingering—he couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

The quiet stretched on, charged and fragile. Neither spoke, but in the stillness, something between them seemed to shift, delicate as the flame of a candle, yet undeniable.