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.
