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Rose.

Why did she have to be so hard-headed? Why could she not let him do the things for her he knew she needed? Why would she not allow him a bigger part in her life?

Of course, he knew why. She could not. For if he did what he wished – to bring her into the light – they would bring nothing but scandal and shame upon themselves, and he’d had quite enough scandal in his life for the time being.

He ought to be honest with Emma. He ought to tell her about Rose, about the connection they shared that went deeper than he could even express. Would she understand? Perhaps. Perhaps not.

Did he even really want to tell her? At first, he hadn’t thought that Rose’ existence would cause any trouble between them. Not when theirs had been a marriage based on nothing but convenience. But now?

Things were changing.

If he allowed them to change that was.

He signed deeply as the carriage slowed, and through the window, Evan glimpsed the glow of the estate’s grand façade. Standing just outside, his friend Jonathan was speaking animatedly with two dairy maids, one had even set her pail down beside her as they chatted. Standing with them was a third figure. He squinted to make her out and then shook his head.

Brigitte. Emma’s lady’s maid. Even the formerly reluctant maid was falling for Jonathan’s amiable charms.

Their laughter carried faintly over the gravel drive. Jonathan turned at the sound of the carriage, his easy grin lifting Evan’s mood, if only for a moment. His friend had an easy way with everyone he knew. He could charm anyone. Old, young, pauper or noble – but especially ladies of all ranks and ages. Just why he had yet to find a wife Evan did not understand.

By the time the carriage came to a stop, the maids had stepped back, and Jonathan stood waiting with an amused expression. Evan climbed out, brushing his jacket as he greeted his friend.

“Still managing to charm every soul in my household, are you?” Evan said with mock exasperation. “And even Briggite.”

Jonathan waved a hand dismissively, though his grin widened. “I was merely asking about your whereabouts. You’re quite late, and I can’t help it if I’m charming. As for the young lady’s maid – it seems I have managed to disarm her also.”

Evan chuckled despite himself, though it came out strained. Jonathan caught the tension and raised a brow. “As long as you do not disrobe anyone, I shall overlook you being quite so friendly with my servants.”

Jonathan didn’t retort, following Evan into the estate instead. Inside, the faint hum of servants arranging the dining room greeted them, along with the comforting scent of polished wood and freshly baked bread. As they entered the hallway, Emma appeared from around the corner.

She wore a gown of deep emerald silk, its elegant lines accentuating her figure while a delicate lace trim softened the neckline. The candlelight played against the rich fabric, making her look as though she were wrapped in light.

“Lord Weston,” she greeted warmly, her lips curving in a smile as she curtsied. “Evan.”

“Your Grace,” Jonathan replied with equal warmth, bowing. “You look radiant.”

She chuckled softly. “Thank you. I hope you’ll find tonight’s meal to your liking. I amended the menu after learning that you’re not particularly fond of hare. Pheasant seemed a better choice.”

Jonathan’s eyebrows lifted, and he turned to Evan with a smirk. “You’ve a thoughtful wife, my friend.”

Evan’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “He’d have been perfectly content with plain fare,” he said lightly. “Jonathan is a simple man at heart.”

Jonathan shot him a mock glare. “Don’t listen to him, Your Grace.” He laughed, then added, “But thank you for going to the trouble. It’s appreciated.”

Emma’s shoulders relaxed at the easy banter. Evan noticed the subtle shift, and a quiet pride swelled in him as they moved to the dining room.

Inside, the table gleamed under the light of the chandelier, the silver polished to perfection and the china arranged with precision. Evan pulled out Emma’s chair—a gesture he had recently taken to—and she settled with a soft murmur of thanks.

As the servants began to serve, Evan ensured Emma was part of the conversation. Jonathan, ever curious, asked about her work, and Evan, perhaps for the first time, shared something about his wife that made him proud.

“Emma enjoys writing,” he said.

Emma looked at him, surprised. “You’ve remembered that?”

He inclined his head. “It’s hard to forget. You once mentioned you draw inspiration from those around you.”

Jonathan leaned forward, intrigued. “What sort of stories do you write, Your Grace?”

Her cheeks flushed slightly, but she answered with quiet confidence. “I enjoy writing about people—their struggles, their triumphs. The books I read inspire me, but it’s often real lives that spark my ideas.”