“Evan,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, “what happened tonight?”
His expression darkened, and he leaned back slightly, retreating from her touch. “It is not your concern.”
“Do not dismiss me so easily,” she said, a spark of frustration igniting in her tone. “I care for you—surely you must know that.”
His gaze flickered to hers, and for a fleeting moment, she thought he might confide in her. But the moment passed, and he shook his head. “I cannot burden you with this.”
“You are not burdening me,” she replied fiercely. “But you are shutting me out, and I will not abide it.”
The silence between them was heavy, the air charged with unspoken truths. Finally, Evan sighed, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his secrets.
“Emma,” he said softly, his voice tinged with regret, “some matters are best left untold.”
Her heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice, and though she longed to press him further, she knew she could not force his hand. Straightening, she stepped back, her expression resolute. “This is not the end of the matter, Evan. I hope you know that.”
His eyes followed her, his expression inscrutable. “I do.”
CHAPTER 29
The 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.”
