Font Size:

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’swounds. 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.

CHAPTER 30

Evan

That 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 hismother 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 notfinish 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.