Jonathan’s expression turned thoughtful. “Not even a week’s trip together, somewhere private?”
A faint smile tugged at Evan’s lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s not what this is about. The match will give me an heir, stabilize my position with theton, and silence any doubts about my… intentions. A honeymoon isn’t necessary.”
Jonathan looked at him in disbelief. “Evan, you’re about to embark on a life together. You don’t think it’s important to start off on the right foot? Build something genuine?”
Evan gave a low chuckle, though it lacked any true amusement. “You’ve changed, Jonathan. You, of all people, lecturing on marriage? I remember a time when you’d have laughed at the very idea.”
Jonathan shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. “True, I did laugh. But now I’m three-and-thirty, and settling down doesn’t sound so dreadful. Maybe it’s time for you to consider that, too. Surely you want something more than just a name on a marriage contract.”
Evan’s jaw tightened. “More? I’ve spent years sidestepping expectations, but I can’t do that forever. Ophelia and I have an arrangement. I don’t need her approval to live as I choose, and she’ll have no need to concern herself with my past.”
Jonathan shook his head, pity and a touch of frustration in his gaze. But before he could respond, a commotion from outside made both men turn toward the door. Evan’s heart quickened as he glanced back at the narrow crack through which he could see the chapel’s interior. He expected Ophelia, perhaps, or the vicar making his way forward to signal the beginning of the ceremony.
But it wasn’t Ophelia. Striding down the aisle with quick, determined steps was none other than Lord Braverman, Ophelia’s father. In his hand was a piece of paper that he waved about with grim determination. Even from this distance, Evancould see the man’s face, taut with anger, as he looked from one guest to the next, his mouth set in a thin, unyielding line.
“What in the devil’s name…” Evan muttered, his stomach lurching. He felt the faintest bead of sweat gather at his brow, and he unconsciously swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
Jonathan straightened beside him, his expression one of pure alarm. “That… doesn’t look good, my friend.”
The whispers began almost immediately, amplified by the high, vaulted ceiling, like a wave of intrigue and gossip cresting and crashing around the room. Each head turned as Lord Braverman stormed forward, and as he neared the door to the small room where Evan waited, he didn’t slow down. His eyes, blazing with anger, locked onto Evan’s.
“What is the meaning of this?” Braverman’s voice was a cold lash of fury as he held out the paper, his hand shaking slightly with suppressed rage.
Evan tried to keep his face blank, the practiced neutrality that had served him so well through countless social entanglements. He cleared his throat, attempting to sound casual, unaffected. “I’m not sure I understand, my lord.”
Lord Braverman’s expression darkened, and he held the paper aloft, shaking it for emphasis. “This letter, this piece of paper, claims that you have been… pandering about with other women since this so-called engagement was first announced. It alleges that you have no intention of giving up your libertine ways. Ihave just asked two of my fellow peers and they too confirmed it. You are a rake! I demand an explanation.”
Evan felt the color drain from his face as his mind raced. He hadn’t courted any woman since he and Ophelia had made their arrangement, and he’d taken pains to keep their engagement free of scandal. Granted, their courtship was a charade, something hastily concocted and solidified within mere weeks, but he’d been careful—very careful.
“My lord,” he began, keeping his voice low, soothing. “I assure you, whatever this letter claims is exaggerated. I made certain, after we reached our understanding, to conduct myself with absolute propriety. Whatever I may have done before our engagement is, of course, irrelevant to my commitment to Ophelia.”
Lord Braverman’s expression twisted into one of pure disdain. “So, it’s true, then? The rake, the libertine, the notorious rakehell, that is who you are? You say it matters not, but to me it does. You kept this from me. And you expect me to entrust my daughter’s future to a man with such a reputation?”
Beside him, Jonathan shifted uncomfortably, his hand drifting to Evan’s shoulder in an attempt at silent reassurance. Evan took a deep breath, willing his composure to return, but his words felt hollow even to his own ears. “My lord, I may have had a reputation once, but that is in the past. I have every intention of making a fresh start.”
Braverman’s gaze did not soften. Instead, he seemed even more incensed. “In the past?” he hissed. “How can I believe that when this letter paints you as a man who seeks only to preserve his freedom, not to cherish a marriage? I suspected this engagement was a charade, but I never imagined such a brazen lack of sincerity! You were seen in Hyde Park with another woman not a week ago.”
Evan felt his pulse pounding in his temples. He knew who the woman was, of course but he could not admit to. Not to anyone, not even Ophelia. He struggled to form a response, but the tension in the air was shattered as light footsteps echoed from the opposite vestibule. He turned, and there she was—Ophelia, her face ashen, her eyes wide with worry. She looked exquisite, draped in ivory lace, the fabric hugging her slender figure, her dark hair swept into a graceful updo adorned with pearls that gleamed in the soft light filtering through the chapel’s high windows. But her expression was one of desperation as she looked from her father to Evan, and then at the letter clutched in her father’s hand.
“Papà,” she pleaded, using the soft Italian endearment as she reached for her father’s arm, her voice trembling. “Please, you’re causing a scene.”
Braverman turned to her, his face a storm cloud of indignation. “You dare accuse me of causing a scene? What about the scene this scoundrel would have caused if I’d allowed him to wed you, if I’d let you walk into a life filled with betrayal and scandal?”
Evan winced at the venom in Braverman’s words, and he could feel the weight of judgment from beyond the doors. His gaze flicked to the chapel, where every eye seemed to be watching, every ear straining to hear the exchange. He could almost see the curious, appalled faces in the first few rows, their whispers barely muffled by the thick wood.
Ophelia glanced at Evan, a flicker of sorrow in her eyes. She squared her shoulders, her voice steady but her hands trembling as she addressed her father. “Whatever this letter says, Papà, it doesn’t matter. Evan and I—” she hesitated, her voice softer. “We have an understanding. I want this marriage.”
Braverman’s face contorted as he glared at her. “You would marry him, knowing his true nature? Knowing that he’s deceived us all along?”
Evan’s jaw clenched. “My lord, I’ve done nothing to deceive you. Ophelia and I both agreed to this union, and I intend to uphold my end of it.”
Braverman’s glare didn’t falter, but he looked at Evan with disgust. “A union built on lies. Lies about your devotion, about your past. Tell me now, Duke—can you promise me, with all these witnesses here, that you will be faithful to my daughter? That she will be the only woman in your life?”
Evan felt the weight of Braverman’s demand pressing down on him, the intensity of the old man’s gaze burning through him. He opened his mouth to respond but hesitated. Could he promise that? Could he commit himself entirely, to give up his freedom,his independence, everything he had come to rely on as a man of the world? No, he couldn’t. But what he could do was what he’d already done for these past few weeks – lie with conviction.
He glanced at Ophelia, her face pale but hopeful, her lips parted slightly as she waited for his answer.
At last, he nodded. “Yes. I promise, my lord, there will be no other woman but Ophelia. I will honor our marriage.”
