“That is a fine start,” Olivia said, her voice encouraging. “And who knows? You may soon find yourself reading far more than that.”
Jane hugged the book to her chest as though it were a secret she had to guard. Her shoulders lifted with a breath of resolve. “I will do it,” she said, her gaze steady now. “I will.”
A faint smile touched Olivia’s lips as she watched her friend walk away. Jane was being brave—more so than she realized. To even consider defying the expectations of her father and brother required a quiet kind of courage. Olivia admired her for it, even envied her resolve in that moment.
She herself was fortunate; she knew it. Richard, for all his protective instincts, did not shackle her with endless restrictions. He granted her certain freedoms. He encouraged her love of learning, her curiosity, and even her occasional stubbornness. In many ways, she lived a life freer than most women of her station.
And yet...
As she reached for another book on the table, a hollow ache stirred in her chest—a sensation as subtle as it was persistent.Why,she wondered,did she still feel as though some essential part of her was missing?
She traced an idle line across the margin of the page with her fingertip.
Lord Harwood had been a mistake—a bitter one. The scandal with Mr. Smith had only deepened her sense of isolation. She told herself she was content, that she had moved beyond the heartbreak and disgrace. Yet beneath her composed smile, something within her remained... unmoored.
Drawing a slow breath, Olivia straightened her spine and turned the page deliberately. Books offered escape. Perhaps, today, they would also offer solace.
Still, the question remained, whispering at the edges of her mind:What part of herself had she lost—and how would she ever reclaim it?
3
Evander sat in the shadowed corner of White’s, half-sunk into the worn leather of an armchair, a glass of brandy cradled loosely in one hand. The muted din of conversation and the clink of glasses barely touched the edges of his awareness. He had come here hoping that drink might dull the edge of grief and resentment that gnawed at him—but thus far, it had failed to oblige.
Another swallow burned down his throat, leaving behind a bitterness that had nothing to do with the liquor. He stared at the amber liquid with narrowed eyes. He knew well enough that he had no right to wallow. Any number of men would trade places with him in a heartbeat. Heir to an earldom. Wealth. Influence. A place secured among theton. But none of it had been his choice. He had carved out a life of his own—one he had valued, one that had mattered to him.
Now it was gone.
He shifted in his seat, the movement drawing his attention to the black armband stark on his sleeve. A small, dark emblem of loss. Of change. Of a future he neither wanted nor was prepared to accept.
Bryon.
A familiar ache tugged at his chest. His brother’s absence weighed heavily, but if he was honest with himself, that sorrow was complicated. Grief mingled with an odd, unwelcome sense of relief. Bryon had never been kind. He had scorned Evander’s pursuits, belittled him at every opportunity. Reminded him at every turn that he was second-best, the spare.
But Evander had never wished him dead.
He drew in a slow breath, eyes half-closed, when a familiar voice intruded.
“You look like death.”
Evander glanced up. Lord Bedford and Lord Westcott stood before him, concern softening their usual affable expressions.
“I have had better days,” Evander murmured. He gestured wearily to the empty chairs near him. His friends took the invitation without hesitation, settling into the opposite wingbacks.
“How are you faring?” Bedford asked.
Evander let out a breath and lifted one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “As well as one can expect, I suppose.”
“That didn’t answer my question,” Bedford pressed.
Evander glanced away, fingers tightening around the brandy glass. “I didn’t want this life.”
Bedford’s gaze softened with understanding. “Neither did I, but here we are. We do our duty and carry on.” He offered a faint smile. “Besides, there are certain advantages to being a lord. Our word carries weight. People trip over themselves to win our approval.”
Westcott gave a low chuckle. “I hate to say it, but I agree with Bedford. Being a lord isn’t so terrible.”
“I preferred my life in academia. It was simpler… predictable,” Evander said.
Bedford nodded solemnly. “You worked hard for your place as a Fellow. That doesn’t have to vanish overnight. Could you not finish the term before stepping away?”
