“Do you have a young lady in mind?” Evander asked, suspicion already curling in his gut.
“No.” Alcott’s voice was flat, devoid of any real emotion.
Evander frowned. “That could be problematic.”
Alcott glanced towards the doorway, as if wary of being overheard. “I saw Warwicke at the club. He said things are going well between you and Olivia.”
“They are. Better than I ever hoped.”
Alcott gave a short nod. “I’m happy for you. I doubt I’ll be as lucky.”
“I’ve loved Olivia since we were young,” Evander admitted. “She walked into my life like she already knew there was a place for her deep within my heart.”
Alcott’s expression turned solemn. “What do you intend to do with the indigo plantation now that the immediate danger has passed?”
Evander shrugged. “There will always be threats, so long as reformers still exist. But for now… I hope we’ve reached a temporary peace. I intend to treat the workers fairly.”
“Wise,” Alcott murmured as he moved to set his glass down. “I should go.”
Evander studied him carefully. There was tension beneath the surface—something unsaid, something eating away at him. “What’s wrong?”
Alcott hesitated before admitting, “I wish I was still fighting on the Continent. Life was simpler there. There was clarity. Purpose.”
“Some might say it’s easier to be a viscount,” he joked.
“Those people would be wrong.”
The humor drained from Evander’s face. “I was where you are once. Conflicted. Lost. But I came to terms with my duty.”
“Duty.” Alcott spat the word like it tasted sour. “It’s just another name for shackles.”
Evander took a slow breath. “Did something happen?”
“Yes,” Alcott said after a pause. “But I don’t wish to trouble you. Not now.”
“You’re not troubling me?—”
“I’ll tell you more when I know more,” Alcott interrupted. “But I should go.”
Evander stepped forward and placed a steadying hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Whatever it is, you don’t have to go through it alone. You have friends. Me, included.”
“I know,” Alcott said, though he didn’t sound convinced. “How does one even go about finding a wife?”
“You’re serious, then?” Evander asked.
“I am. The sooner the better.”
Evander opened his mouth to respond, but faltered. What could he say? What advice could truly help a man who didn’t believe he deserved love?
Before he could speak, Alcott raised a hand to stop him. “I’ll figure it out.”
As Alcott turned to go, Evander watched him—his friend’s shoulders sagging, his steps slower than usual.
“Wait,” Evander called after him. “My only advice is don’t rush into marriage. Find someone you could come to love.”
Alcott stopped in the doorway, but didn’t turn back. “Love?” he echoed, almost mockingly. “I’m not foolish enough to believe I deserve love. I’ll settle for a practical marriage of mutual toleration.”
Evander’s reply was quiet, but firm. “Everyone deserves to find love.”
