She met his gaze steadily. “I would be honored.”
“‘Honored’ is not the word I would use,” he muttered, releasing her arm but lingering close.
“Then let us do it now. Together.”
His lips curved faintly. “Thank you. I can always count on you.”
“Yes, you can.”
Before they could speak further, her mother’s voice rang out from within the parlor. “Are you two quite finished? We are here to visit Lady Everwyck, not to gossip in the hall.”
Evander straightened. “I assure you, Lady Wilton, we are not gossiping.”
“Come along, then,” her mother said, gesturing them to enter with a wave of her hand.
4
Evander followed Olivia into the parlor, his steps slowing as he took in the familiar room. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting a soft glow over the worn but elegant furnishings. His mother sat near the hearth, a shawl draped about her shoulders, her frame far too slight beneath its folds. The moment she saw them, her face brightened with a weary smile.
“Olivia, dear,” she called, extending both hands. “What an unexpected surprise.”
Evander stood back for a moment and watched as Olivia crossed the room and clasped his mother’s hands warmly. The affection between the two women was evident. Yet as he observed the scene, his heart tightened. His mother’s fingers were thin and fragile in Olivia’s grasp. Her once vibrant black hair now carried streaks of silver that seemed more pronounced than ever. Her every movement, even her smile, seemed to cost her effort.
He swallowed hard. How many moments had he wasted, thinking there would always be time? And now, he was no longer certain how many such moments remained.
Olivia and Lady Wilton settled on the settee across from his mother. Evander remained by the door, uncertain if he could compose himself enough to join them.
His mother’s gaze shifted towards him. “Do you intend to join us, or loiter by the doorway?” she asked, her tone laced with gentle amusement.
A rueful smile tugged at his lips. “I will join you,” he said, and crossed the room to sink into an armchair near the settee.
“Wonderful,” his mother replied. “Now, let us have a littletête-à-tête. I find I am most curious about Olivia. How are you faring, my dear?”
Olivia straightened, folding her hands primly in her lap. “I am well,” she replied—though her voice lacked its usual brightness, a note of strain beneath the polite words.
As she conversed with his mother, Evander studied her closely. No matter how often he saw her, she unsettled him. She was by far the most beautiful woman he had ever known—not simply for her countenance, but for her spirit. She haunted his thoughts, whether he wished it or not. And he loved her. Madly. Hopelessly.
But she did not feel the same.
And so he kept his silence, content to remain in her presence and hope, in some unguarded moment, that her heart might one day soften towards him.
His mother’s voice interrupted his reverie. “Evander?”
He started and realized too late that he had been staring at Olivia. A sheepish smile curved his lips. “I do beg your pardon. My mind wandered.”
His mother tilted her head, eyes twinkling. “Do tell us—what is so fascinating about Olivia?”
The smile on his face deepened into a playful grin. “I was wondering if perhaps she is a witch.”
Olivia arched a brow. “And why would you think that?”
Placing a hand dramatically over his heart, he said, “Because she has bewitched me, and it is the only reasonable explanation.”
As he had hoped, Olivia rolled her eyes. “That was dreadful,” she said lightly. “I do hope you have not used that line on other women.”
“I have not,” he said. “You are my first attempt.”
“Well, pray do not repeat it. One cannot go about accusing young ladies of witchcraft—not even in jest.”
