“Family relationships are complicated,” Alcott offered.
Evander gave a faint nod. “I should return. My mother was too unwell to attend. I need to check on her.”
“Go,” Bedford said simply.
He climbed into the coach and let the door shut behind him. The bench felt colder than usual as he leaned back, tilting his head against the interior wall. He closed his eyes, but his thoughts offered no respite. His mother wouldn’t be with him much longer and it was only a matter of time before he stood before her grave.
The coach gave a jolt and began to move, wheels clattering over cobblestone as they merged into the late-morning traffic. He loosened his cravat with a sigh, the fabric suddenly constricting. Everyone had watched him at the grave. The new Lord Westmere. The heir. The benefactor of death.
But he hadn’t wanted this. He had never asked for any of it. The only good to come from this wretched change in fortune was Olivia. He had won her—by some miracle—and he would spend the rest of his life trying to deserve her.
The coach slowed in front of his townhouse. Without waiting for the footman, Evander opened the door and stepped down. A sharp crack shattered the air.
His heart stopped.
Then—splintering wood. A sharp whistle past his ear. He turned in time to see a fresh hole carved into the coach’s side.
“My lord!” one of the footmen shouted, rushing forward. “Get inside! Someone’s shooting at you!”
Evander didn’t hesitate. He bolted up the steps, pushed open the front door, and slammed it shut behind him, chest heaving. He pressed a hand to his heart and breathed deeply, steadying the panicked rhythm. A few inches closer, and…
“My lord?” Gillingham appeared at once, brows furrowed. “Are you injured? I heard a shot.”
“No,” Evander said, voice steady only by force of will. “I’m well.”
“Shall I send for the constable?”
He hesitated, then shook his head. “No. Not yet. Let’s not make a scene.”
Gillingham didn’t look convinced, but accepted the answer with a slight bow. “As you wish.”
“Where is my wife?”
“She is with your mother.”
Relief flooded through him. “Thank you,” he murmured, handing over his hat. He took the stairs two at a time.
At the end of the corridor, he eased open the bedchamber door.
There she was.
Olivia sat beside his mother’s bed, her delicate fingers moving deftly over a small piece of embroidery. The sight of her—calm, composed, surrounded by soft light filtering through the window—unraveled something tight within him.
She looked up and smiled. “Hello.”
He crossed to her side. “How is she?”
“Asleep,” she whispered. “She’s been resting for most of the morning.”
Placing a hand on Olivia’s shoulder, he said, “Thank you for staying with her. I didn’t want her to be alone.”
Olivia reached up and curled her fingers around his. “And you? How are you?”
He stared into her eyes and let his guard slip, just a little. “I’ve had better days,” he admitted softly. “But I’m better now… now that I’ve seen you.”
Just then, his mother stirred. Her eyes opened, pale and weary. “Evander?”
He leaned over her. “I’m here.”
