She tilted her head. “Wasn’t he a Bow Street Runner once?”
Evander finally allowed himself a smile. “He was. And I suspect he never quite stopped.”
“Well, lucky for you,” she said with a forced lightness, though the tightness in her voice betrayed her lingering fear. She looked down at her soup and shook her head. “I must admit, I’ve lost my appetite. It’s hard to eat when knowing that someone tried to shoot you.”
He reached out, brushing his fingers briefly over hers again—just enough to feel the spark, to remember it was real. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“You didn’t mean to,” she echoed, meeting his gaze. “But you did.”
Evander looked at her across the candlelit table, her expression clouded with worry, and knew that this—this—was why he hadn’t told her earlier. Because it wasn’t just about the danger. It was about what came after. What truths might spill out if he gave himself permission to break.
But he wasn’t ready for that either.
Not yet.
12
The following morning, Olivia slipped quietly from her bedchamber, her slippers making scarcely a sound upon the carpet as she made her way down the corridor. She hoped to pay a visit to Lady Everwyck before breakfast to ensure she was well.
As she neared the door to Lady Everwyck’s chambers, she slowed. The door stood slightly ajar, the soft creak revealing a glimpse of the room within. Curiosity getting the better of her, Olivia leaned in and peered through the gap.
Lady Everwyck lay propped up against a bank of pillows, her face pale and drawn with fatigue. Seated at her bedside was Lord Everwyck, his fingers gently entwined with hers. Their heads were bowed together as they spoke in hushed tones, his voice almost inaudible over the ticking of the longcase clock in the corner. But what struck Olivia most—what nearly stole the breath from her lungs—was the sight of tears tracking down the earl’s stern face.
Tears. From Lord Everwyck.
She was stunned. She had never once imagined him capable of such emotion. He had always seemed so rigid, so imperviousto sentiment. Yet here he was, utterly undone at his wife’s bedside, pressing his lips to her forehead with a reverence that made Olivia’s throat tighten.
He rose suddenly, brushing at his face with a trembling hand and turning towards the door.
Panic gripped her. She had no wish to be caught spying on such an intimate moment. With scarcely a thought, she turned on her heel and opened the nearest door, slipping inside.
Only once the door had clicked shut behind her did she realize her error.
Evander stood before the looking glass, his hands adjusting the folds of his cravat. He caught sight of her in the mirror, and a slow smile spread across his face.
“Livy?” he asked, one brow arching in bemusement.
She raised a finger to her lips. “Shhh.”
She moved to the door and cautiously cracked it open, peering down the corridor. Was Lord Everwyck still inside, or had he already passed by? The thought of facing him now made her stomach twist.
Evander came to stand behind her, his breath tickling her ear. “What mischief are you about?”
She turned her head slightly, their faces now mere inches apart. The nearness made her pulse quicken, memory rushing in—the last time they’d stood this close, they had kissed.
Her gaze dropped, quite against her will, to his mouth.
Could she?
Would she?
The scent of him—spiced orange, cedar, something warm and masculine—wrapped around her like a memory. She shouldn’t be here. Not like this. Not alone with him in his bedchamber.
And yet… they were married.
A flurry of emotions tangled in her chest, but before she could act—or even decide what she wished—Evander took a small step back.
“I must ask,” he said with a teasing glint in his eyes, “are you here to seduce me?”
