Gillingham closed the door behind him and stepped back, offering a respectful distance. No doubt he understood that Evander would need time to collect himself.
But there was little point in delaying the inevitable.
“Where is my father?” Evander asked, voice clipped.
“In his study, my lord.”
With a nod of acknowledgment, Evander prepared to face the man who had summoned him home from a life he had carved for himself—one not dictated by duty or title.
As he turned to depart, Gillingham spoke again. “If I may, I have assigned Ramsey to serve as your valet.”
“Very good,” Evander replied. His tone was neutral, though a faint bitterness stirred within him. He had not required a valet in years, not since taking up residence in a modest flat near Oxford. There had been no room for such luxuries, nor any desire to rely upon his father’s wealth. After completing his studies, he had refused even a single shilling of family money. He had wanted to prove that he could make his own way in the world.
And yet… here he was.
His future no longer his own.
He moved purposefully through the corridors of the townhouse, his footfalls muffled against the thick carpets. Reaching the rear of the house, he saw that the door to the study stood ajar.
His father was hunched over the desk, spectacles perched upon his nose as he reviewed a stack of estate accounts with a frown of concentration.
Evander straightened his shoulders and entered. “Father.”
The earl looked up at once. “Good. You are here.” His tone was brisk, formal, as though nothing monumental had changed between them. “Have you resigned from your post at Oxford yet?”
“I intend to do so tomorrow.”
“Then simply write a letter of resignation. We will have a messenger deliver it to the Master.”
Evander took another step into the room, jaw tightening. “I would prefer to speak to the Master in person.”
His father leaned back in his chair, one brow arched. “That is a waste of time.”
“It is my time to waste.”
The earl gave a derisive snort. “I do not understand your reasoning, but very well. Now, there is something you must sign.”
Crossing to the desk, Evander lowered himself into one of the leather chairs. “What is it?”
His father reached for a thick stack of papers. “Your marriage contract.”
Evander stared, momentarily stunned. “I beg your pardon?”
Holding up the sheaf of documents, his father continued. “Bryon was to marry Lady Jemima Wakefield. The contract had not yet been finalized, but now that obligation passes to you.”
“Bryon was to marry Lord Harwood’s sister?” Evander asked, incredulous.
“Yes. And now you shall do so.” His father extended the papers towards him. “All that remains is your signature.”
Evander held up both hands. “I will not marry Lady Jemima. We would not suit. She is spoiled, cruel, and entirely too pretentious.”
“What young lady of thetonis not?” came the dismissive reply.
An image flashed in Evander’s mind—Livy. Ever since their youth, he had admired her. Not merely for her beauty, though she possessed that in abundance, but for her gentle spirit, her quick wit, and her kindness. She had the rare gift of making him laugh even in the darkest of times. If he were to marry anyone, it would be her. However… Livy had never seemed to see him as more than a friend.
Eyes narrowing, he gestured at the contract. “I will not sign those papers.”
His father regarded him with exasperation. “You have a duty to this family.”
