She tilted her head, studying him. “But he wasn’t wrong about your brother’s death. You do suspect he was murdered.”
“I do,” Evander admitted, his jaw tight, “but I’m not about to trust a man who writes for the newssheets.”
Olivia lifted her spoon again, then paused. “But does it matter where the truth comes from, as long as it is the truth?”
“It’s not that simple,” he replied. “We don’t know what Lord Luca’s motives are. For all we know, he could be involved.”
She stared at him for a long moment. “All right,” she said, quiet and measured. “I shall drop it.”
“Thank you,” he said, though he didn’t sound entirely relieved.
She dipped her spoon into the soup, but couldn’t quite resist. “Although…”
Evander groaned. “I knew it wouldn’t be that easy.”
“You could have at least heard him out,” she said, giving him a pointed look. “He might know something you haven’t thought of.”
Evander said nothing for a moment. Then, grudgingly, “Perhaps.”
"Now I am done," Olivia said with a gentle smile, letting her tone fall into something teasing and light. “You may eat your soup in peace now.”
Evander gave her a sidelong glance before lifting his spoon. He dipped it into the bowl and took a sip—only to immediately grimace.
“It’s cold now,” he said, his voice flat as he set the spoon back down with a quiet clink against the porcelain.
Olivia didn’t miss the subtle shift in his posture. His shoulders had gone stiff again, and his back was too straight. A dozen questions crowded her mind, but none of them made it to her lips.Should I press him?
“No,” he said, breaking the silence before she could speak.
“No?”
He looked at her then. “I know you,” he said. “And no—I do not want to talk about it. I’d prefer it if you told me about your day.”
The blunt honesty in his words stilled her. He wasn’t dismissing her, not exactly. She could push, certainly. He would let her, if she insisted. But she suspected he needed her silence more than her questions.
She decided to concede. “Very well. I suppose I can manage that.” She waved a hand in front of her. “I woke up this morning to the most obnoxious bird chirping directly at my window. Truly, I think it had a personal vendetta against me.”
That drew the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile—but close.
Encouraged, she went on. “But the highlight of my morning was the war between two squirrels outside my bedchamber window. I think we might be living in disputed squirrel territory.”
Olivia continued talking about her day in great detail, hoping it was the reprieve he needed.
15
Evander sat in a dim corner of White’s, cradling a half-full glass of brandy between his hands as though its warmth might somehow steady him. It was early—absurdly early for brandy, though the hour seemed to matter little. He had left the townhouse before breakfast, unable to remain beneath the same roof as Olivia with his thoughts in such a disordered state.
He should be elated.She thinks she has feelings for me.Her exact words echoed in his head, unrelenting, uncertain. That single, maddening word—thinks—had lodged in his chest like a splinter. He had spent most of the night lying awake, staring at the ceiling, resisting the overpowering urge to go to her room and tell her everything—that he had loved her for years, that he had never stopped, not for a moment.
But to do so might scare her off.
Botheration.
He needed patience. Steadiness. Strategy, even. But none of those qualities came easily when his heart insisted on galloping ahead of his good sense.
“Why do you look like death?”
The voice, dry and amused, came from his left. Evander turned his head to find Alcott standing there.
