“You’ll have to marry someday.”
Alcott shuddered. “Don’t remind me. I’d rather be back on the battlefield.”
Evander chuckled. “Your terror of matrimony never fails to amuse me.”
But just for a moment, something flickered in Alcott’s eyes—an old wound, perhaps. Pain buried beneath layers of sarcasm. And then it was gone.
Before Evander could question it, a third voice joined them.
“Gentlemen,” came Lord Wilton’s cheerful tone. He approached and dropped into the seat beside Alcott. “I saw your coaches outside and thought I’d stop in for a drink.”
He looked between the two of them, eyes sharp with curiosity, and continued. “What’s the topic this morning?”
“Marriage,” Alcott groaned.
Wilton grinned. “Ah. The one word that makes Alcott break into a cold sweat.”
“I do not sweat over it,” Alcott snapped. “I simply wish to avoid falling prey to the parson’s mousetrap.”
Wilton turned to Evander. “Do you share his views?”
Evander shook his head. “No. I’m… actually enjoying marriage, most of the time.”
“Then what’s troubling you?” Wilton asked.
Tightening his hold on the glass, Evander revealed, “Your sister told me shethinksshe has feelings for me.”
A slow, broad smile spread across Wilton’s face. “That’s excellentnews.”
Evander arched a brow. “Is it?”
“You’re making headway. In no time, you’ll be blissfully in love, surrounded by a horde of noisy children.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
Wilton met his gaze, his smile softening with sincerity. “It issimple. Just keep loving Olivia, and she’ll catch up.”
Evander didn’t answer at once. Instead, he simply stared at the swirl of brandy in his glass and tried desperately to believe him. He set his glass down on the table with a soft clink, the final sip of brandy still burning faintly in his throat. The warmth no longer helped. It never did for long.
Rising, he said, “I should return home. I don’t want to leave Olivia alone with my father for too long.”
Wilton leaned back with a casual air, though his gaze sharpened with interest. “How is she managing him?”
A brief, involuntary smile tugged at Evander’s mouth. “Surprisingly well. She holds her own with him. I don’t think he quite knows what to make of her. He’s used to being obeyed—or avoided—not challenged.”
“That is good,” Wilton said. “Considering your father can be…” His voice trailed off.
“A brute? A jackanapes?” Evander asked.
Wilton bobbed his head. “Those words describe him rather perfectly.”
Evander’s smile faded as he dropped his voice. “He refuses to sell the indigo plantation. Says doing so would spell the ruin of the estate.”
Alcott spoke up. “And what do you believe?”
Evander hesitated before answering. The question wasn’t a simple one. “I believe there are other ways to keep the estate solvent. We could sell off unused land or trim our expenditures. The plantation is a liability, not just financially, but morally.” He exhaled slowly. “But he won’t even consider it. To him, letting go of any part of the estate is akin to admitting defeat.”
Alcott’s expression darkened. “My father was the same. Stubborn to the end. He’d have burned the house to the ground before yielding an inch of pride.”
