Evander studied his friend’s face and noticed the subtle tension in his jaw, the flicker of something raw in his eyes. Without thinking, he sat again, and asked, “How have you been faring since he passed?”
Alcott looked away, his gaze drifting somewhere beyond the club walls, beyond the present moment. “I ran from this life, you know. From all of it. But duty followed me to the battlefield. I thought I could lose myself in the war, become someone different. But General Wellington had other ideas. He forced my resignation when word came about my father’s dire health.” His lips pressed into a tight line. “Now I’m back, tied to the very life I escaped. But I can’t leave again. Charlotte depends on me.”
A brief silence settled over them, broken only by the muffled sounds of the club beyond their secluded corner. Wilton’s voice came low, sincere. “I’m sorry. I know how much being a soldier meant to you.”
Alcott turned back to them, and for a moment, all his usual levity was stripped away. “It was the first time I ever felt I had a purpose. Everything out there had weight. I had to earn the trust of my men—it wasn’t handed to me because of a title or birthright. They only cared that I kept them alive.”
Evander watched as Alcott’s hands curled slightly on the arms of his chair. The pain wasn’t theatrical or self-pitying—it was real. Worn like old armor.
He knew that pain. The ache of trying to live a life different from the one written for you. The burden of duty.
“I understand,” Evander said.
A flicker of relief passed through Alcott’s eyes, raw and unguarded. “I know you do,” he said. “And I’m glad to know that I’m not alone.”
There was a weight in those words that settled between them like an unspoken oath.
Before the silence could stretch too long, Wilton cut in. “This is precisely why you need a wife.”
Alcott raised a skeptical brow. “And why is that?”
Wilton, undeterred, leaned back in his chair, his expression annoyingly self-satisfied. “A wife gives you purpose. A reason to wake up each morning. A reason to smile, to hope. Dosia has made me a better man.”
Evander couldn’t argue with that. He’d seen the change in Wilton—softened edges, sharper focus.
Alcott, however, gave a scoffing laugh. “I’ll pass.”
Wilton only grinned. “Your loss.”
Evander pushed back his chair and rose, smoothing his jacket. “On that note, I’ll take my leave. Good day, gentlemen.”
He offered a brief nod before turning towards the door. His boots echoed faintly on the polished floor as he walked away, but he wasn’t in any particular hurry. The club’s familiar hush gave him a moment to think.
He was grateful—grateful for the distraction, for the conversation, for the sense that he wasn’t entirely alone in his own struggles. His mood had lifted, if only slightly, the weight of uncertainty about Olivia not quite as heavy as it had been when he’d arrived. But as he reached the pavement, his thoughts turned back to Alcott.
Something was wrong. That flicker of pain in his friend’s eyes hadn’t left Evander’s mind. He knew the feeling all too well. That quiet unraveling, that sense of not belonging in the life you were supposed to live. Duty could shape a man—but it could just as easily hollow him out.
Dressed in a yellow gown with puffed sleeves, Olivia stepped across the threshold of the dining room, her slippers making the faintest sound against the floorboards. The scent of toast and chocolate wafted towards her, but her gaze immediately settled on Lord Everwyck seated at the head of the long table with a newssheet in his hand.
Drat.
She hesitated a fraction too long. She couldn’t retreat now or else the earl would know that she was still somewhat uncomfortable around him. He just made every conversation so intolerable.
Squaring her shoulders, she crossed the room and took the seat to his right. A footman silently placed a delicate porcelain cup of chocolate before her, its surface swirling with steam.
She reached for it just as the earl spoke, his voice sharp and without greeting. “I see my son indulges your every whim.”
The corners of her mouth curved into a polite smile. “He was thoughtful enough to ensure I had a cup of chocolate each morning.”
He gave a derisive snort. “A waste of money, I assure you.”
Olivia lifted the cup to her lips, savoring a slow sip before answering. “It is delicious. And I appreciate Evander all the more for it.”
The newssheet rustled as Lord Everwyck lowered it to study her more closely. His gaze was penetrating, as if he were attempting to unearth some hidden truth. Then he said, flatly, “You care for him.”
It wasn’t a question.
“I do,” she replied.
