“We would fight for you,” Evander said. “And you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like.”
Jane blinked at him, astonished. “You would risk the duke’s wrath for me?”
“I would,” he said, his gaze drifting briefly to Olivia, “because you are Olivia’s friend. And I would do anything for her.”
Olivia’s breath caught. In that moment, her heart did something traitorous—it swelled.
She wasn’t sure if it was love yet. But it was close.
“That is kind of you to offer, but I couldn’t do that to you or your family,” Jane said, rising with a faint, practiced grace that didn’t quite mask the strain in her voice. Her hands fluttered briefly at her sides before clasping together, fingers tightening as if bracing herself. “I should go.”
“No—don’t go, not yet,” Olivia said, rising with her. “We could?—”
But before she could finish, the door burst open and Lord Barkley stepped into the drawing room, his jaw rigid and his eyes alight with fury. The heat of his disapproval seemed to fill the air, suffocating and immediate.
A moment later, Gillingham followed with impeccable calm and announced in a resonant voice, “Lord Barkley.”
Olivia’s gaze flicked to Jane, who had gone utterly still. Her complexion, already pale, drained of the little color it had. Her lips parted in a silent breath of dread.
“What are you doing here?” Jane asked, voice low, tremulous.
The viscount’s mouth curled, sharp with contempt. “I could ask you the same thing.”
The tension in the room thickened instantly. Olivia instinctively stepped closer to Jane as Evander spoke.
“Barkley,” he said, his voice curt.
The viscount glanced at him briefly, with barely the decency of acknowledgment. “Westmere,” he muttered, then jerked his chin towards the doorway. “Come along, Jane. You shouldn’t be here.”
Jane looked as though she were walking to the guillotine. Her chin dipped slightly as she approached her brother, each step slower than the last. “I needed a moment to speak to a friend,” she said, tone pleading and soft.
“You should pick better friends,” Barkley said, under his breath but loud enough to wound.
Olivia felt her stomach drop, but Evander reacted faster. He visibly tensed. “I would be careful with the words you say around my wife,” he warned.
A muscle ticked in Barkley’s cheek. “My apologies,” he replied, the words brittle and hollow. He extended his arm towards Jane.
Jane hesitated only a breath before accepting it. Her shoulders were taut, her eyes glassy. Olivia longed to run after her, to yank her back to safety. But the moment had already passed. With a final, wordless glance towards Olivia, Jane let her brother lead her from the room.
The drawing room door closed behind them with a soft click that sounded far too final.
Olivia moved towards the window. She parted the curtain slightly and watched as Jane descended the front steps and climbed into the waiting coach. The carriage door shut and it rumbled off.
“Poor Jane,” she murmured, not even realizing she had spoken aloud until she felt Evander move beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed.
“I agree with that sentiment,” he said. “But unless Jane is willing to stand up for herself… there’s little anyone can do.”
Olivia knew he was right. That didn’t make it hurt any less. “She wants to, I think. She’s just frightened.”
Evander glanced at her then, his expression gentle. “As anyone would be.”
For a moment, they both stared out the window in silence, the quiet between them heavy with unspoken worry. Then, with a soft touch, he placed a hand on her sleeve.
“Are you hungry?”
She turned to face him, welcoming the change in subject, however slight. “I could eat.”
“I’m sorry I missed breakfast,” he said, his thumb brushing lightly over the fabric at her arm before he let go. “I stopped at the club because I thought it might help clear my head.”
