A fool’s bet, he would have called it.
As it so happened, he was the damned fool.
He never should have agreed to travel with Evie to Hawkridge Manor. Not that they were anywhere near their destination, and were now actively walking away from it as they’d veered off the road onto a private, tree-lined drive that led to a cottage with a crumbling stone wall behind which several sheep grazed, indicating they’d found whom the lamb belonged to.
A line of geese temporarily halted their progression as the feathered fowl marched across the drive in an orderly row, chests puffed and orange beaks proudly held aloft. Once the parade had waddled past, he and Evie proceeded to the front door.
He knew by her stiff gait and the mutinous set of her lips that she wasn’t pleased with his decision to return the lamb. But what did she expect him to do, willingly abscond with stolen livestock? He was an earl, not a thief. An earl who was beginning to question his own sanity with every minute that passed and he didn’t leave Evie and her lamb behind to find their own way home.
Weston was no gallant knight devoted to safeguarding helpless maidens and defenseless animals. No one would think differently of him if he said to hell with it and left his charges on this very doorstep. Brynne wouldn’t be pleased, but if Evie eventually made her way to Hawkridge Manor, what was the harm? He didn’t owe this American anything. Certainly not any more of his valuable time than he’d already given. But neither could he bring himself to abandon her. It was an…unexpected conundrum. One he’d never faced before, as he made it a point to keep everyone at arm’s length where it was easier to remain impersonal and indifferent.
Even his own mistresses were not privy to his undivided attention. Chosen strictly for their discretion and skills in the bedchamber, his intimate partners were informed at the beginning that there was to be no emotional attachment. And if that were to ever change (as it inevitably did, much to his general annoyance), they would be relieved of their position immediately. For if there was anything Weston’s childhood had taught him, it was that it was better to be the person withholding love and affection than to be the one constantly craving it.
Vulnerability was another weakness, and a man was never so vulnerable than when a woman held his heart in the palm of her hand. Which was why he’d ensured that his heart was too cold to touch a long time ago.
But since having Evie forced upon him, he had felt anything but cold.
The woman infuriated him, and with fury came heat.
With heat came fire.
And with fire came desire.
The kind of desire that would lead a man to traipse through the countryside carrying a sheep because a raven-haired minx who heated his blood like no other had insisted they save the damned thing.
“This is for the best,” he told Evie as he knocked on the door. “The farmer needs to be told there are poachers after his flock, and with this many sheep about I’m sure he has a ewe who can take the lamb on as its own.”
“And if he doesn’t?” she asked, her damning blue gaze making him feel for all the world as if he were about to toss a puppy into a pit of crocodiles.
Before Weston could reply, the door swung inward to reveal a young man with freckles across his cheeks and a shock of red hair sticking out beneath a flat brown cap.
“Can I help ye?” he asked, his curious gaze flicking from Evie to Weston before centering on the lamb.
“Yes,” said Weston. “We were walking past your field–”
“Walking?” The lad scratched the back of his neck. “Where’s yer carriage?”
“An excellent question,” Evie interceded with a glare at Weston.
“A broken axle back by the Three Crossings,” he explained, returning her glare. “We left the driver to tend the horses and set off on foot. Whereupon we found this fellow here”–he held out the lamb, which gave a worried sounding bleat–“and its dead mother. Butchered for her meat, if I had to guess.”
“Aye,” said the lad. “We’ve been having trouble with trespassers.”
When he didn’t say anything else, Weston bit back a curse of frustration (could nothing about this cursed journey be simple?) and said, “Can you take the lamb, then? Or direct us to someone who can?” He glanced past the boy into the house. From what he could see, it was sparsely decorated, but freshly swept. “Is your father or mother here?”
“They’re gone. Won’t return until tomorrow.” The lad shifted his weight from side to side. Then his face brightened. “I can give it to my sister. She’s just in the kitchen. Gertie!” he yelled, turning his head. “Gertie, I’ve another lamb for ye!”
Weston felt a tightness on his arm. He glanced down to see Evie had her fingers curled around his wrist.
“Why would you bring Posy into the kitchen?” she asked, her pretty brow creasing. “To warm her up?”
“Warm her up?” the boy said, visibly confused. “Ye mean when we put her in the stew?”
Evie blanched. “The stew? You’re going to cook Posy?”
“I am sure that is not what he meant,” said Weston. Having eaten his fair share of lamb and mutton stew, he knew that was exactly what the boy meant, but why alarm Evie any more than she already was? A pot of boiling water wasn’t the ending he’d foreseen for poor Posy, but then life was often cruel and unforgiving. If that lesson had somehow escaped Evie thus far, it was better she learn it now than later.
“Aye,” said the lad. “What else would we do with it?”
“Lord Hawkridge, you cannot mean to allow Posy to be turned into stew!” Evie cried. “Tell him we’ll pay for her. Whatever price he wants. Please!”
“The lamb’s yers for fifty pounds.” Wiping her hands clean on an apron, a stringy beanpole of a woman with the lad’s red hair and none of his youthful naivety sauntered up to the doorway and gave a shrewd smile. “Fifty-five, and we’ll toss in a ribbon to go round its neck.”
Weston almost choked on his own tongue. “Fifty pounds? It’s worth half a shilling, if that.”
“It is worth what someone will pay for it,” said Gertie.
She wasn’t wrong, but Weston would be damned if he spent a fortune on a sheep. Then he made the mistake of looking at Evie. A single glimpse at her heartbroken countenance, complete with a wobbling bottom lip, had him reaching into his pocket.
“I can give you ten now, and have the rest sent later.” Given the recent rise in highwaymen scouring the roads for easy victims, Weston had stopped carrying large quantities of money on his person several months ago.
“The price is fifty,” said Gertie, jutting out her chin.
Weston resisted the urge to grind his teeth. “I am the Earl of Hawkridge. Here, this is my family signet.” He extended his left hand to show his gold seal ring with the family crest engraved on the top. “I can assure you that I am good for it.”
“Fifty,” Gertie repeated. “Or the lamb goes in the pot.”
“As I told you, I do not have that sum currently, but I can easily acquire it once I reach my estate.” Beside him, Evie tensed. Without giving much thought to what he was doing, he reached across the front of Posy and gently covered Evie’s hand with his own. His fingers intertwining with hers, he gave a reassuring squeeze. It was, to his knowledge, the first time he had ever deliberately sought to give a woman comfort.
“Surely we can come to a mutual agreement,” he said, speaking with the calm assurance of an entrepreneur accustomed to striking any manner of deals. Following a ten-hour negotiation, he’d leveraged his money and reputation to gain a position on the board of the Midland Railway Company at a time when investors were divesting themselves of railway shares as quickly as possible.
Within half a year, Weston had secured enough private land leases to build a new railway from London to Bath. The more direct route had undercut their top competitor’s time by nearly two hours, leading the Midland Railway Company to buy them out and become the second largest railway in all of England.
If he coul
d accomplish that (no inconsiderable feat), then surely he could negotiate the simple sale of a lamb.
Except it appeared Gertie had no intention of negotiating.
“Tom,” she said, her brown eyes hardening to chips of rock, “get Pa’s pistol.”
“You are being utterly unreasonable.” Weston frowned as the lad obediently scampered off.
Gertie arched a scrawny red brow. “Ye’ve come to my parents’ house, and ye stole one of our lambs, and I’m being unreasonable? Count yerself lucky I didn’t have my brother shoot first and ask questions later. How do I know ye aren’t the poachers that’ve been after our flock?”
“We did not steal anything,” Evie cut in with a sniff. “We saved Posy. You should be thanking us.” She gave Weston a hard nudge with her elbow.
“What was that for?” he snapped.
“I told you we shouldn’t have come here.”
Tom returned swiftly with the item his sister had requested, and gingerly handed it over.
Without hesitation, Gertie drew back the hammer and pointed the pistol at the ceiling. “Give my brother the lamb,” she said threateningly. “Or else.”
Had Weston been by himself, he would have tossed Posy over directly. He was a stubborn sod who didn’t like to lose, but he wasn’t an idiot, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to get shot over a sheep.
But there was Evie and her wobbling lip to consider.
Along with the fact that he’d left his own pistol with his driver in case any passersby got it in their heads to help themselves to the contents of the town coach.
“No one puts Posy in a pot,” he growled.
He looked at Evie.
She looked at him.
“Run,” he said grimly, and that’s what they did.
Down the steps, around the stone wall, and back to the road while Gertie, who likely belonged in a mental asylum for the lamb stew obsessed, fired bullets into the air.
Weston could have sworn he felt one fly over his shoulder, and he shoved Evie in front of him into a thicket of overgrown bushes. They huddled together, with Posy pressed between them, as their breathing slowed and steadied…but all it took was a quick measure of how close Evie’s hand was to his groin for Weston’s pulse rate to accelerate all over again.
Bloody hell.
What was he doing?
Then Evie started to adjust her position but lost her balance and used Weston’s leg to regain it, her fingers burning through his trousers like an iron brand as they splayed across his upper thigh. She jerked her head up, and their eyes met, and all he could think as the air vibrated with delicious tension was what the devil were they doing?
Neither of them spoke. There was no need for it. Even if they weren’t supposed to be in hiding, the mutual lust in their gazes said more than any words possibly could.
He leaned towards her, his thumb gliding along the edge of her jaw as he swept a tendril of hair behind her ear.
God, but she was gorgeous. He had strolled through London’s ballrooms with some of the ton’s Great Beauties on his arm and all of them, every last one, paled in comparison to Evelyn Thorncroft.
It wasn’t just her sapphire-blue eyes or the soft pink of her lips. It wasn’t all that black, silky hair or those thick, sooty lashes. It wasn’t her high cheekbones or the tiny, almost invisible freckle to the left of her nose that he wanted to nip.
No, what made Evie exquisite–what made her truly incomparable–was the intimate knowledge that she possessed of her own beauty and stunning self-worth.
Even with her hat all askew, and dirt on her face, and her dress wrinkled nearly beyond repair, she exuded confidence. She flaunted grace. She held her chin as high as any queen’s, and her small, catlike smile all but dared him to try and steal her crown.
For Weston, passion had invariably been about necessity. He used it to fulfill a need, nothing more. But Evie…Evie, he wanted to savor. Like a fine glass of port or a good cigar, he wanted to linger over her until the sun faded to black and the stars scattered across the heavens.
He wanted to lick, and taste, and nuzzle.
He wanted to hear her moan, and gasp, and cry out.
He wanted to watch those blue eyes glaze over, and her head fall back, and her body arch beneath his.
He wanted all that, and more.
So much more.
But for now…for now, he’d settle for a kiss.
And pray it was enough to satisfy this acute, feverish ache inside of him.
He cupped her chin, this siren whom he desired every bit as much as he despised.
Her eyes widened with awareness, but she did not pull away.
He slowly lowered his head, and…she licked his face.
No, not Evie, he realized as he pulled sharply back and swiped the cuff of his coat across his damp cheek. That hadn’t been the sweet, seductive flick of a woman’s tongue, but rather the wet, rough slurp of a…
“Posy!” Evie scolded, wagging her finger at the lamb. “That’s quite forward of you.”
Weston, the Earl of Hawkridge and heir apparent to the Dukedom of Caldwell, had been kissed by a sheep.
To add insult to grievous injury, Evie had witnessed it.
And she was laughing at him.
It really was too much to be borne.
“Get up,” he snarled at her, all but tossing Posy into her lap before he surged to his feet. “We’ve yet a long way to walk if we want to reach the inn by nightfall.”
“Yes, my lord.” Blue eyes sparkling with merriment, Evie gave the lamb an affectionate pat behind its floppy ear before she set it on the ground and stood up, brushing bits of grass and leaves from her skirts. She started to step out of the thicket but stopped short, biting her bottom lip as she glanced at him over her shoulder. “Do you think Gertie and her brother are waiting for us?”
Weston looked at her mouth. He couldn’t help himself. It was just there, all plump and tempting and his for the taking, but for the untimely lamb kiss he’d received.
Not to say that a lamb kiss should ever be considered timely.
Jaw clenching, he averted his gaze and deliberately took a step into the open. At this point, he’d almost welcome a bullet. But none was forthcoming, and after ascertaining that the way was safe and clear, he motioned for Evie to follow him out onto the road.
Side by side, the beleaguered earl and the amused American set off once again, with Posy scampering along behind.
Chapter Five
As Lady Brynne’s carriage rolled to a halt in front of Hawkridge Manor, she found herself overwhelmed by a myriad of conflicting emotions.
She’d always preferred the rolling fields and forests of the countryside to the bustling streets of London. The natural light was better, for one. And as an amateur painter with secret dreams of grandeur, light was everything.
She also enjoyed the sheer openness. Comprising more than ten thousand acres, Hawkridge Manor was the largest estate for miles around. She could wander for hours with only her own thoughts for company. In the city, she couldn’t walk out her own front door without being approached by a familiar face or jostled by a stranger.
But then, there was the heaviness. The invisible weight she felt whenever the trees parted and the manor came into view. Sometimes, it was so crushing she could hardly breathe, and other times it sat on her shoulders with such lightness that she could almost, if she tried hard enough, ignore it completely.
Unfortunately, as she departed from the brougham and pulled on her gloves (she’d taken them off during the long ride in order to sketch the passing scenery), the pressure concentrated in the middle of her chest felt anything but light.
If not for the house party and the dozens of guests that were about to descend upon the estate like locusts falling on a virgin field of crops, Brynne might have been tempted to climb right back into her carriage and demand the driver return to London with all haste. But of course she couldn’t do that. For she was nothing if not an obedient daughter, an
d a dutiful sister, and whatever else it was that everyone required her to be.
Besides, Brynne reminded herself as she climbed the marble steps to the sprawling portico with its towering ivory pillars and menacing stone lions, she did enjoy having the manor overflowing with life and laughter. Such a stark difference from the chillingly still and silent backdrop it had provided when she was a child fearfully tiptoeing through the vacant halls.
She also liked the various activities that comprised the month-long event, many of which she had a hand in planning as the unofficial hostess. From rousing games of whist with the ladies in the drawing room to a grand stag hunt with hounds on the second to last day, there was nary an hour that went by when there was not something to do. Which was also a problem, as it did not leave an adequate amount of time that she could devote to her painting unless she woke early in the morning or stayed up late into the night.
“Careful,” she cautioned over her shoulder at two footmen as they used a pulley system comprised of ropes to slide her numerous trunks off the roof of the brougham. “Those supplies are more valuable than gold.”
Perhaps she’d overpacked just a bit, Brynne admitted to herself with a wry twist of her lips as one of the footmen staggered beneath the weight of a trunk. But while the chalk she used to mix her paints was readily available in London, it was remarkably more difficult to come by this far outside of the city, and she’d been reluctant to leave so much as a single brush behind.
“Thank you,” she said sincerely, stepping out of the way as the servants wrestled their heavy burden up the stairs and into the foyer with its white walls and white ceiling. Even the oak floorboards had been stained with a milky finish and sealed with beeswax. Everything, for as far as the eye could see, was white. And all the colder because of it.
Brynne had never understood why Weston had made this property his main residence when there were so many others to choose from. Her brother was fantastically wealthy, and could have had any unentailed estate from here to Manchester. Any number of entailed states, for that matter, as the traditional aristocracy were a dying breed in desperate need of an influx of monetary funds to keep them afloat. But when their great-grandfather had passed, and the line of titles had shifted, Weston had immediately laid claim to their childhood prison.
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