She refused to call it a home. A home implied happy memories. And there’d been no happiness to be found here after her twin had gone off to Eton, leaving her behind in this mausoleum of marble and morosity.
The only place she despised worse than Hawkridge Manor was Cheltenham Ladies’ College, but she dared not reflect on her time spent there. Not unless she wanted to find herself spiraling down a rabbit hole of misery. And she couldn’t do that, because she had a house party to prepare for.
“Mrs. Grimsby,” she said, greeting the estate’s head housekeeper with an affectionate smile. The eldest daughter of the previous housekeeper, a draconian woman who had incited terror wherever she’d gone, Mrs. Grimsby was a bouncing ball of energy and joy. “You are looking well. How are your boys doing? And your new grandson? Richard, isn’t it?”
Her round face folding into a smile, Mrs. Grimsby’s mob cap bounced up and down as she nodded her head with enthusiasm. “Little Dicky, as we’ve taken to calling him. And he’s as fine as can be, Lady Brynne. Getting bigger by the minute, but then children are wont to grow too fast. Especially when they’re babies.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Brynne. “Have all the rooms been readied? There’s no telling when guests will begin to arrive.”
The house party was slated to begin tomorrow afternoon with a grand reception in the solarium, but the nobility was notoriously fickle when it came to keeping a set schedule. Brynne wouldn’t be surprised if some people arrived in the next few minutes, while others might straggle in closer to the end of the week.
“Every last one,” Mrs. Grimsby confirmed. “And a few extra, just in case.”
“And Miss Thorncroft’s room?” Brynne asked. “I know she was a last minute addition.”
“I readied her chamber myself, and have placed her across the hall from Lord Hawkridge, as you requested.” The housekeeper’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure that is where you wanted to put her? Normally, all of the unmarried ladies are allocated to the East Wing. If I misunderstood–”
“No, no,” Brynne said quickly. “That is where I want her to be. If my brother questions it, as he most likely will, you may tell him that all of the other rooms were already taken and there was nowhere else for Miss Thorncroft to go.”
“All right,” said Mrs. Grimsby in a slow, drawn out tone of someone who didn’t think it was all right, but also knew better than to argue. “I’ll see that is where she is sent when she arrives, then.”
Brynne was taken aback. “My brother and Miss Thorncroft haven’t arrived?”
“No, my lady, I am afraid not.”
“But they left at least an hour before I did.” Concerned, she glanced at the longcase clock in the far corner of the foyer. “It’s going to be dark soon, and it isn’t like Weston to be late. I hope nothing has happened.”
“I can have a rider sent out to look for them.”
“Yes, please. As soon as possible.”
Mrs. Grimsby snapped her fingers and a maid stopped what she was doing and hurried over. There was a whispered exchange, and the maid rushed off in the direction of the stables.
“I am sure it’s nothing serious,” the housekeeper said soothingly. “They’ve probably stopped for a bite to eat, or to exchange horses.”
“Maybe,” Brynne said, but she was doubtful. Given Weston’s unfounded animosity directed at Evie, she did not think he’d do anything to purposefully delay their arrival. It was much more likely they’d gotten into some kind of contentious disagreement. Or they’d been set upon by highwaymen.
Given her plans for the couple, she almost hoped it was the latter. As long as they weren’t seriously injured, perhaps the time together would do them some good. It was said that peril brought people together. And that’s precisely where she wanted Evie and Weston.
Together.
It wasn’t that Brynne didn’t like Lady Martha, who was due to join them tomorrow along with her mother, Lady Smethwick, and sister, Lady Anne. It was just that she didn’t particularly like her, either.
Similar to a fine tea, Lady Martha was pleasant to consume and easy to forget. There wasn’t anything wrong with her. Quite the contrary. She was everything a future countess should be: beautiful, polite, and soft spoken.
Weston would be bored silly before the first month was out. Which was what he thought he wanted. That was to say, a wife who would require all the emotional investment of a turnip. Someone he’d get on well enough with when they were together, and forget when they were not.
But Brynne knew better.
She knew what her brother really needed, even if he did not.
They were twins, after all.
And what Weston needed–even though he’d never admit it–was a wife who challenged him. Who provoked him. Who made him commit to love and marriage instead of just going through the motions.
As their father had done.
And his father before him.
And his father before him.
The siblings had never met their mother. She’d died on the day they were born. Which meant they’d never had the opportunity to see their parents interact. But they’d heard the way the Marquess of Dorchester spoke about his late wife. On the rare occasions he’d ever bothered to mention her at all, it had been with a certain apathy. The sort of respectful indifference one might assign to a favorite chair they no longer possessed.
Brynne didn’t want that for her brother.
Nor did she want it for herself.
Having suffered a broken heart not so very long ago, she was determined to avoid the entire matrimonial mess by remaining alone. A choice afforded her as a woman who was fortunate enough to be supported by an apathetic father and benevolent brother. But Weston, as the sole male heir to various titles and properties, including a dukedom, had to find a bride. Which was why he’d summoned the Smethwicks to Hawkridge Manor.
Everyone knew it.
What they didn’t know–but Brynne did–was that Weston was choosing the wrong wife.
And she was determined to correct his mistake before it was too late.
“When my brother does deign to bless us with his presence, could you please tell him that I’d like a word?” she told Mrs. Grimsby. “There’s a matter of…seating I should like to discuss with him.”
“Yes, my lady.” The housekeeper paused. “In consulting the guest list, I noticed there were some names missing from gatherings past. Should we be expecting Lord Farnsworth again?”
“No.” The train of Brynne’s traveling habit swished across the floor as she went to a circular table in the middle of the foyer. Usually, the table held a bust of her grandfather, the Duke of Caldwell. But in preparation for the house party, the bust had been replaced with a crystal vase overflowing with yellow roses and various glass bowls filled with sugary treats. Selecting a pair of silver tongs set out to the side, she helped herself to a handful of hard ginger candies. “Lord Farnsworth has sent his regards, but he is on holiday until the end of the month. India, I believe.”
“A lovely place, so I am told. What about Lady Hilcox? Will she be joining us?”
“Lady Hilcox is expecting her fourth child, God bless her, and is on bed rest.”
“God bless indeed.” As the mother of eight children, Mrs. Grimsby clucked her tongue in empathy. Then her warm brown eyes crinkled slyly at the corners. “And will we being seeing Lord Campbell?”
The silver tongs fell to the floor with a loud clatter as all of the blood drained from Brynne’s face. For a moment, she couldn’t think. She couldn’t even breathe. Grasping the edge of the table, her willowy frame trembled as she struggled to regain control.
Lord Lachlan Campbell was a name she’d never wanted to hear again.
Not after the way things had ended between them.
Gulping in a mouthful of air, she turned to face the housekeeper.
Weston wasn’t the only twin whose gaze could turn to frost in the blink of an eye. As ice poured into her veins, Brynne fixed
the housekeeper with a glare that was cold enough to turn the entire Serpentine River into a glacier. “If Lord Campbell sets foot upon these grounds, I want him shot on sight. Is that clear?”
“Yes, my lady. I–I apologize, my lady. I shouldn’t have said anything.” Realizing she’d overstepped boundaries, there was nothing for Mrs. Grimsby to do other than make a hasty retreat.
As the housekeeper scurried away, Brynne felt a twinge of regret for the way she’d spoken to the kindly woman. But not the words she’d used. After what he had done to her, a bullet was exactly what Lachlan Campbell deserved.
Now where the hell were her brother and Miss Thorncroft?
“What are you grinning at?” Weston demanded, the heel of his boot kicking up a plume of dust as he stepped down with unnecessary force.
The earl, Evie had come to observe, stomped when he was angry. And stepped as light as a cat when he was furious. An important distinction she’d already tucked away in the back of her mind, along with all of the other habits she’d quietly observed during their time together.
Like that she had never heard him laugh. Not once. And that when he smiled–really smiled, which was exceedingly rare–there was the faintest hint of a dimple in his left cheek. And that when he gazed at her as he had in the thicket, all smoldering passion and carnal promises, he had the ability to make the earth tilt beneath her feet.
“You called her Posy,” she said, casting a sideways glance at the lamb who had, once again, fallen asleep in Weston’s arms. Her short legs had begun to falter after less than a mile, and with a suffering sigh–just loud enough to ensure Evie heard it–the earl had picked her up.
Baby sheep, it seemed, were not meant to travel long distances. And grumpy noblemen looked very charming when they carried them.
Stomp. Stomp.
Even if they were doing their best to appear menacing.
“The devil I did,” Weston grumbled, shooting her a glare.
“You said, and I quote, ‘You’re not putting Posy in a pot’.”
“That doesn’t sound like me.”
Stomp. Stomp.
“Then who do you propose it was?” Evie asked, rolling her eyes at him. Somewhere between drinking Weston’s brandy (or was it cognac? She still wasn’t sure) and being shot at, she’d abandoned any pretense at flattering sweetness.
The earl muttered something undecipherable.
“What was that?” Taking any excuse for a rest, Evie stopped short. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d walked such a distance, if in fact she ever had. While her lithe frame and natural balance lended itself to a certain amount of athletic prowess, she generally limited her physical exertions to meandering strolls through the park and quiet rides on a docile mare. Activities that did not result in excessive perspiration. “You’ve taken to mumbling.”
Swinging to face her, Weston set Posy on the ground between them and crossed his arms. He was sweating as well, a line of it trickling down his throat and disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. He hadn’t retied his cravat, and had even gone so far as to remove his jacket and roll up his sleeves, revealing forearms bronzed from the sun. His hat was gone. Lost, she presumed, during their mad dash away from Gertie. Disheveled, his hair fell away from his forehead in inky waves of obsidian while a few damp strands clung to the sides of his temple.
Ordinarily, Evie preferred her gentlemen to be just that. Gentlemen. Properly dressed in jackets lined with satin and crisp white cravats and boots that gleamed. But there was something undeniably attractive about Weston’s state of undress. Something…virile.
She wet her dry, parched lips. When Weston had leaned towards her in the thicket, she hadn’t just invited his kiss. She’d craved it. There was a part of her that continued to crave it. Which was also out of the ordinary.
Evie had been kissed before. Once by Evan behind a gazebo at a picnic, and a few other times by other suitors who had since gone on to marry women whose families weren’t in financial ruin. She hadn’t disliked their kisses. But she also hadn’t found much to like about them, either. As a whole, she’d found them to be…bland. Like going to Mr. Green’s frozen ice cart in the village square and asking for peach ice cream, only to discover all he had left was vanilla.
Vanilla wasn’t bad, per se.
But it also wasn’t peach.
Then Weston had looked at her with that ravenous glint in his eyes and without kissing her, he’d given her peach. And strawberry. And peppermint. A single searing stare, a promise of what was to come, and she had tasted every flavor there was to be had.
If a gaze could do all that, what might a real kiss do?
Evie was almost afraid to find out.
“You’re welcome to take your new pet and be on your merry way at any point,” said Weston, his large hands anchoring themselves to his hips as his brows pinched together over the bridge of his nose in a hawkish scowl. All he needed was an eyepatch and he’d make a splendid pirate.
“Where on earth would I go?” she asked, tilting her head. “There’s no one around!”
Which was the problem.
They’d been walking for what felt like hours and hadn’t come across a soul. Not to mention the tavern Weston was leading them to. With the sun beginning to set in the west and a cool breeze blowing in from the east, Evie was beginning to experience her first genuine flickers of concern.
When she and Weston had first set out, their task had been simple enough. Walk two miles to the nearest town, find someone to fix their damaged axle, and be back on their way to Hawkridge Manor in no time at all. Then two miles had turned into three, she’d gotten drunk off brandy, stolen a sheep, met the most disagreeable woman of her entire lifetime, and now…now she didn’t know what they were doing. But she did know one thing for certain: she could not, under any circumstances, spend the night outside in a field somewhere.
She was meant for the ballroom, not the bushes. Joanna was the one who had insisted that the sisters sleep out under the stars every summer. And Evie was the one who had retreated inside before the first firefly lit up the night sky.
No, what she required was a bed with a real pillow, not the straw stuffed monstrosities at Lady Privet’s Boarding House. And a bath to soak in. With soap. Lots of soap. Enough soap to scrub every last layer of grit and grime from her skin. Then she wanted a dress. A lovely, fashionable dress like she’d seen the ladies in London wearing. With a bodice lined with ivory linen, and a plaited flounce trimmed in wide velvet ribbon, and beads made of real glass instead of painted tin.
“The tavern should be just around the bend,” said Weston.
Evie huffed out a breath. “You said that three bends ago.”
His mouth twisted in a humorless smile as he swept his arm out to the side. “By all means, take the lead.”
“Why would I do that, if you know where we’re going?” Something in his expression immediately roused her suspicions. “You do know where we’re going, don’t you?”
He scratched under his ear. “Almost definitely.”
“Almost–” Evie cut herself off as a warm flush crept up her neck and spilled across her cheeks. “Do you mean to say we’ve been walking aimlessly for hours? I have blisters! Not to mention the irreparable damage the sun has caused to my complexion. I could get freckles.” She shuddered at the thought. “I am going to have to soak my face in lemon water for a week.”
“You were welcome to remain behind in the carriage.”
“Which I would have gladly done, if I had known you had all the directional sense of a blind turtle!”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “If you hadn’t gone running after that lamb–”
“Don’t you dare blame this on me,” she interrupted, jabbing her finger at him. “Or Posy.”
“Not blame you?” he said incredulously, taking a step towards her. “This entire debacle has been your fault from the very beginning!”
They were inches apart. Close enough for her to see the throb of h
is pulse and the tiny flecks of gold in his stormy gray irises that she’d never noticed before. Like slivers of lightning slashing across the sky in the midst of a terrible tempest.
“I haven’t done anything.” She tilted her chin, although in invitation or challenge, she couldn’t be sure. Her entire body hummed with anticipation; a bowstring drawn taut and just waiting to be released.
“Liar,” Weston said hoarsely as his hands slid into her hair, dislodging whatever pins that remained so that her mane tumbled down over his wrists in a spill of black satin and her breath caught at the flash of raw hunger she saw in his gaze. He was staring at her as if she were a tasty rabbit…and he was a starving wolf intent on devouring her whole. “You’ve done something to me.”
“W-what?” she whispered.
His hand glided down her neck, over the slope of her shoulder, and around to the small of her back. A coaxing nudge, and they were together, her legs cocooned between his powerful thighs and her breasts pressed against the hard, flat plane of his chest. He gave a tortured groan.
“I’ve no bloody idea.” Lowering his head, he kissed her, his mouth warm and surprisingly soft on hers.
Evie’s previous kisses had taught her to anticipate a bit of fumbling. Noses that bumped and teeth that clicked and, in one unfortunate instance that she’d like very much to forget, the invasive taste of salmon.
But with Weston, there was no awkwardness.
Kissing him, being kissed by him, was…effortless. Just like when they’d danced together, their bodies instinctively knew what to do even without the strains of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony to guide them.
She latched on to the front of his shirt, her nails digging into the smooth fabric when he changed the angle of their kiss, demanding more of her as his tongue slipped boldly between her lips. She responded in kind, her desire driven by all of the angst, and the anger, and the frustration she’d experienced since they’d left London. Since she’d left Boston, really, for that was when it had all started. An untold number of decisions heaved upon disappointments that had served to lead her to this moment, with this man. This arrogant scoundrel who enticed as much as he enraged.
Entranced by the Earl Page 6
