Entranced by the Earl

by Eaton, Jillian

  Evie slowly lowered the dress to meet his stare over the hideously square neckline. “Are you jealous?” she asked with a coy flutter of her lashes. “I assumed that was the purpose of house parties. For young women seeking a husband to mingle with young men seeking a wife. Or am I mistaken and everyone really attends for the lemonade and the parlor games?”

  “Is that the real reason you’re going, then?” His face expressionless, Weston leaned back against the windowsill and crossed his arms. “To find some pitiful bloke either too stupid or miserable enough to marry you?”

  A flash of angry pink bloomed high on her cheeks at the blunt insult. “If you must know, yes, that is precisely why I am going. And you’re right, my future fiancé is both stupid and miserable.”

  Weston’s eyes narrowed. “Then you’ve already selected him?”

  Her laugh cut through the air like the slash of a whip. “I fail to see how that is any of your concern.”

  “Because he is my guest. And as I consider all of my guests to be acquaintances, if not friends, I’d like to give the fellow fair warning before you sink your claws into him.”

  “I am your guest,” she pointed out. “Does that make us friends, Lord Hawkridge?”

  Now he was the one who laughed; the harsh sound containing no more humor than hers had. “If I had friends like you, Miss Thorncroft, I’d have no need for enemies.”

  “Do you kiss all your enemies?” she taunted.

  Angry black storm clouds rolling across a clear blue sky would have been less menacing than the dangerous glint in Weston’s gaze. Pushing away from the wall with the heel of his boot, he stalked over to her. “Careful, Miss Thorncroft.”

  “Or what?” Evie had three sisters. An arrogant earl did not intimidate her in the slightest.

  “Or you won’t like the consequences.”

  Her chest rose on an angry intake of breath, breasts straining against the rigid boning of her corset. “Is that a threat, Lord Hawkridge?”

  He smile darkly. “That is a promise. Now get dressed and meet me downstairs, or find your own way to Hawkridge Manor.”

  He was losing his mind, Weston decided as he waited for Evie to join him out front of the tavern. Or maybe he’d already lost it. That would explain his behavior over the past day and a half, as nothing else did.

  A misting rain fell, coating his hair and shoulders. He closed his eyes, welcoming the touch of the cool water on his skin and hoping it would help to calm all this heat inside of him. Bursts of sparks and flame that Evie, damn her, had ignited with that first sultry glance across the ballroom.

  And he’d been burning ever since.

  But Weston wasn’t a man who ran on fire. He preferred the cold, emotionless sheen of ice. And he’d rather a thousand winters than one hot, sticky summer night filled with the scent of wisteria and the flickering glow of fireflies and Evie, dressed only in moonlight and sin.

  Bloody hell.

  He ran a hand down his face, palm catching on the rough stubble that clung to his chin and jaw. He needed a shave and a shower bath. A fresh set of clothes. A proper cravat. Maybe then he’d feel more like himself and less like this…this love-struck dandy who couldn’t get out of his own way.

  If he wasn’t furious with Evie, he wanted to kiss her. And when he didn’t want to kiss her…all right, he always wanted to kiss her. Which was the damned problem, wasn’t it? This…this fever he’d contracted. Where the only cure was Evie’s lips.

  When he’d seen her this morning, her eyes heavy with sleep and her mouth swollen from his, it had taken every ounce of self-restraint he possessed not to take her in his arms and complete what they’d started the night before.

  After he’d left her alone in the room–after he’d had to leave, or else Evie would not have awoken as an innocent–he had walked off his throbbing arousal before drowning himself in cheap ale. He’d the pounding head to pay for it today, but he’d prefer that over the alternative…and while a hard chair had made a poor bedfellow, at least he still had his pride.

  What was left of it, anyway.

  Bollocks, but the woman cut him to the quick. A minute in her company and his nerves were raw and exposed, his heart a skip away from doing something he’d sworn it would never do. Which was why he’d spoken so sharply to Evie before he’d stormed out to soak in the rain…and his own guilt for being harsh with her.

  He would apologize for that, Weston decided. They may not have been friends, but if they were to survive the house party without tearing at each other’s throats for the duration, he needed to restore some semblance of civility to their relationship.

  Not passion or anger, but cordial apathy. The sort he held for Lady Martha.

  Yes.

  That was it.

  As the answer presented itself, Weston straightened.

  He needed to make himself feel for Evie what he felt for his almost-fiancée.

  God knew he had never pictured Martha bathed in moonlight. He’d never even kissed her on the mouth, let alone dropped to his knees and pleasured her with his tongue until she wrapped her pillowy thighs around his head and cried out in ecstasy…thrice.

  No, he’d never done anything like that with Martha. Truth be told, he probably never would. Because she was a proper lady, and aside from the fact that she’d most likely swoon at the mere mention of such a wickedly sensual act, that was what mistresses were for.

  A wife for a smoothly run household and a male heir.

  A mistress for entertainment and sexual gratification.

  That was the way the Weston men had conducted their marriages for generations. Who was he to upend tradition? He’d already set himself apart by choosing to give a damn about his sister, and had no interest in pursuing further ostracization by committing the unpardonable sin of being in love with his own wife.

  Weston men didn’t fall in love. Or if they did, it ended badly. He had only to look to his father for confirmation.

  The Marquess of Dorchester had made a splendid match in Weston’s mother, Lady Felicia, whom Weston knew only through portraits, the most coveted of which was a miniature by Brynne’s own hand. By all accounts, the late Marchioness of Dorchester had been a lovely woman. Gently bred, perfectly mannered, and well versed in all feminine pursuits, Felicia was the obvious choice for a gentleman of the marquess’ ranking and wealth.

  But then she’d died, and Jason Weston had gone and lost his heart to his mistress, an American debutante who never had any intention of remaining in London once the Season was over. With a baby growing in her belly, she’d returned to Boston to marry another man and by all reports, the Marquess of Dorchester had never been the same since.

  While most young boys grew up idolizing their fathers, Weston had come to use his as an example of what not to become. He’d no interest in having his heart broken and living the rest of his life as a shadow of the man he had once been. Bully on that. Weston was going to do what his father should have done.

  Marry a lady, take on an experienced mistress, and keep his damned heart to himself.

  Such an endeavor left no room for the likes of Evelyn Thorncroft, which was just fine with him. As soon as they reached Hawkridge Manor, he was going to distance himself as far from the tempestuous beauty as the seventy-two room estate permitted. When their paths did intersect, he’d conduct himself with the utmost chivalry. From this point forward, for all intents and purposes, Evie was just another guest. There’d be no more arguing. No more taunting. No more admiring her bottom when she wasn’t looking.

  And, most importantly, there would be absolutely no more kissing.

  On the mouth…or otherwise.

  Chapter Eight

  The rest of the journey to Hawkridge Manor passed without incident. Riding in the growler, while a far cry from the resplendent luxury of the town coach, was much more preferable than walking. Especially given the distance they’d yet to go. At least nine miles, Weston had told Evie in a clipped tone when she’d inquired. An arduou
s task on foot, to be certain, but much easier to accomplish when being pulled along behind a horse.

  Inside the growler that smelled heavily of floral perfume with a hint of cigar smoke, Evie and Weston sat facing the same direction. Posy dozed on the floor between them, snuggled into the bed Evie had constructed using the remnants of her traveling habit.

  While the lamb slept, the human occupants of the carriage were careful to avoid any motion that might possibly be conceived as an acknowledgement of the other. They hadn’t spoken a word since boarding the growler, which was just fine with Evie. After the way Weston had treated her at the tavern, she did not have anything to say to him. At least nothing of a complimentary nature.

  Thus they traveled the remainder of the way in brittle silence, each lost to their own brooding thoughts as the road sloped down and then up again in a winding path that carried them over a clear babbling brook and along a stone wall covered in moss.

  Despite the tight knot of tension in the middle of her chest, Evie couldn’t help but be charmed by the natural beauty unraveling in all directions like a spool of ribbon let undone. The landscape reminded her of the fields at home, all soft and green and glistening with raindrops that had since given way to clear blue skies and sunshine. There were more forests in Somerville; the land wasn’t nearly as developed as this. But there was something undeniably magical to be found in the hills and valleys of England’s sprawling countryside.

  If only she could say the same of her traveling companion.

  Tongue darting between her lips, Evie dared a sideways glance at the earl. And was startled to discover him looking straight her, heavy brows drawn in an expression of vague perplexity, as if he were studying at a puzzle whose last piece was proving elusive.

  “What?” she said, self-consciously brushing a curl behind her ear. She knew that between her braid and the wool dress, she held all the appeal of a peasant. But Weston didn’t have to point it out by staring. “Do I’ve something on my face?”

  He shook his head. “We’ve been on the grounds of the estate for the past mile. Before we reach the manor, I think it wise that we discuss our behavior these past two days, and how we might conduct ourselves going forward.”

  Evie’s eyes widened in surprise. Everything surrounding them–the meadows, the brook, the stone wall–was Weston’s? There must have been thousands of acres. It was nearly unfathomable that one man could lay claim to such an enormous expanse of land. But even in a plain, ill-fitting jacket and sans vest or cravat, there was no mistaking the earl for a commoner. He wore his nobility like a second skin. No matter what clothes were on his person, he could not change the regal composition of his countenance or the bold assurance with which he carried himself.

  Of course all of this belonged to him.

  Evie had seen the noblemen who felt the need to prove their superiority with checkered trousers and neck cloths of flamboyant green and swallowtail coats that cinched at the waist. Rather like male cardinals showing off their feathery red plumage.

  But Lord Hawkridge was not some twittering songbird.

  He was a hawk.

  Fierce and imposing.

  “What more would you like to discuss?” she asked, tempering her tone to reveal none of the anger or the raw, restless attraction she felt for the man seated beside her. “I believe you made your opinion quite clear before we left the tavern. A she-devil just waiting to sink her claws into someone, wasn’t it?”

  He didn’t even have the good grace to look away, but instead met her accusatory stare without blinking and said, “I never called you a she-devil.”

  She gave a derisive flick of her wrist. “I am sure you’ve thought it.”

  “Yes. I have.” Now he sat back and directed his gaze to the passing scenery outside his square window partially obscured by a drape steeped in dust. “You’re a difficult woman, Miss Thorncroft. In any manner of ways. I say that as a compliment,” he added when her nostrils flared. “Not an insult. The ladies I am acquainted with do not have nearly so many…layers as you do. You’re like an onion.”

  “An onion,” she repeated. “And you are not trying to insult me?”

  “Onions are strong, solid stock. They can be used in any variety of soups, broths, and salads. They’re excellent sautéed in garlic and served alongside liver.” He glanced at her, saw her expression, and frowned. “I can see I am not making myself clear.”

  “Oh, as clear as liver,” she said sweetly.

  “What I am trying to say, Miss Thorncroft, is that you…you are much more than what you appear on the surface. Like an onion–”

  “I believe this would go better for all parties involved if you stopped comparing me to a root vegetable.”

  A wry grin settled upon his lips, like the first layer of snow falling on the ground. The sort that made you look twice, because you couldn’t believe it was really there. “You’re probably right, Miss Thorncroft. I…what?” Now he was the one who ran his fingers through his hair. “Do I’ve something on my face?”

  “No, it’s just…I finally understand why you scowl with such frequency,” she said in a choked little voice, her gaze transfixed by the roguish tilt of his mouth.

  “And why is that?” he asked.

  “Because you are absolutely devastating when you smile.” Her eyes rose. “It’s unfair, really. That such a grumpy, cantankerous man should be in possession of such a mesmerizing grin.”

  “Grumpy and cantankerous?”

  “You called me an onion and said I’d pair well with liver,” she reminded him.

  The earl winced. “Not my best attempt at flattery.”

  “Is that what you were trying to do?” Her head tilted in amusement. “Pray tell, do you tell Lady Martha Smethwick she has hair like carrots and eyes that look like broccoli florets?”

  When his smile abruptly faded and his gaze shuttered, Evie could have kicked herself. Weston hadn’t earned himself any favors by comparing her to an onion of all things, but bringing another woman into the conversation was even worse. Especially when that woman was someone Weston had an interest in marrying.

  Evie did not know very much about Martha Smethwick. No more than what Brynne had told her, which was that the lady was pretty, and polite, and dreadfully boring.

  “She’ll be at the house party with her mother in tow,” Brynne had shared with all the enthusiasm of someone who had just sucked on a lemon. “While my brother hasn’t formally declared his intentions, it is only a matter of time. He is not getting any younger, and Lady Martha is impeccably bred. She will make a splendid countess, albeit a dull sister-in-law.”

  “You make it sound as if she’s a prized thoroughbred,” Evie had said, to which Brynne sighed.

  “Isn’t that exactly what we are?”

  Over the past two days, Evie hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on the impeccably bred Lady Martha Smethwick. She really didn’t know why she’d brought her up now, except that there was a part of her that had wanted to see Weston’s reaction to the mention of his not-yet-formally-declared fiancée. Especially since they would soon all be at Hawkridge Manor together. A merry family comprised of a surly earl with the smile of an angel, a perfect lady with the bloodlines of a horse, and the most versatile of all root vegetables.

  How splendid.

  “Lady Martha’s hair is blonde, not orange, and I don’t know what color her eyes are.” Weston’s fingers drummed along the windowsill in an impatient rat-a-tat-tat. “Miss Thorncroft, I want to–”

  “You don’t know what color her eyes are?” Evie interrupted. “I was under the impression you and Lady Martha were going to…that is, you plan to propose.”

  “I do,” he said and to her credit, Evie did not flinch. “But I fail to see what a marriage proposal has anything to do with eye color. Miss Thorncroft, before we reach Hawkridge Manor I’d like to take the opportunity to establish some–”

  “What color are mine?” she asked, pinching her eyelids together.

&nbs
p; “What are you talking about?” he said irritably.

  “My eyes.” Were they open, Evie would have rolled them. “What color are my eyes?”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “Just answer the question. Unless you can’t,” she challenged. “In which case, I shall graciously permit you to admit defeat.”

  “Blue,” he snapped. “Your eyes are blue.”

  “There. Was that so–”

  “Except when you are angry, and then they’re the color of velvet midnight. Or when you’re happy, and looking at you is like gazing at a cloudless sky on the first day of spring when the air smells like honeysuckle and the soil is ripe with possibility.”

  Evie did not know what to say.

  For the first time in her life, she found herself rendered completely and utterly speechless.

  It was a strange feeling. Almost as strange as the sensation of tumbling backwards even though her feet were planted firmly on the floor of the carriage. But maybe that was what falling in love was meant to be like. Not a falling in the literal sense, as that would be far too messy. But rather an abrupt loss of all common sense that left the mind inwardly flailing for balance. For surely there was nothing logical about being in love with Weston. There was nothing logical about love, period. But it was especially nonsensical when it involved a man whose concept of adulation revolved around a scallion.

  And yet…

  “We’re here,” he said brusquely, and Evie’s eyes flew open.

  The growler was passing beneath an arched section of the stone wall that was just barely high enough to accommodate its sloped roof, leading her to conclude they were accessing the estate via a side entrance. She craned her neck, seeking an unfettered view of the main house through the bushes and the brambles that had become as much a part of the wall as the stone itself.

  They crested a short knoll and then there it was, Hawkridge Manor. Her initial impression was that it was smaller than she’d anticipated, but then the carriage continued on past the front and she saw, with wide eyes, that the gray sandstone extended far beyond the initial footprint to include a rambling addition, a solarium made almost entirely of glass, and a multi-tiered terrace with its own spiral staircase spinning up out of an artfully designed garden of roses.