The roof was slate with peaked dormers and matching brick chimneys on either side. Ivy crawled along the walls, making it difficult to discern where the stately house ended and the gardens began. Wide marble pathways, meticulously groomed and gleaming white in the afternoon sun, cut through all the greenery like pearl ribbons stitched to the hemline of an emerald gown.
There were several fountains, the biggest of which sat in the middle of the circular drive and sprayed water out of the pursed lips of a playful cherub, nude save for the granite cloth draped around its round hips.
For Evie, who was accustomed to sturdy colonial architecture, the romanticism of Hawkridge Manor was marvelously endearing. She couldn’t wait to see what the interior held. Specifically the ballroom, and the parlor, and her bedchamber. Oh, to sleep in a real bed again! With proper pillows stuffed with goose down and a mattress filled with wool and horsehair. It was going to be wonderful. And if not for the house party, she might have been tempted to disappear into her room for at least a week, rather like a bear seeking a cozy den for its hibernation.
But there was the house party to contend with. She could see the tents sprawled across the back lawn from here, colorful flags waving in the breeze as a herd of servants moved hastily about setting up chairs and tables and unrolling carpets so that the ladies’ heels wouldn’t sink into the grass.
“How many guests are you expecting?” she asked, slanting a peek at Weston out of the corner of her eye as the growler lurched to a halt underneath the dappled shade of a large elm tree and the driver came round to open her door.
“More than I’d like,” said Weston curtly. “The housekeeper, Mrs. Grimsby, will know what room you’re staying in if my sister is not readily available. Should you require anything during your stay, you may defer to her.
“If the town coach has preceded us here, your trunks should have already been brought upstairs. If not, I’ll see that they are delivered with all haste once they arrive. Meals are generally served in the solarium or out in the tents, the exception being the official receiving dinner which will be held tomorrow night in the formal dining room after all of the guests have arrived. If you are so inclined, you may also have platters brought directly to your chamber. Do you have any questions, Miss Thorncroft?”
“Yes,” she said, as annoyed with the rigid formality of his welcome address–one he’d doubtless delivered a hundred times before–as she’d been with his barbed cruelty at the tavern.
How can you be a wordsmith one minute and an emotionless cad the next?
How can you kiss me senseless and still look at me as if I were a stranger?
“Miss Thorncroft?” Weston prompted.
“Never mind.” Making use of the stepping crate the driver had thoughtfully placed beneath the door, Evie descended from the carriage with all the graceful aplomb of a young queen. She may have worn the attire of a common scullery maid, but that did not mean she had to perform the part. Similarly, she may have been losing her heart to the earl, but that did not mean she had any obligation to act on her feelings. Not until she’d managed to regain some of her balance, at least.
A bath, a nap, and a change of clothes, she decided. That would help return her to her old self and steer her away from this bewildering, doe-eyed debutante who suddenly fancied herself in love just because Weston had said her irises reminded him of velvet midnight and honeysuckle.
“I shall see you at the receiving dinner, my lord.” Chin held high, she reached into the carriage, picked up Posy, and sailed off towards the house in search of Mrs. Grimsby.
Weston waited until Evie was out of sight before he dismounted from the growler and flagged down a passing footman dressed in navy blue livery.
“See that this man is paid,” he said, nodding at the driver. “Include an excess of eight pounds to close an account I’ve opened at the Penn Street Tavern, and see that any personal belongings I have there are returned to me.”
“Right away, my lord.” The footman hurried away to find the butler, Mr. Stevens, who was the only other individual on the estate aside from Weston who had access to the coffers. While the vast majority of Weston’s wealth was tied up in land and investments, with nearly all of his liquid assets held in London at the Bank of England, he kept several thousand pounds readily available. Whereas his peers relied on notes to extend their credit, often far exceeding the balances in their accounts, he preferred to pay for things outright. Debt–of any sort–had never set well with Weston.
That task accomplished, he set out to complete the next item on his list.
Confronting Brynne.
He found his twin where he’d expected she would be: in a gazebo behind the solarium, partially obscured behind a wall of evergreens. She was painting, her arm moving in fluid strokes across a canvas considerably larger than the one she’d been working on in London.
“Something new?” Weston asked, resting his foot on the bottom step of the gazebo.
With a gasp, Brynne dropped her brush and clasped both hands to the middle of her chest. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!” she accused, leaning in her chair to glare at him around the edge of the painting. “You nearly frightened me half to death.”
“And you shouldn’t be so free to spread family business,” he said mildly.
She picked up her paintbrush and dipped the bristles in a clear glass half-filled with water, releasing a cloud of red pigment. “What are you talking about? And where have you been? I’ve already dispatched two outriders and was going to send a third if I hadn’t heard from you by dinner. Is Miss Thorncroft all right?”
He lifted a brow. “I’m well, thank you for asking.”
“Obviously, or you wouldn’t be standing here.”
When had it become his lot in life, Weston wondered, to be surrounded by belligerent females?
“Miss Thorncroft is fine. We were delayed due to a broken axle. And a sheep,” he added belatedly.
“Oh, did you hit one crossing the road?” Brynne said in dismay. “They’re not the brightest, are they? The poor thing. I do hope it didn’t suffer.”
He crossed his arms. “You do realize you’ve just displayed more concern for a stranger and a sheep than your own brother.”
“Miss Thorncroft is not a stranger. And sheep are very sweet. Unlike someone I know.”
The caustic note in Brynne’s voice had Weston lifting his other brow. While his sister was never afraid to speak her mind, she generally tempered her opinion with a more mild tone.
“Have I done something to offend you?” he queried.
“Yes,” she said. Then she buried her face in her hands. “No. No. You haven’t done anything. It’s…it’s this place. Being back here. You know it puts me on edge.” She lowered her arms. “I still fail to understand why you would have ever wanted it.”
“Because it’s mine. Would you prefer it had gone to ruin?”
“Yes.” Her hazel eyes flashed. “Yes, that is exactly what I’d like to happen…and exactly what this place deserves.”
“I am sorry,” he said gently. “But you know I cannot do that, sweetling.”
Weston was well aware of his sister’s feeling regarding Hawkridge Manor. He knew that while he saw it as his birthright, she looked at the plaster walls and saw a prison. While he and Brynne were not in the habit of keeping secrets from each other, she’d never told him of the years she’d spent confined here while he was away at Eton. He knew her time had been a misery only because of how much she detested returning. But she had never given him any specific details, even when he’d pressed.
“I know,” she muttered, reaching for her brush. After wiping it dry on the cotton apron she wore over her dress, she dabbed the tip of the bristles in a vat of crimson paint and resumed her work. “At least the light is better here than in the city. It’s so much clearer, and the days last longer without all the building and factories to block out the setting sun.”
He nodded in agreement. Brynne may have
despised Hawkridge Manor, but he’d invariably found a sense of solace here amidst the wandering streams and thick forests and undulating hills. He could hop on his favorite mount and ride for hours without running out of room, a freedom that did not exist amidst the crowded streets of London.
“What did you mean when you said I was spreading family business?” Brynne asked, her fair brow creasing in concentration as she focused on the middle of the canvas. Weston had no idea what she was painting, and he knew better than to ask. His sister was one of the kindest people he knew, but she’d happily scratch out the eyes of anyone who dared look at her artwork before it was finished.
“My pending engagement to Lady Martha,” he said.
Brynne’s brush hovered in midair. “What about it?”
“You told Miss Thorncroft.”
“I didn’t realize it was a secret.”
“It’s not.”
“Then what is the issue?”
“The issue is that my private affairs are none of Miss Thorncroft’s concern!” His shout was loud enough to startle a collection of sparrows in a nearby tree. Tiny wings flapping madly, they swooped low over the gazebo before vanishing into the heavy thicket of evergreens.
On a sigh, Brynne began painting again. “I may have mentioned, in passing, that you were considering a proposal. It was not a main topic of conversation, and I certainly was not ‘spreading family business’ when you and Lady Martha are all but public knowledge. Unless something between the two of you has changed, that is. You are still planning on getting down on bended knee before the house party concludes, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he said, ignoring the sharp twinge in his gut.
“That’s a shame. I was hoping your time spent with Miss Thorncroft may have…altered your perspective on what you want out of a marriage. Not to mention given you the opportunity to reflect on our little chat before you left.”
Weston snorted. “The only thing my time spent with Miss Thorncroft has done is convince me that I don’t want to spend any further time with her. The woman is…is…”
“Is…?”
How to summarize Evelyn in a word?
“Exhausting,” he concluded after taking a moment to think about it. “Miss Thorncroft is exhausting.”
Brynne smiled. “Americans do have their own unique source of energy, don’t they? I find it refreshing, myself.”
“I do not,” he said sourly.
“That much is apparent.” Her smile widened. “I am glad to hear that your little venture with Miss Thorncroft went well, and you’ve both made it to Hawkridge Manor no worse for wear. Although I would be remiss if I did not comment on your choice of apparel. That jacket does not suit you at all.”
“Well? Well?” he repeated, incredulous. “It was a bloody disaster from start to finish!”
“Now that you mention it, you do seem a tad flustered.”
The Earl of Hawkridge?
Flustered?
Preposterous.
“Don’t be absurd,” he said, raking a hand through his hair. “I’m just…weary.”
“Weary,” Brynne said skeptically.
“Indeed. I did not sleep well.”
“Where did you sleep, by the by? On the side of the road, or at an inn, or–”
“A tavern with rooms above.”
“A tavern! How very…rustic. Did you and Miss Thorncroft happen to have separate rooms, or–”
“Separate,” he said through gritted teeth. “Most definitely separate.”
“That’s good,” she said with a sage nod. “Wouldn’t want any pesky rumors swirling about. Not with you about to become engaged to another woman, that is. Think of the scandal.”
“Ah, yes. I’m sure that is what you were doing when you invited the sister of our father’s hidden by-blow to Hawkridge Manor to mingle with our closest friends and family for a month. Thinking of the scandal.”
“We don’t have any close friends or family, which is why I invited Miss Thorncroft.” Rising from her stool, Brynne removed her apron and hung it neatly on a hook pinned to the side of her easel. “I will admit, I did not anticipate that you’d have such a strong reaction to her.”
Weston’s foot slid off the step. “I am not–I am not having a reaction.”
“Stuttering as well,” his sister said sadly. “It’s an unfortunate thing to see.”
“Enough,” he snarled. “That is enough. Enough with the endless litany of questions, and the thinly veiled suggestions, and the talk of marriage proposals. Do you think I don’t know what you’re doing?”
“I’m not doing a thing,” she protested, even as a damning smirk betrayed her. “But if I was doing something, it would only be because I have your best interests in mind.” She sobered. “You cannot seriously ask Lady Martha to become your bride, West. She is wrong for you.”
“And I suppose you believe Miss Thorncroft is right?” he asked with a harsh laugh.
“Given she’s managed to chip through that infamous icy exterior of yours in less than two days, then yes, I do think she’s right for you. At the very least, she’s a sight better than Lady Martha. Butter would not melt in that woman’s mouth. And I don’t mean that as a compliment.” Brynne took a breath. “Wouldn’t you want to be with someone you could love instead? Someone who was capable of loving you in return?”
“We are not having this conversation again.”
“But–”
“No.” It was not a request, but a command. “That is the end of it, Brynne. I’ve done you the favor of allowing Miss Thorncroft to attend the house party, but I am not inclined to indulge any more of this absurd dialogue. For the duration of this event, I do not want to hear any further mention of engagements, or weddings, or”–he winced just to say it aloud–“love. Not even a hint of romance. Is that understood?”
“You’re an arrogant prat, Weston Weston,” said Brynne, not without affection.
“So I’ve been told,” he said dryly.
“You could always be a bachelor for the rest of your days. Gamble away the family fortune and sink into a life of excess and debauchery.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t tempt me.”
Weston spent the rest of his afternoon inspecting the new aqueduct system being installed on the eastern, crop-rich edge of the estate to ferry water to the western side where drier conditions had yielded poor returns for over a decade. When he finally returned to the manor, just shy of sunset, he was informed that he had a visitor waiting for him.
“Sterling.” Expertly concealing his surprise at seeing Sterling Nottingham, the Duke of Hanover, standing in the middle of his private study, Weston sat in a large leather chair and gestured for his unexpected guest to do the same.
The two men had met at Eton. They hadn’t been best mates, per se, but they’d gotten along well enough and had extended their acquaintanceship beyond their school years, occasionally meeting up at a gambling hell or attending a race together. It wasn’t difficult to maintain a casual friendship with Sterling. As amiable and charming as Weston was cold and reserved, the duke was highly regarded by all who knew him.
“I did not think I’d be seeing you until the Season started,” Weston continued. “I wasn’t aware you’d accepted your invitation, or that you’d be here this early.”
“Wasn’t going to,” Sterling replied, remaining on his feet as he perused Weston’s large collection of liquor kept in a glass case trimmed in mahogany. “House parties aren’t my usual source of entertainment. No offense.”
“None taken,” Weston said dryly. “I am not overly fond of them myself.”
“Your sister has outdone herself with the decorations, as usual. I especially enjoyed the little soaps molded into hearts. Very sweet.”
Heart soaps.
Brynne hadn’t mentioned any heart soaps.
Given that he had deliberately stated he wanted to see nothing over the next few weeks that could possibly be perceived as romantic, Weston co
uld only assume the soaps were an oversight. One that needed immediate correction.
For an instant, during his long, solitary ride back to the manor, he had let his mind wander…and it wasn’t soon before his head was filled with images of Evie, dressed only in a sliver of red satin.
The things he’d done to her on that ride…it was wicked incarnate. And the last thing he needed was anything that might intentionally provoke his ardor…or hers. For while he may have initiated their encounters, Evie certainly hadn’t shied away from them.
She was as passionate a female as any he’d ever kissed, and while she lacked the finesse of a mistress skilled in the art of seductive practices, she more than made up for her inexperience with raw, unbridled enthusiasm.
Kissing Evie…being kissed by Evie…was like touching the sun. It was bright and beautiful. But getting that close to something so hot was not without consequence and, if given the choice, Weston would always prefer the familiar, emotionless touch of cold against his flesh instead of heat.
Fire was unpredictable.
Uncontrollable.
Untenable.
And he didn’t need damned soap hearts floating around to remind him how much he had loved the lick of the flame.
“Where are they?” he demanded.
“In the receiving baskets in our rooms. Along with a miniature flask of champagne–quite clever, that–and chocolate in the shape of–”
“Let me guess,” Weston bit out. “Hearts.”
Sterling nodded. “It appears to be the running theme. Am I to assume we are preemptively celebrating your engagement to Lady Martha Smethwick?”
Martha. The woman he should have been daydreaming about, if he was to dream of any.
Instead, she was the furthest thing from his mind.
“I wasn’t aware I’d made my plans to propose public,” he said.
“Come now. You should know better than most that there is no such thing as a secret in the ton. Which is why I’m here.” Finally settling on a bottle, Sterling twisted off the cork on a circular bottle of scotch and carefully poured the amber liquid into two glasses. Carrying one over to Weston, who accepted it gladly, he kept the other for himself and took a sip. “Excellent vintage. Scottish?”
Entranced by the Earl Page 10
