Chapter One

London Residence of the Earl of Hawkridge

September 1870

"What the devil are you doing in here?"

Evelyn Thorncroft, better known as Evie to her family and friends, did not flinch at the Earl of Hawkridge's harsh tone. Instead, she tilted her head, arched a dark brow, and said, "I could ask you the same thing."

"Me?" he said incredulously, slapping a hand on top of the carriage roof with such force that it startled the matching team of grays. With a snort, they began to prance nervously in place as the driver attempted to settle them. "This is my carriage."

"You are welcome to use it, if you'd like." Graciously sweeping her mauve skirts to the side, Evie patted the velvet upholstered seat beside her. "There is more than enough room for two."

Last night, when they'd met at the Countess of Beresford's ball, the earl's eyes had been a cool, soft gray. A gray that had turned black as a storm cloud when Evie had revealed her name to him.

This morning, his gaze was hard as steel, and his freshly shaven jaw all but radiated with tension. He was absolutely furious to see her. But then, she'd suspected he would be. She'd even prepared herself for it, which was why she hadn't jumped when he had wrenched the door open and glared at her with all the ferocity of a snarling bear.

All things considered, his anger was a compliment. After their waltz had abruptly ended with the earl stalking away, Evie had taken it upon herself to ask a few discreet questions about Weston, the Earl of Hawkridge.

She'd learned that he was outrageously wealthy. She'd learned that he was an adept equestrian. And she'd also learned that he was as notorious for his self-control as he was for his lack of emotion.

Cold as a glacier, one woman had said.

But handsome as sin, another had sighed.

Evie agreed with both opinions, although there was nothing the least bit cold about the fire burning in the earl's eyes as he stared at her. She liked that her unexpected appearance had sparked such a volatile reaction. It revealed a crack, however slight, in all that armor.

And she was the one yielding the chisel.

"Get out," Weston growled, jabbing a finger at the ground. "Now."

"Are you inviting me inside for tea?" she asked brightly. "How splendid."

A vein bulged in the middle of his temple. "I am not inviting you anywhere, Miss Thorncroft, except out of my sight. I do not know how you came to be in this carriage, and I do not care. But you will depart it immediately."

"Do people do what you tell them?" she asked curiously.

"Unequivocally."

Her lips curved. "Well, I pride myself on being the exception. If you're not going to share the carriage with me, Lord Hawkridge, would you mind closing the door? There is a slight chill in the air, and I wouldn't want to catch a sniffle."

"Did your sister put you up to this?" he demanded.

Evie clucked her tongue. "Joanna is as much my sister as she is yours."

Courtesy of the private detective that Joanna and Evie had hired to help them track down their mother's stolen ring (their reason for coming to London in the first place), they'd discovered that Weston was Joanna's half-brother. And that he was the one who had taken the ring. Or had it taken. The exact details were still a tad murky and it was all a tad confusing.

In short, Joanna was the result of a scandalous secret affair between Anne Thorncroft, Evie's mother, and the Marquess of Dorchester, Weston's father. The affair had been so secret that even Joanna hadn't known who her real father was until the sisters followed the trail of the stolen ring all the way to London and everything had started to come to light.

Including the fact that Weston was their thief.

And he had no intention of returning what he'd taken.

"You and your sister can sod off all the way back to Boston because you're not getting your greedy hands on my family's ring ever again," she believed had been his exact words when she'd asked if she could have the ring.

If his current thunderous expression was any indication, it didn't seem as though a good night's sleep had changed his mind any.

Pity, really.

For him, that was.

If Weston had been more agreeable, they could have handled things the easy way. The polite way. If there was anything Evie had learned during her time in England, it was that the British were exceedingly polite.

But she was an American.

An American who wasn't going to be leaving England without that ring on her finger…one way or another.

"My father's illegitimate offspring means nothing to me," Weston said coolly. "And you mean less than that, Miss Thorncroft."

Evie winced. "This is going to be very awkward then, I'm afraid."

The corners of his mouth tightened. "What is?"

"Why, it's just that we're going to be sharing a roof for the next four weeks. I'd hoped we might be able to start off on better footing, but…" she trailed off with a delicate shrug. "I suppose that we will have plenty of time to strike up an amicable relationship over the coming days."

"What are you talking about?" he scowled.

"She hasn't told you?" Evie said in feigned dismay. "Oh, dear."

His eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Who?"

"Lady Brynne. She's invited me to Hawkridge Manor. For the house party," she clarified when Weston remained silent.

At the news, a muscle leapt high in his cheek. His hands curled into fists. For an instant, Evie thought he was actually going to lose his temper. But it seemed his callous reputation was well-earned, because Weston didn't yell. He didn't even speak at all. Raking her with a final scornful glance, the type of look generally reserved for a piece of trash after it was scraped off the bottom of a shoe, the earl turned on his heel and strode away.

Goodness, Evie thought, her blue eyes sparkling with anticipation. This is going to be fun.

"brYNNE!" Weston's bellow echoed through the large foyer, reaching all the way through his seven-bedroom brick manor to the rear gardens and sending the servants scurrying out of his way as he marched down the main hallway in search of his quarry.

Normally, he detested raising his voice, having been taught that if a man could not get what he wanted with a civil tone, then he didn't deserve to have it. But if there was ever a time to shout, surely it was upon learning that his twin sister had invited his sworn enemy to spend a bloody month with them in the countryside.

He hadn't been able to abide the sight of Evelyn Thorncroft for thirty seconds after he'd learned who she really was! What made Brynne think he could possibly be in the same company as that money-grubbing hoyden for thirty days?

After looking in the music room, the library, and the parlor to no avail, he stepped out onto the rear terrace and stopped short when he saw his sister painting in the shade of an oak tree, her fair brow furrowed in concentration as her brush swept across the canvas in swift, agitated strokes.

"Do you mind?" she said without bothering to lift her head. "You're blocking my natural light."

It was fitting, he supposed, that the last time they'd discussed Joanna and Evelyn Thorncroft they were in this very spot. Brynne had been painting then, as well. But then she was always painting, her quiet nature much more suited to the arts than socializing over a game of whist.

If he recalled correctly, she'd asked him what he planned to do if Joanna requested the ring back. The ring that family tradition dictated belonged to his future bride, not in the hands of one of his father's by-blows. And he'd replied that he would give it to their dear half-sister…over his cold, dead body.

Weston stood by that proclamation. He'd rather see the damned ring destroyed than return it to the daughter of his father's mistress. A mistress that Jason Weston had taken before his wife, the Marchioness of Dorchester, was barely in her grave.

She'd died giving birth to Weston and Brynne.

A tragic demise made worse by her husband's betrayal, or so that was how Weston viewed it. Which was why he wanted nothing to do with Joanna or Evelyn.

Especially Evelyn.

Evelyn Thorncroft, with her guileless blue eyes and perfect porcelain skin and pink, voluptuous mouth, was the last person on earth he would ever want at Hawkridge Manor. Let alone for the annual Weston house party!

The exclusive event, held every year right before the beginning of the London Season, was another tradition. Started by Weston's grandfather, the Duke of Caldwell, as a means to celebrate his recent engagement, it had been carried on by Weston's father before it finally passed to Weston himself.

It was an obligation he took seriously, both as an earl and an heir. His grandfather, while alive at the advanced age of seven and eighty, was in no condition to play host to two dozen guests, and his father, quite frankly, couldn't be bothered.

As soon as Weston came of age, the marquess had tossed the party into his son's lap with all the carelessness of a horse swatting at a fly before he took off on a six-month holiday to his hunting lodge in Scotland.

He was there now, or so Weston assumed, having not seen hide nor hair of him since the Thorncrofts came to town. Good riddance, as far as he was concerned. Weston and his father had never been particularly close, and after Weston found a letter that had led to his discovery of the secret affair between the Marquess of Dorchester and Anne Thorncroft, an affair that had resulted in a child his father had never bothered to mention, the distance between them had grown to an immeasurable length.

When confronted by his son, Jason claimed that Anne Thorncroft was the "love of his life". As if Weston men were actually capable of falling in love.

For five generations, they'd married for duty and little else, resulting in marriages that were as passionless as they were practical. Weston had been set on continuing in the path forged by his predecessors with Lady Martha Smethwick, a bland woman with impeccable manners whose family was known for producing sons.

But when he'd gone to his father to ask for the family ring, a priceless heart-shaped ruby framed on either side with diamonds, he had been shocked (and subsequently enraged) to learn that Jason had given the ring away.

To his American mistress!

"If you want it, then go find it," his father had said, and so that was exactly what Weston had done.

It had cost him a small fortune, but he'd gotten what he wanted in the end.

He always did.

And what he wanted right now was an explanation for why Evelyn Thorncroft, of all people, was sitting in his carriage outside of his house.

"Do you have something you'd like to tell me?" he asked his sister after stepping out of her beloved "natural light".

"You know, there was something…" Tapping the edge of her brush against her chin, Brynne's nose wrinkled thoughtfully. "That's it. Now I remember. The green fabric I wanted to reupholster the dining room chairs in doesn't complement the wall in the way that I'd hoped, and I will need to choose another. Do you prefer eggplant, or more of a plum shade? I like the eggplant, personally, but I'm afraid it may be a tad too–"

"I don't care about chairs," he interrupted between clenched teeth. "Why the hell is Evelyn Thorncroft under the impression that she's been invited to Hawkridge Manor?"

"Oh!" Brynne smiled brightly. "That's because she has. Once the chairs are reupholstered, I really think we should commission a new sideboard. There's a lovely furniture maker in Berkley Square that everyone has been raving about, and–"

"No," he snapped.

His sister's smile faded. "No, you don't want a new sideboard, or no, you don't like the furniture maker? Maybe if you saw a few of his pieces you'd change your mind. We could go this morning, if you'd like, before we depart for the country."

Tilting his head up to the clear blue autumn sky, Weston prayed for patience. While sisters had their merits, and Brynne was better than most, it went without saying that siblings were a burden. Was it any wonder that he didn't want another?

"I did it," said Brynne after a long, heavy pause. "I invited her."

"I figured as much." Dropping his chin, he met his twin's hazel eyes. "The question is what you hoped to accomplish with such a ridiculous stunt."

"It's not ridiculous," Brynne said defensively. "Evie is our family, and–"

"She is not our family." For some reason, Weston felt a primal urge to make that distinction. Maybe it was because–for a very, very brief moment–he'd fancied himself attracted to the raven-haired beauty who had stunned him with her beauty and charmed him with her wit. He hadn't known who she was, of course. If he had, he never would have asked her to dance. Never would have leaned in to detect the scent of her perfume, an exotic blend of jasmine and citrus. Never would have admired the play of the candlelight across the top of her breasts. Never would have gazed at her plump pout and imagined what it tasted like. What she tasted like.

But that was all before.

Before he knew her name and what she was after.

Now he wanted nothing to do with her. This woman who was his half-sister's sister.

Unfortunately, it appeared Brynne had other ideas.

"Evie may not be our family by blood, but she is connected to us," his twin countered. "I should like to get to know her. We met last evening at the ball, and I found her to be exceedingly fresh and facetious."

Weston glowered. "I think we have a different definition of the word facetious."

"To be completely forthright," Brynne went on, ignoring him, "I extended the same invitation to Joanna, but it seems she will soon be returning to Boston."

"Good riddance," he said bitterly. Then his eyes narrowed. "Why isn't Evelyn accompanying her?"

"Because she is attending our house party," Brynne explained with the patient tone of a parent speaking to a child who was having great difficulty grasping a simple arithmetic. "I've already sent our driver to collect her."

"Oh, I'm aware. She's here."

"She is?" Brynne gasped. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Crossing his arms, Weston watched in tightlipped silence as his sister leapt to her feet, nearly toppling her easel in the process. She whirled in a circle, then spun back, before glancing down at her own hand still clutching her paintbrush.

"There it is," she said in relief before she swished the bristles clean in a cup of water and carefully returned the brush to its rightful box. Then she untied her painting frock, straightened her hat, and all but skipped up the stone steps to the terrace where Weston was standing. "I suppose we won't have time to visit the furniture maker after all."

Weston smiled pleasantly at his sister.

She smiled back at him.

His mouth flattened. "You're going to march yourself out there and explain that you made a mistake. Tell her we don't have the room to accommodate a last-minute guest."

"But we do have the room. Hawkridge is enormous."

"Then tell her we don't have the means to get her there."

"She is sitting in our carriage as we speak."

He threw his arms up. "Then tell her the bloody sky is falling! I don't care. Evelyn Thorncroft is not attending this house party. And that's final."

Now it was Brynne's eyes that narrowed. Although renowned the ton over for her ladylike demeanor and quiet grace, his sister possessed the same spine of steel that he did, and when she put her foot down on something she rarely removed it. "Don't you dare take that tone with me, Weston Weston."

He grimaced. "You know I hate it when you call me that."

Why his parents had seen fit to give him the same moniker twice, he hadn't the faintest idea. It was an embarrassment he'd overcome by referring to himself as Hawkridge to his peers, and the more familiar Weston to his personal friends and family. Only Brynne dared bring up the unusual name, and every time that she did, he couldn't help but wince.

"And I hate it when you treat me as if I were your subordinate!" she retorted. "Just because I happened to be born the female twin and you the male does not make me less than you."

"According to British law it does," he pointed out.

"You're just trying to make me angry enough to forgo the party entirely, so that you can tell Evie she has been disinvited."

"Yes," he admitted unabashedly. "Is it working?"

"You're a cad, Weston."

He shrugged off the insult. "I'm much worse than that, sweetling."

"Oh, I am aware. But as a lady, it's the only word I can use."

Shifting his weight, he skimmed his nails, filed to blunt edges, along his jaw. "Why is this of such importance to you, Brynne? You didn't even know we had another sibling until a few weeks ago. We've gotten along fine until this point. Why complicate matters unnecessarily?"

"I'd hardly call being raised by an army of governesses and sent away to Cheltenham Ladies' College for a year of my life as fine," Brynne retorted, referring to England's most acclaimed boarding school for young women of distinguished families.

Weston's experience had been similar, except he'd attended Eton for four years instead of one. From fourteen to seventeen he'd only seen his father and sister over Christmas, and even then, the marquess had rarely made an appearance, abandoning his two children to celebrate the holiday in the company of servants.

He and Brynne couldn't complain, and they never had. Not when they'd been blessed with a roof over their heads and food in their bellies and more money than either of them could spend in a lifetime. Money that Weston had increased tenfold with a variety of entrepreneurial investments that expanded far beyond the passive income brought in by tenant farmers.

But while he and Brynne had never wanted for anything of a materialistic nature, there were other ways to starve a child, and they'd both longed for love. For affection. For even the simplest gesture that would indicate their father considered them as more than just another obligation to be met.

As Weston grew older, his paternal expectations had grown lower until they'd all but disappeared. But Brynne, he suspected, had held out hope that their sire might suddenly turn into the father-figure they'd yearned for all those years spent alone in a vast, empty house.

His hope had been that things would change when he went off to boarding school. While Brynne had dragged her heels, afraid to leave him, Weston had secretly counted down the days until he could start a new life far from the loneliness of his old one.

Instead, he'd learned two valuable lessons he'd carried with him into adulthood.

That he could be surrounded by people and still feel terribly alone.

And the only person he could depend on was himself.

"Given our upbringing, I understand why you might have an…attachment towards the Thorncrofts," he allowed begrudgingly. "But they are not our family, Brynne. They're nothing like us."

Her lips twisted in a humorless smile. "At this point, I surely think that is to their credit. Why would anyone in their right mind want to be like us, West? Yes, we've titles and wealth and prestige. But what have we really accomplished with our lives? I spend all my days painting because I haven't a single friend I'd genuinely like to spend time with. Father would prefer to sit in a hunting lodge than have tea with his children. And you're about to propose to a woman you don't even like."

"I like Lady Martha."

"What is her favorite color?"

"Why is that of any importance?"

Brynne rolled her eyes. "That is exactly as I assumed. You've only selected her because she will make a suitable countess. And once she's given you an heir, the two of you can ignore each other for the next thirty years."

"And?" he said, not seeing the problem.

"Shouldn't we want more for ourselves?"

His sister's words struck a chord deep down inside of Weston. A chord he'd gone out of his way not to touch. Did he want more than a loveless marriage to a lady who invoked nothing more than vague stirring of apathy?

Of course.

He was a cad, not a fool.

And it was because he wasn't a fool that he understood the merits of shackling himself to someone like Martha Smethwick. Someone who would never question him. Never challenge him. Never provoke him. She was going to be the perfect wife because she wouldn't require more of him than he was willing to give.

Frustrated, he raked a hand through his hair. The thick dark strands fell in a disheveled wave across his temple. What the hell did Brynne expect of him? That he marry a woman like Evelyn Thorncroft?

Now there was a bloody brilliant idea, he thought sourly. Why spend the rest of his life in relative peace and quiet when he could spend it arguing with a stubborn black-haired beauty who derived pleasure from making his blood boil?

Good God, he'd rather die a monk than marry that shrew.

"We are far more fortunate than most, Brynne." He gave his sister a stern look. "We'd do well to appreciate what we have." And never bring up this conversation again, he added silently.

"I do appreciate what we have." Her chin jutted. "You know that I do. But I also want–I need–a friend, West. Someone with whom to go shopping on Bond Street with, and gossip at a ball with, and share girlish secrets that I cannot divulge to my brother."

"And Miss Thorncroft is that friend," he said skeptically. "You've an entire city of eligible companions to choose from, and that is who you pick."

Brynne's paint-smeared hands went to her hips. "It isn't the same as a man selecting his wife. I actually want to enjoy myself when I am in their company."

As he gazed at his sister, Weston was reminded of his one vulnerability. Namely, the fact that he'd never been able to deny his twin anything.

When she was fourteen and distraught over the loss of their beloved family hound, he'd immediately gone out to the nearest farm and bought her two basset puppies, Ellie and Emma, who were now fully grown and no doubt eagerly awaiting her arrival at Hawkridge Manor where they patrolled the grounds in between eating and naps.

When she broke her ankle at sixteen and was made to remain indoors for the entire summer, he'd stayed with her every day to keep her company.

And when she turned eighteen and desperately wished for a white horse with black spots for her birthday, he'd scoured the entire country before importing an appaloosa mare from a private breeding farm in New York.

"I don't want to see Evelyn," he said, setting his jaw, "for the duration of the house party."

Brynne gasped in delight. "You won't! Except for when we all dine together, but I'll make sure that you're at opposite ends of the table. Oh, thank you, West!" Flinging her arms around his neck, she hugged him tight. "You're the best brother I have."

Weston gave his sister an awkward pat on the top of her head before he stepped back. Having been denied physical contact as a child (his governesses had been under strict orders to never embrace him, or even so much as wrap their arm around his shoulders, even if he were crying–especially if he were crying), he did not like to be touched as an adult.

Accepting comfort was a sign of weakness.

And the Earl of Hawkridge did not permit himself to be weak.

"I am the only brother you have."

"That's right. Which is why I hope you'll grant me one more very small favor," she said, squeezing her pointer finger and thumb together. "Miniscule, really."

Weston wasn't fooled for an instant. "What is it, Brynne?"

"You'll need to travel with Evie to Hawkridge."

"The devil I do," he snorted. "It's out of the question."

"But you know that with my travel sickness I'm far better suited to make the trip in the brougham. And with all of my art supplies, another person simply wouldn't fit. At this stage, it would take another hour, at the very least, to prepare the second town coach. Then you wouldn't arrive at the estate until well after sunset. It only makes sense that you and Miss Thorncroft share the conveyance that is ready to depart immediately."

"No," he said flatly.

"West…"

"No. Absolutely, unequivocally, no."