Chapter Thirteen

"Late night?" Weston asked Sterling as the two men rode back to Hawkridge Manor after a brisk gallop through the neighboring fields and the duke delivered a jaw-cracking yawn. His fourth, by Weston's estimation.

"In fact, it was." Allowing the gelding he rode its head, Sterling slumped in his saddle and dragged a hand across his face. His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks flushed. He'd stopped thrice to take a piss, and had been gulping water from his flask–Weston hoped it was water–like a damned fish. "I might have had a few too many nips of scotch last night."

"What gave you that indication?" Weston said dryly as they reached the stable courtyard and dismounted. Or rather, Weston dismounted. Sterling rolled off his horse like a potato sent down a chute and staggered for a bit before ultimately giving in to the demands of gravity and falling straight on his arse.

Handing his mount to a groom, Weston removed his gloves and tucked them into the waistband of his breeches before he held out his hand and hauled the duke back onto his feet, only to recoil in disgust as a very potent odor invaded his nostrils.

"Bloody hell, man. You've the stench of a distillery."

"Aye," Sterling agreed. "But it's a fine Scottish distillery."

Weston looked at the flask the duke was cradling against his chest like a precious babe, then back at Sterling. His eyes narrowed. "Is that the rest of my–"

"Glenavon scotch? Indeed." Sterling's grin was unrepentant. "As I said, it's an excellent vintage."

"You mean it was an excellent vintage," Weston grumbled as they walked towards the manor. "That was the last bottle I had."

"Then we'll just have to find Lord Campbell and get another. I've heard the Highlands are nice this time of year. Lots of buxom young maidens dashing about in plaid."

Weston lifted a brow. "Are whisky and wenches all you think about?"

"What else is there?" Sterling asked, appearing genuinely confused.

Ending a long day in the arms of the woman you love and waking up beside her in the morning.

The thought, as unbidden as it was unwanted, nearly caused Weston to stumble over thin air. As if he'd been the one who had spent the night drinking instead of Sterling. Something he would be hard pressed to do after the fact, given that the duke had polished off his best scotch.

"Let's just get you inside and cleaned up," he said shortly. "There's a breakfast this morning and a picnic outing planned for this afternoon. If I have to attend, then so do you."

"Shoot me now and be done with it," Sterling groaned.

Weston knew the feeling.

For a boy who had once yearned for companionship, it was the very height of irony that he had grown up into a man who despised it.

The loud noises, the socialization, the fawning attention from mothers who wanted nothing more than for their daughters to become countesses…if not for the obligation he felt to continue the tradition his grandfather had started, he would have ended the house party long ago.

At least Brynne enjoyed the planning and playing the part of hostess, for as much as it took her away from her painting. A role his twin would be subsequently released from once he was married to Evie.

No.

Not Evie.

Lady Martha, he corrected himself.

He was going to marry Lady Martha, whose carriage would be arriving within the hour. And Evie was going to marry a respectable nobleman of his choosing (which almost certainly ruled out Sterling, duke or not). They'd see each other occasionally at balls and at the theater, whereupon they would nod and smile politely, the time he'd brought her to rapturous release with the lap of his tongue and clutched her thighs as she trembled against him in tiny little aftershocks of pleasure all but forgotten.

Yes.

That was exactly what was going to happen.

He'd bet his last bottle of Glenavon scotch on it.

If he had a bottle of Glenavon scotch to bet with.

As Weston entered the foyer, he was relieved to see that it was blissfully quiet save for the rustling of servants as they dashed hither and yon, their arms filled with an assortment of linens and tea services. Given the early hour, all of the guests were either abed or preparing for the day that lay ahead. He didn't need to look at the schedule Brynne had given him, complete with dark lines and circles to emphasize the events where his presence was required, to know what was to occur. The first full day of the house party was invariably the same: a grand breakfast in the solarium, followed by a tour of the grounds and then a late outdoor luncheon on a hilltop with magnificent views of the entire estate. In the evening hours, the ladies and gentlemen would retreat to their respective corners, where they'd play whist or sip port and then retire to bed only to do it all over again on the morrow.

It was to be a long, repetitive month. The same as last year, and the year before that, and the year before that. The only difference of note this year was that when the house party concluded, he would have a fiancée. All he had left to do was pick how and when he wanted to propose.

Originally, he had planned to wait until the grand ball on the very last night. Take Lady Martha out to the gardens, compliment the way the moonlight shone in her hair or some other such nonsense, and get down on bended knee. She'd undoubtedly burst into tears of joy, he would slip his mother's ring onto her finger, and they would return to the ballroom to ringing applause.

It would be a perfectly suitable beginning to a perfectly suitable marriage.

Except…except he didn't know what color her eyes were.

How could he plan a proposal if he didn't know the color of her eyes?

He was fairly certain they were brown.

Or maybe hazel.

Gray?

He did know that Lady Martha's eyes weren't blue. Or if they were, they paled in comparison to Evie's vivid cerulean gaze.

And here he was, thinking about Evie once again.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. Damp with sweat from his ride, it nearly stood on end as he turned his attention to Sterling who'd gone into the adjoining parlor and, by all outward signs, had fallen asleep on a velvet settee.

"You're going to frighten the guests," he said, nudging the duke's boot as he walked by on his way to a sideboard that had been set with a modest assortment of breads, jams, fruit, and coffee for any early risers who might make their way downstairs in search of a bite to eat before the more formal breakfast was served.

Pouring himself a cup of dark, aromatic coffee, he added a splash of cream and then settled himself at a spindle-legged table across from Sterling who had begun to snore.

"Has the duke fallen ill?" Brynne queried some five minutes later when she swept into the parlor, looking as fresh as a daisy in a yellow dress trimmed with white.

"No, just the victim of a late night with a flask of my best scotch," Weston said with a disgruntled glance at Sterling. "You're up early."

"I am running nearly half an hour behind, actually. With the Smethwicks and Hodgesons due this morning before breakfast, and an unexpected guest to join us later this afternoon, it is going to be a busy day." Crossing briskly to the sideboard, she prepared a cup of tea before joining her brother at the table.

In unison, they sipped their collective beverages and stared at Sterling.

"If I stood accused of murder, I would probably be driven to drink as well." Brynne's nose wrinkled as a particularly loud sound erupted from the duke's nasal cavities. "Although I'd never snore as loud as that. Heavens, he sounds like a boar."

"A dying boar, maybe."

"Should we wake him?" she asked.

"I'd give him a few minutes longer," Weston said charitably. "Then call for a maid to dump a bucket of cold water on his head."

"He won't take kindly to that."

"No, most likely not."

Pursing her lips, Brynne blew a spiral of steam off the top of her tea. "Have you spoken to Miss Thorncroft?"

Coffee nearly sloshed over the rim of Weston's cup as his hand jolted. He quickly composed himself. "Why would you ask me that?"

"Because you were looking for her last night at the dinner," she reminded him. "I was just wondering if you'd found her."

"No, I haven't seen her. Who is the unexpected guest you mentioned?" He set his cup down to glare suspiciously at his sister. "It best not be Joanna Thorncroft."

One disruptive American under his roof was more than enough.

What the devil would he do with two of them?

"As much as I would like to have our sister here–" Brynne began.

"Half-sister," he interrupted.

She rolled her eyes. "You'll have to meet Joanna eventually. Sister or half-sister, she is our sister and I should like very much to have some kind of relationship with her, even if it is through letters sent across the Atlantic."

"A letter wouldn't be necessary. According to the Duke of Hanover, it seems Joanna has chosen to temporarily remain in London."

"Why, that's splendid!" Brynne cried. "You may not think so, West, but she and Evie never came here to do us harm. They wanted to find their family, and their mother's ring. You cannot continue to fault them for that."

"I don't," he admitted gruffly.

"You-you don't?" she asked with marked surprise. "When did you come to that realization?"

After I kissed Evie and the sun shone brighter, the air tasted sweeter, and my heart started to beat again.

He grimaced into his coffee. "I may have reacted…rashly when I first discovered our father's affair. I was angry with him, and I took that anger out on the Thorncrofts. Unfairly, it would appear."

"I've always found anger to be easier than acceptance," Brynne said quietly.

"Yes." Now it was he who looked at his twin with surprise. "Precisely. Now that cooler heads have prevailed, I've reconsidered my original position."

"Then we can host Joanna!" She clapped her hands. "How delightful. I'll send a carriage to collect her straightaway."

"No," he snapped. "Absolutely not."

By openly welcoming Joanna into his life and into his home, he'd be inadvertently extending the same invitation to Evie. And he wasn't about to go through all the trouble of finding her a husband just to have her waltzing back into his life whenever the mood struck.

It was one thing to tell a child they couldn't have candy and then put it up high on a shelf out of their reach. It was quite another to tell them it was forbidden and then dangle it right in front of their nose.

"Why?" Brynne inquired. "Joanna's sister is here, and her cousin. I can think of no better time to welcome her to Hawkridge Manor."

"Because…" As he couldn't tell his twin the truth, he struggled to find another reasonable excuse for not welcoming Joanna to the estate with all haste. "Because she is working for the private detective Sterling hired to exonerate him of murder, and I wouldn't want to distract her from such an important endeavor."

"Surely she can spare a few days," Brynne argued.

"Even if she could, do you really believe this to be the best environment in which to host a warm family reunion?" he asked with a sardonic tilt of his mouth. "The speculation and gossip incited by the sudden arrival of our father's illegitimate daughter would be all anyone spoke of for the duration of the house party. I doubt very much that Joanna would care to be the recipient of such attention."

Brynne frowned. "I hadn't thought of that."

"Once the Season commences and we're all in London, I will make it a point to extend an invitation."

"And if she's left England by then?"

"We'll send a letter."

Brynne raised her tea to her lips, then paused. "Your reluctance to have Joanna come to Hawkridge Mason wouldn't have anything to do with the other Miss Thorncroft, would it?"

"Nothing," he lied. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason. Other than you've been exhibiting strange behavior ever since you and Evie arrived. If I didn't know better…"

"If you didn't know better?" he prompted when she trailed away.

"I might start to suspect that you really do have feelings for her."

He pushed his chair away from the table. "We're not discussing this again."

"But–"

"Do not press me on this, Brynne. The matter has already been settled." Standing, he pointed his finger at her. "And don't think I wouldn't find out about the heart soaps."

"Those were all in good fun," she said with an airy flick of her wrist. "You needn't be so serious all of the time, West. It is going to give you indigestion."

"I'll be fine." He glanced at Sterling.

Good God.

Was that drool dribbling out of the side of the duke's mouth?

"What should we do with him?" Brynne asked, following his gaze.

"When will the Smethwicks and the Hodgesons be here?"

She rose to her feet. "In time for the breakfast, which is at half-past ten. You shall need to change out of your riding attire."

Weston nodded. "I'd planned on it. As for Sterling…we'll leave the poor sod him where he is for the time being. If he doesn't wake in the next hour, I'll send in a bucket. Meanwhile, we can direct the guests to the drawing room for coffee and tea."

The twins quit the parlor, making sure to close the door behind them.

"One final thing," he said absently as Brynne prepared to flit off to the solarium to ensure everything was being prepared to her exact specifications. "Sterling drank my last bottle of Glenavon scotch. Have you been in communication with Lord Campbell as of late? I know the two of you were close–"

The teacup his sister had carried with her out of the parlor fell to the ground with a loud crack and broke into pieces. On a gasp, she knelt and began to gather the shards until a maid rushed forward and took over the task.

"Are you all right?" Weston asked with concern. Taking Brynne by the elbow, he guided her to the foot of the staircase. "Did you cut yourself?"

Snatching her arm away, she curled it in tightly against her chest. "No, I…I am fine. The cup slipped. That's all. To answer your question, I have not been in communication with Lachlan. Nor should I ever care to hear his name again."

With that, she hurried away…leaving Weston to wonder if his wasn't the only conflicted heart at Hawkridge Manor.

Chapter Fourteen

Lady Ellinwood's gout had worsened overnight. An unfortunate turn of events for Evie's great-aunt (the condition was rumored to be quite uncomfortable), and an unexpected reprieve for her cousin, as it allowed Rosemary to sneak out from beneath her grandmother's thumb.

Taking full advantage of her cousin's temporary freedom, Evie had spent the early hours of the morning scrubbing, combing, and yanking all of the bandoline out of Rosemary's scalp. When she was finally finished, she was pleased to discover her cousin's hair were as beautiful as she'd suspected it would be. Soft and glossy with golden undertones, loose curls framed a face wide-eyed with astonishment as Rosemary stared at her reflection in the mirror.

Going through her various assortments of creams and powders, Evie had added a light dusting of rouge to define her cousin's cheekbones and a streak of kohl along her lash line to draw out the gray in her eyes. A thin layer of beeswax on the lips, and–

"I don't recognize myself," Rosemary breathed.

Inordinately pleased with the results she'd achieved, Evie met her cousin's gaze in the mirror and grinned. "Just wait until we get you into a dress from this decade."

When all was said and done, Rosemary no longer resembled a spinsterish wallflower. Instead, she absolutely shone in a gown of mint green silk with ruched sleeves and a scoop-necked bodice that flattered her bosom instead of hiding it, as if her natural curves were something to be ashamed of.

"You will have men fighting over you left and right," Evie predicted.

"Oh, I sincerely hope not," Rosemary said in dismay. "I wouldn't know the first thing to say to them. Usually, no one ever tries to speak directly to me if they can help it. I think it's because of Sir Reginald. For some reason, he makes people nervous."

"I can only assume it is because they are accustomed to seeing woodland creatures in the woods, not peeking out from your reticule. But you shan't have to worry about that presently, as Sir Reginald has remained at home. Here, put these on." Evie handed her cousin a pair of white kid gloves that extended up past the wrist and ended in lace. "There. As far as talking to men is concerned, all you need to do is smile and nod at whatever they say."

"That's it?" Rosemary said doubtfully.

"That's it," Evie promised. Returning to her dressing table, she dabbed a circular brush into a pot of pigmented chalk and dusted it beneath her eyes to disguise the dark shadows that loomed there courtesy of her late-night chat with the Duke of Hanover. "Most men like nothing more than to discuss themselves and their favorite hobbies in great detail, and if you give them the opportunity to do so, they will fill an entire conversation with the proper way to tie a fly for trout fishing."

"That sounds interesting. How do you tie a fly for trout fishing?"

"I haven't the vaguest idea. I don't actually listen to what they're saying. I just pretend to."

"And they never guess? That you're just pretending?"

Evie slowly lowered the brush. "Most of them don't, no."

"What about the ones who do?"

"They're rarely worth the trouble." She fixed a smile on her face. "It's almost time for the welcome breakfast. Why don't you go, and save me a seat. There's one last thing I want to fix with my hair, and then I will join you momentarily."

"All right." Off Rosemary flitted, leaving Evie alone. Even Posy was gone, having been taken on a walk by Hannah.

Turning her palms inward and pressing them on the edge of the dressing table, Evie met her own stare in the mirror. She'd needed every bit of her talent with creams and potions to disguise the lack of color in her face and the drab texture of her skin. Losing her heart to Weston, it seemed, did not agree with her. Like coming down with a cold, or having an allergic reaction to a sting. If the poets really wanted to capture what being in love was like, they could start by being honest about it.

As she saw him

Standing there

Her heart galloped

And her skin glistened

With red hives

All over her body

Let Elizabeth Barrett Browning write that and then see how many women wanted to fall in love.

Evie was willing to bet the number would shrink considerably.

After all, why would anyone want to feel as she did?

Hopeful and anxious.

Excited and tired.

Happy and afraid.

If any more emotions tried to fit inside of her, she might burst!

And there'd be no amount of rouge in the world to fix that mess.

Her one bright spot in a sky of clouds was that following her unusual interlude with Sterling, she had a better understanding of Weston. And she was going to use that newfound knowledge to her advantage. She needed to use it. Because Martha Smethwick was arriving today.

The woman Weston wanted to marry.

The woman he would marry, unless Evie convinced him that she was a better match.

Unless she convinced him that she was a better wife.

A better partner

A better lover.

Dissatisfied with the way she'd curled her hair (this morning, especially, she needed to look her very best as she was formally presented to the other guests, having skipped the receiving dinner the night before) she began to remove the pins in an attempt to loosen her coiffure, and had three of them clamped between her lips when the door unexpectedly slammed inward and Hannah rushed inside.

"Miss Thorncroft!" she cried.

"Mmmrpph?" Evie replied, startled by the intrusion. She spat out the pins. "Hannah, what is it?" She took in the streaks of dirt on Hannah's apron, and mob cap sitting askew on the side of the maid's head. "What on earth happened?"

"It was Drufus, Miss Thorncroft." Tears welled in Hannah's eyes as her hands knotted beneath her chin. "I didn't know he was outside."

"Who is Drufus?" Evie asked blankly. "One of the guests?" Her voice rose to a shrill, indignant pitch. "Did one of the guests do this to you?"

"No, Miss Thorncroft. Drufus is Lady Brynne's hound."

And Hannah had been walking Posy.

"Oh no," Evie whispered as horrific images filled her head. Tiny and defenseless, the lamb wouldn't have stood a chance against a large dog. "Oh, Hannah, don't tell me–"

"What is going on in here?" Weston demanded as his large, rangy frame filled the doorway. He was dressed in gray trousers and a shirt that was only partially unbuttoned, his black hair damp and curling at the ends. "I thought I heard a shout."

"It's Posy," Evie said, her eyes stinging as she met Weston's gaze. There was a terrible wrenching in her chest, the same kind she'd felt when she had happened to glance out the window and saw four solemn-faced soldiers marching up with the drive…carrying a wooden casket between them. Before they reached the door, she knew. She knew what they were going to say. She knew who the casket contained. Just as she knew that her lamb, like her father, was gone.

And it was foolish to feel this way about a pet when she'd struggled to express her grief over a person. But she had loved Posy. In the same unfettered, careless way that she'd loved father. Careless not because she hadn't cared. But because she'd taken every day with him for granted, as if his presence in her life would never falter. As if his time with her would never end. As if there was always going to be a tomorrow.

Then he'd died. Their tomorrow had ended. And with the exception of her sisters and her grandmother, she'd never allowed herself to love like that again. Until she and Weston had stumbled upon an orphaned lamb crying for its mother…and her heart, closed all these years without her even realizing it, had cracked wide open.

"What about Posy?" Weston strode into the bedchamber. Ignoring Hannah, he went straight to Evie and cupped her cheek, his gray gaze intently searching hers. "What is it, Evelyn?"

Later, she would recognize that it was the first time he'd used her Christian name. But in the moment, her misery was too great to notice such small details. "Hannah was taking her for a morning walk. And…and there was a dog. A hound."

"Drufus." The earl closed his eyes. "He's a bloody nuisance, but mostly harmless. Except when he comes across small game. Evelyn…I am so very sorry."

As a single tear trickled across her cheek, she burrowed her face into chest. "She was only a baby."

"Actually–" Hannah began.

"I'll find you another lamb." Weston wrapped his arms around her, cocooning her in a sturdy, protective embrace. "We can go today. Right this minute. We'll get two, if you like. Three even. We'll fill the damned drawing room with lambs. Just…just don't cry."

"I don't want another lamb," she said, indignant that he would even dare suggest such a thing. "I want Posy."

"Pardon me," Hannah began, "but–"

"If I could bring her back for you, I would," Weston said huskily, stroking her back. "But find comfort in knowing her last few days were filled with adoration and kindness and warm bottles."

There was comfort to be found in that, but not enough to lighten the weight of all the anguish pressing on her shoulders. Distantly, she wondered how Posy's death could cause such sorrow. But then, like water flowing down a mountain, so did grief run through everything.

The pain of loss had no beginning, no end. It could be suppressed, but never forgotten. And as she mourned the loss of a lamb, Evie instinctively sensed it wasn't just Posy that she was grieving. And the Earl of Hawkridge wasn't the only one who had staved off his suffering by surrounding himself in ice.

How hard she'd work to convince herself not to believe in love! She'd even tried to push Joanna into the same mindset, demanding that her sister marry a local suitor not because she loved him, but because she did not. And if something perilous had ever happened to Charles Gaines, there would be sadness, but no heartbreak.

It was why…it was why Evie had pursued Weston. To make herself a countess, and get her mother's ring, yes. Those were the reasons she'd maintained on the surface. But the sudden loss of Posy forced her to dive deeper…and in those murky, turbulent waters, she faced the truth.

She had wanted Weston because she never truly thought she'd ever fall in love with him.

And now she wanted him because she had.

Even if it meant risking this terrible agony should he ever leave her.

"I should like a small memorial in Posy's honor," she said hollowly. "I know it probably sounds absurd, but a white stone, or a wooden marker–"

"Anything," Weston said instantly.

Lifting her head, she managed to smile through her tears. He was showing such a sweet side of himself. She'd suspected he was capable of such tenderness. No man who carried a lamb nestled in his arms for an untold number of miles could be all strength and stone. But to have such gentleness directed straight at her…was there any doubt why her frozen heart had melted for this man?

"Miss Thorncroft," said Hannah, hesitantly raising her arm in the air as Weston and Evie gazed into each other's eyes. "If I may…I have something to tell you…that is, I fear there may have been a misunderstanding…"

Evie stifled her irritation.

Couldn't the maid see that she was trying to have a moment here?

"What?" she and Weston exclaimed in unison.

Hannah flushed. "Posy…Posy isn't dead."

Stunned, Evie whirled out of Weston's arms. "She isn't?"

"That is what I've been trying to tell you s-since Lord Hawkridge came in." As the maid darted a quick peek at the earl, her cheeks turned even redder. "Drufus started to chase Posy but, thankfully, a footman managed to grab hold of him before he got to her."

"Then where is she?" asked Weston, splaying his hand across the small of Evie's back.

"I don't know," Hannah said helplessly. "That's why I came to Miss Thorncroft right away. I chased Posy to the stables, but then lost sight of her in the bushes."

The stables.

That was all Evie needed to hear.

She bolted out of the bedchamber, with Weston right behind her.

"But what about the breakfast?" When she nearly fell over her own skirts, Evie yanked them up past her knees. For once, she did not care what she looked like or what others might think of her. Her only concern was getting Posy back safe and sound. Drufus may have been apprehended, but there were any manner of other dangers that awaited a lamb wandering lost around the estate. She might be attacked by a hungry fox, or trampled by a horse, or drowned in the pond.

Evie couldn't allow that to happen.

They couldn't allow that to happen.

Because for once, she and Weston were in complete lock step.

"Hang the bloody breakfast," he said grimly. "This is more important. And this way is faster." Linking his fingers with hers in an ironclad grip, he pulled her to the left and they ran down a narrow servants' corridor that led to a staircase, and the staircase to a door.

Squinting when she stumbled out into the bright morning sunlight, Evie clung to Weston's hand as they raced across a lawn slick with silvery dew. She slipped, her flat slippers affording her no purchase on the wet grass, and she would have fallen had the earl not been there to catch her.

Sliding his arm around her waist, he hooked his fingertips into the curve of her hipbone and tucked her against his body.

"Easy," he murmured in her ear. "I've got you."

Her head turned and, for a split second, she found herself completely and utterly entranced by the stormy depths of his gaze. Beneath the bodice of her dress, her heart slammed violently against her ribcage.

Boom boom. Boom boom.

Her lips parted.

His eyes darkened.

They leaned in close.

Closer…

"Baaaaaa."

From somewhere up ahead came the unmistakable bleat of a lamb, and the spell broke.

Weston cleared his throat. "We should, ah…"

"Yes," she nodded. "We should."

Keeping a wider distance than before, they hurried to the barn where a stable hand leading a sleek chestnut mare across the front paddock greeted them in surprise.

"My lord," he said, bringing the horse to a halt. "I wasn't told you would be embarking on another ride this morning. Should I have a mount readied for you, or–"

"That won't be necessary," Weston interrupted. "We're here for a sheep."

"A sheep," said the stable hand, appearing confused.

Evie could only assume it wasn't every day the Earl of Hawkridge walked into the stables demanding a farm animal that wasn't a horse.

"About this tall," she said, cupping her hands twelve inches apart. "White. Fluffy. Ears that stick out to the side."

"I am fairly confident he knows what a sheep looks like," Weston said dryly.

"A description cannot hurt anything," she defended.

The stable hand scratched underneath his cap. "Haven't seen any sheep here. Maybe it went to the pond? Something has the swans spooked. They haven't been in the water all morning that I've seen, which is unusual for them. Figured that old snapping turtle was back, but maybe your sheep went over to get a drink and frightened them."

"The pond," Evie repeated.

"This way," Weston said, grabbing her hand.

Off they went, across the lawn and around the side of the house. By the time they reached the pond, Evie was short of breath, but Weston didn't appear the slightest bit winded. On the contrary, their mad dash around the grounds of the estate seemed to have invigorated him.

The wind had swept his hair off his temple in a disheveled wave of obsidian silk. A button at the top of his shirt had come undone, revealing a golden swath of skin that was covered in a sheen of perspiration. There was a light in his eye that she'd never seen before. A glint of happy defiance, as if by temporarily leaving the manor and all of his responsibilities behind, he had stripped himself of the chains that bound him to duty and honor and obligation.

Standing beside the pond, he was just a man looking for a lamb.

And she was just a woman, looking at the man she loved.

While also looking for Posy, of course.

Even though Weston's muscular chest was, admittedly, very distracting.

A flash of movement out of the corner of her eye swung her attention to a thicket of reedy marsh plants. Hidden in the middle of them, her tiny tail swishing furiously, was Posy. Chewing on a cattail, of all things.

Warm, welcome relief flooded through Evie.

"Weston," she said, tugging on his sleeve to gain his attention. "There she is."

Kicking off his boots and rolling up his trousers, Weston waded into the water. It appeared Posy, in her eagerness to taste the cattails, had wandered into the pond and gotten trapped on a bank of mud. With a squelching sound, Weston pulled her free and extended his arms towards Evie so that she could grab the shivering lamb while he made his way out.

"There you are," she whispered, pressing her face into Posy's soft fleece. "I was terribly worried. You are not to run away like that again, do you understand? I know you're just an animal, and you cannot understand a word that I'm saying, but you're very special to me and I don't want to lose you."

Posy gave a bleat, which Evie took as a yes. Kissing the top of her head, she set the lamb down to dry off on the grass. The mud had gone all the way up to Posy's belly, and she was going to need another bath before she could return to the house.

By the look of things, Weston was going to require a bath as well.

"Are you stuck?" she called out, managing–just barely–not to chortle with laughter at the sight of the earl staggering through the muck. Given that he weighed considerably more than Posy, he'd sunk far deeper into the mud than she had. It was nearly up to his knees, and the harder he tried to get to the shore the higher it went.

"No," he gritted between clenched teeth, "I am not stuck."

"What a relief. Then if you're fine, I'll take Posy and–"

"Wait," he called out.

"Yes?" she chirped, batting her lashes.

He glared at her. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Am I enjoying the fact that the mighty Earl of Hawkridge is stuck in a pond with mud up to his waist and is now dependent on me to help him?" She tapped a finger against her chin. "Let me think…let me think…why, yes. Yes, I do believe I am. Immensely."

"Just find a stick, or a length of rope. Anything that I can use to pull myself out of this Godforsaken quagmire."

"I will," she assured him. "But first, you and I are going to have a chat."

Weston grimaced. "I'd rather not."

"Given your current predicament, I don't know if you have much of a choice. This may take a while. You don't mind if I make myself comfortable, do you?" Splaying out her skirts, she sank to the ground in a graceful flutter of muslin. "There. Now where were we?"

"I was considering letting the mud take me," he said darkly.

She clucked her tongue. "You needn't act as if a having conversation is the equivalent of nursing a sore tooth."

"Isn't it?"

Obstinate rogue, she thought with far greater affection than the first time she'd referred to him as such. Having reached a better understanding of her own feelings, especially those directed at the swamp monster standing in front of her, Evie wanted to clear the air between them. She wasn't nearly ready to confess her love for Weston. Not when there existed the very strong possibility that he'd reject her outright.

Last year, while experimenting with adding turmeric to one of her many face creams in an attempt to calm a horribly embarrassing rash of pimples across her cheeks, Evie had slathered the concoction over her entire face. All had seemed well…until she woke up the next morning and her skin was orange. That incident (which her sisters still teased her about) had taught her a valuable lesson.

When trying something new, it was best to test a small, inconspicuous spot first.

That's what she was doing with the earl.

Testing.

And keeping her fingers crossed that she did not turn into a fruit.

"I shall make it short and to the point, then," she said, bending her knees and looping her arms around them. "I did not care for the way you last spoke to me, Lord Hawkridge. Our so-called encounters, the majority of which you instigated, are not lapses in judgment. I am not a lapse in judgment."

"Miss Thorncroft–"

"I am not finished." There was, she found, a certain power in knowing that the individual you were speaking to had to listen. If this was how men felt when they addressed a room, it was no wonder they talked so much. "There is something between us, Lord Hawkridge. Something tangible. Like a…like a shock of electricity, or a bolt of lightning. And I know you feel it, too. I know you do."

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "I won't deny that there is a strong physical attraction between us, Miss Thorncroft. One that I did not anticipate or expect. I will also not deny that my prior use of words to describe our encounters was…poor. Be that as it may, continuing to act upon our baser instincts would be unwise."

"Why?" she asked, canting her head.

"Because…because it just would," he scowled.

"That isn't a reason," she pointed out.

"It's my reason."

"Do you want me to get a stick or not?"

"Fine." He threw up his arms. "Our passion must be quelled because there is no future for us, and although I am hardly a paragon of virtue, I am not so evil that I would ruin an innocent."

"Do you see no future between us because you love Lady Martha?"

"What?" His harsh laugh was loud enough to startle Posy, who came bounding over to Evie and hopped onto her lap, cloven hooves digging painlessly into her thighs. "No, I do not love Lady Martha. Why should I ever want to invite such chaos into my life?"

"But you intend to marry her." It was not a question, but a statement. One that Weston did not bother to refute.

"I fail to see where this discussion is headed. There is an apple tree behind you. If you could find a branch–"

"Why her?" Evie persisted. "You could have any woman you wanted. Why Lady Martha? Is there something special about her in particular?"

"We've common interests and she will be a satisfactory countess. Miss Thorncroft, the water is not exactly warm. If you'd like to continue this–"

"Have you kissed her like you kiss me?"

Weston's countenance went absolutely blank, like a page that the printing press had accidentally skipped over. "That is none of your concern."

"Then you haven't." That gave her some reason to hope. "Have you kissed her at all?"

"I believe this conversation has reached its conclusion. The stick, Miss Thorncroft." His gray eyes glittered with annoyance. "Now."

Evie ignored him. A benefit of being the one on the shoreline.

"When all is said and done, don't you want your marriage to have been more than just satisfactory?" she asked quietly. "I do. I used to think such things were trivial. Love and lust and romance. That tingling sensation you get at the top of your spine when you meet the gaze of someone you desire. The breathless anticipation of that first kiss. The contentment to be found at sitting beside them for supper and sharing the events of your day. But in fact, it is those things, those moments, that are the most important of all, I think. Even more so because you cannot place a price upon them." A sad, poignant smile slipped across her lips. "All the titles and all the money in the world cannot purchase love, Lord Hawkridge. It is the one entity that cannot be bought or sold or traded. I wish I had understood that sooner. But I do now, and I know what I want because of it. Do you, my lord? Do you know what you want?"

As she met his angry gaze, Evie silently implored him to take that step off the ledge she knew he was capable of, if only because she'd taken it. And if she, the most cynical of all her sisters when it came to love, had permitted herself to fall…then surely Weston could, as well.

For a fraction of a second, there was a flicker in those steely gray eyes of his.

A softening.

A yearning.

But before that flicker had the opportunity to grow into a flame, his expression shuttered and all of his emotions were abruptly concealed behind a towering wall of ice that she feared herself incapable of penetrating even with the sharpest of chisels.

"What I want is get out of this bloody mud and to not be pestered with such ridiculous questions. This right here," he muttered, more to himself than to her, even though her ears were perfectly capable of hearing him. "This is exactly why I am going to marry Lady Martha Smethwick."

Evie stared at him. She'd poured out her heart. She'd emptied her very soul. Which wasn't exactly an easy thing to do for someone who equated being in love with breaking out in hives. And this–this–was his response?

Her limbs felt as if they were formed from wood as she stood and gathered Posy in her arms. "If you'd like to free yourself," she said coldly, "might I suggest calling upon your satisfactory fiancée for assistance."

"Where are you going?" he demanded when she began to walk away from the pond. "Miss Thorncroft? You cannot leave me here. Miss Thorncroft! God damnit. Don't you dare–"

Closing her ears to Weston's shouts, Evie sailed off towards the manor without looking back.