Chapter Seventeen

It rained for the next four days straight.

Trapped inside lest she wished to succumb to a good drenching, Evie spent a large portion of her time with Rosemary. The cousins explored the manor's vast art collection, worked on their embroidery, listened to an impromptu recital put on by Lady Martha (who, it went without saying, was a consummate pianist with a lovely soprano), and spent a memorable night skidding down a marble hallway in their stockings after imbibing too much wine at dinner.

For the most part, Evie managed not to think about Weston at all…until came the night, and he was all she could think about.

Staring up at the canopy above her bed while rain pummeled the windows and wind howled through the trees, she went over every conversation they'd ever had, beginning with when they'd met.

He'd asked her to dance and without knowing anything about him except that he had the most arresting stare she had ever seen, she'd accepted.

When she had bumped into his chest (his fault, as he'd pulled her into a turn a tad too forcefully), she'd been surprised at the spark she felt. The first sign that they were always destined to catch fire.

"I am sorry, my lord," she'd said, even though she hadn't been. Not really.

"The error was mine," he had replied, although the gleam in his gray eyes revealed that he wasn't sorry for it.

"I suspected as much, but am always loath to point out other's errors unless they are deserving of it."

"And I am not deserving of critique?" he'd asked.

"That remains to be seen," she had replied coyly.

Moving in flawless unison, they'd waltzed around a slower couple and Weston's hand had slid just a little further down her back than propriety allowed.

"What is your name?" he'd wanted to know. "You are not from around here."

"Was it the accent that gave it away?"

"That, and I never forget a face."

"Do you find it memorable?" she'd asked. "My face, that is."

"You're beautiful. Only a blind man could forget you."

"And you're not blind."

"I am not," he'd confirmed.

"Just rude, then, for asking me to introduce myself to you when it is a gentleman's duty to introduce himself to the lady."

He had grinned at her. A scoundrel's smile, she remembered thinking. If only she had savored it more, as she'd yet to see it again.

In the present, Weston was…guarded. In both his actions and his reactions. But that night at the ball, before she'd told him her name, he'd been remarkably more relaxed. Charming, even. And perhaps…perhaps a tiny part of her had started falling even then.

"I never said I was a gentleman," he had said.

Her eyes had sparkled with coquettish amusement. "That's fine, as I never claimed to be a lady."

Unfortunately, things had gone downhill from there, and had culminated in Weston telling her to sod off before he'd stormed away.

Such a charmer, that earl.

And now she couldn't sleep but for thinking of him.

Evie rolled onto her stomach, then her side. She placed a pillow over her head. Under her head. Kicked the blankets off, then dragged them back on. At last, with a loud, annoyed huff of breath, she gave in to her Weston-induced insomnia and padded downstairs and into the kitchen in search of a warm glass of milk.

The house was still and silent, almost eerily so, causing her to cast an apprehensive glance over her shoulder as she retrieved some milk powder from the pantry and mixed it with water before pouring it in a kettle to heat in the stone hearth where a handful of logs glowed red and orange.

There was a stove, a massive, iron beast fueled by coal, but it had been shut down for the night and she dared not attempt to revive it. Thankfully, while a tad old fashioned, cooking in the fireplace was all but foolproof and as she poured her steaming milk into a mug, she silently thanked whatever servant had thought to bank the fire.

While Evie hadn't enjoyed the mindless chatter and socialization over the past few days as much as she'd anticipated that she would, she did love having a bevy of maids and footmen at her beck and call. Why, she barely could set an empty teacup down before it was filled again! There was no cleaning for her to do. No laundry that needed washing, or food that had to be prepared. Courtesy of Hannah, she didn't even have to style her own hair if she didn't want to.

Being waited on hand and foot was a welcome respite from arguing with Joanna and Claire over whose turn it was to scrub the water closet.

It was a life she could easily become accustomed to…just not with Weston.

Sliding onto a stool, she stared pensively into her cup as she waited for the milk to cool. She should have been pleased that Weston was taking the effort to find her a husband. A wealthy, titled husband who would give her everything she'd ever wanted. While Weston married Lady Martha and received everything he'd ever wanted.

It was the perfect happily-ever-after.

But then why didn't she feel particularly happy?

A rustle of movement had her squinting at the doorway. While she'd brought an oil lamp from her room and the fireplace emanated a soft glow of light that staved off some of the shadows, it remained quite dark.

"Who is there?" she demanded. "If you're a rat, I must warn you, I've a very shrill scream and…oh, it's just you."

"You sounded more excited about the rat," Weston said dryly as he entered the kitchen. Unlike Evie, who wore a green silk wrapper over her high-necked cotton nightdress, he was in his clothes from dinner, although he'd since discarded both his jacket and cravat. "Do you mind if I…?" He gestured at the stool opposite hers.

"Go ahead. I couldn't sleep, and hoped some warm milk might help." Resting her elbows on the table, she picked up her cup with both hands and eyed him over the rim as he sat down. "What are you doing awake at such an hour?"

"Catching up on ledgers, mostly."

"You don't have an accountant for such things?"

"When I'm able to, I like to go through the books myself. The harvest will be coming in soon, and it's important to have an accurate tally of last year's crop yield to compare."

She sipped her milk. "Is there nothing you don't try to control?"

"No," he replied simply. The edge of his mouth curled upward. "But I'll be the first to admit that I've been less than successful with you in that regard."

"Thorncroft women have always been difficult to manage."

"That much is clear." He folded his arms and leaned forward until they were only a few inches apart, their nearness made all the more intimate by the dim lighting. "Should I expect the same streak of stubbornness in Joanna?"

As Evie's pulse fluttered in response to Weston's close proximity, she deliberately cast her gaze to the side. "My sister is even worse."

Weston snorted. "I find that hard to believe."

"Claire is the best of us. The kindest, and the gentlest. I miss her very much." Evie didn't know why she was talking to him about her family. Only that it seemed natural to do so. As if this wasn't the first time they'd met in the kitchen late at night to share anecdotes about themselves over warm milk, but the fiftieth.

"It must be difficult, to be so far from home," he said, his gray eyes gently probing.

"It is," she acknowledged. "But at the same time, it isn't. I…I've come to enjoy England." Her lips twisted in a rueful smile. "Despite all of the rain."

"We do receive more than our fair share."

"But your gardens are all the prettier because of it. And how are you to appreciate the sun if it is always shining?"

"How indeed?" he murmured, his gaze skimming across her wrapper before it returned with almost comical abruptness to her face. "Would your sister consider coming here to visit you? Or does she have a husband who would keep her close to home?"

"Claire is not married, but she is sweet on the butcher's son." Evie paused to take another sip of milk. "He gives her extra bacon slices in our meat order every week."

"If that isn't true love, I don't know what is."

"And yet, you don't believe in it."

"Believe in what?" he said guardedly, as if he already knew the answer to his own question, but wanted to give her the opportunity to ask a different one.

"True love. Or any love, for that matter."

He was silent for a moment, his shuttered stare impossible to decipher. When he did speak, it was with all the wariness of a solider trying to avoid underground explosives on the field of battle. "It isn't that I don't believe in love. I understand that it exists. I've seen it, in all its varied forms. I love my sister. I love my horses. I love this estate."

He'd omitted his father, Evie noted.

And her, but then he had already said as much when she had given him her heart and he'd offered to find her a husband.

Rather like handing a baker money for a decadent chocolate cake and receiving a plain loaf of bread instead.

Bread wasn't bad, per se.

But it was a far cry from chocolate cake.

"Do you love Lady Martha?" she dared to ask, and found herself holding her breath as she awaited his reply.

"I do not," he said without hesitation. "Neither does she love me. And our marriage shall be the better for it. Love, especially love between a husband and wife, is an…unnecessary complication." He lifted his shoulder in a negligent shrug. "I've no love for my valet or my butler, yet they are an intricate part of my household."

Evie blinked. "Then you intend for your wife to be a servant."

"I intend for my wife to serve a role," he corrected. "As I will serve a role for her. Love need not muddy the waters."

She wanted to argue with him. But how could she, when she'd recently been of the same exact opinion? For her entire adult life, with the exception of these past two weeks, she'd thought precisely as Weston did. That a marriage was not something to be romanticized, but a contract between two willing parties.

A husband would provide his wife with protection, a generous allowance, and a good name. In turn, a wife would give her husband a male heir, manage his household affairs, and be a consummate hostess. Love was an afterthought.

Oh, it was nice if it occurred.

But it certainly was not a necessity.

Or so she had believed…until she'd fallen in love herself.

And splatted face first onto the ground.

"I have been meaning to ask, why are the walls barren?" she asked in an obvious and deliberate attempt to steer the subject towards safer ground. "The manor's architecture is stunning. The crystal chandeliers are divine. The furniture is of the highest quality. But why is everything so…white?"

"Brynne says it reminds her of a mausoleum," he said wryly.

"I do not disagree with her."

"When my parents lived here, my mother took it upon herself to redecorate every room down to the wall hangings. Apparently, it had not been updated for nearly half a century and the style was somewhat…garish. Or so I've been told. She finished right before my sister and I were born, and..." He cleared his throat, then glanced at Evie's half-filled cup. "Do you mind if I…?"

"Please," she said earnestly. "Help yourself. If you'd like me to make another–"

"This is fine," he said, lifting the cup to his mouth, and her thighs unconsciously pressed together as he touched the same spot where her own lips had been. "After my mother died, it's said that my father went a tad mad in his grief. He stripped the entire household of anything that reminded her of him, and had it painted white. I've simply yet to get around to changing it. An adequate project for the future Countess of Hawkridge, I should think."

As Evie searched Weston's gaze, she felt a tug in the middle of her chest. There was such restrained pain in his eyes. Buried beneath all of the stoicism, of course. But it was there, all the same. Especially now that she knew to look for it.

What a terrible message it must have sent to a vulnerable young boy, yearning for approval, that the marquess had loved his wife so much that her passing had caused him to tear an entire house apart. But he hadn't cared enough about his son to bother to show up at Weston's convocation. The most important milestone in a gentleman's life, with the exceptions of marriage and the births of his children.

And the Marquess of Dorchester hadn't been there.

How could Evie's mother have had an affair with such a heartless man?

At least she finally understood why Anne Thorncroft would have chosen to give up everything England had to offer her and return to the arms of a kind doctor who had valued his wife and daughters and service to country above all else.

"I am sorry," she murmured, reaching across the worktable to splay her fingers on Weston's forearm and feel the quiver and clench of his muscles through the thin fabric of his shirt.

"You've nothing to be sorry for," he said curtly. "All of this happened a long time ago. Before you were even born. It has nothing to do with you."

Couldn't he see that it had everything to do with her?

With them?

As much as she was a product of her upbringing, so was Weston a product of his. No doubt he thought that if his father had loved his mother a little less, then the marquess wouldn't have fallen apart after she'd died and rebuilt himself with stone.

It was clear, both from what he'd said and the actions he'd taken, that Weston was trying to avoid a similar destiny by eradicating love from his marriage altogether. But in doing so, he'd already condemned himself to the same fate as his father.

He'd just used ice instead of rock.

But if Evie could change her views on life and love and the pursuit of happiness…then maybe…just maybe…Weston could as well.

With a little coaxing, that is.

"You've not spoken of passion, or desire, or lust," she said, dropping her voice to a throaty whisper as her hand skimmed up his arm to his bicep. She traced the muscle with the tip of her finger, marveling at its firmness. There was no question that the Earl of Hawkridge kept himself physically fit. Or that he was failing–miserably–to resist the pull of his baser instincts.

"What of them?" he rasped, his eyelids sliding to half-mast as she continued her exploration of his body. Having made her way to his shoulder, she flattened her palm and slid it ever so slowly along the hard ridge of his collarbone before dipping to his chest. If she touched his nipple as he'd touched hers, would it have the same effect? All that pulsing heat centered in a circle of nerve endings, his considerably smaller than hers.

But no less sensitive, she discovered, a catlike smile stealing across her lips as she rubbed her thumb across his nipple and he all but toppled off his stool.

"Aren't those qualities you should like to have in a marriage? You're right. Love is a complication." She flitted him a glance from beneath the thick fringe of her lashes. "But surely you don't intend to deny yourself of all the pleasures that come from taking a wife. Or shall you delegate the making of an heir to the butler?"

"You're playing with fire, Evelyn," he said thickly.

"Oh," she purred, her ribcage pressing into the edge of the table as she extended her arm as far as it would go and began to walk her fingertips down the middle of his torso, "but I so enjoy the burn."